Alabaster Smith steeples his fingers, and nods. "Oh yes. Ah tend to peoples' spiritual needs, and crises of conscience." Pobble enters with a small crowd, waiting his turn to flash ID and get his hand stamped. He scratches absently around the mark with a glinting nail as he steps out of the influx of clubbers, fishing in an oversized pocket of his yeti like coat for cigarettes as he's caught in the unfailing gravity of the bar and drawn towards its promises of hard liqour.