<div style="text-align: left"><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">The Russians have been monopolizing Vodka,</span></i>​</div><br/><div style="text-align: center">"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#c71585">Yeah, that's the spirit!</span>" Nora tried to chime, but her voice lacked any real luster. She felt more sad for Damian than about her uncle's death at this point. She had moved on, made her peace. Damian obviously still needed to get past it. She couldn't blame him, but still. It can't be good to dwell on such a thing. She leaned her head into one of her hands again, looking out the window to the now dark street outside, "<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#c71585">So. Any ideas on what our next move should be?</span>" She asked, trying to make any kind of conversation to get rid of the silence.<br/>
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"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#a9a9a9">Ah, want to be more aaalooone with 'er eh? You cheeky boyo!</span>" The man laughed, downing half the bottle Trent gave him, "<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#a9a9a9">Well I don't see no harm in trying, but I wish you luck! My girl isn't the most outgoing.</span>" He warned and then finally let go of Trenton, immediately latching onto another guest, "<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#a9a9a9">TONY! How's that leg treatin' ya? Sorry about that...</span>"​</div><br/><div style="text-align: right"><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">Maybe we should try and get in on that?</span></i>​</div>