<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Geld</div><div class="spoiler_body">(https://i.pinimg.com/736x/13/0b/35/130b356537d7ad5c56d6c5d002cfc340.jpg)</div></div>was the complete opposite to Castella. He looked as if he was an organic part of the bar - downright to the glass filed with whatever swill the proprietor tried to pass off as amasec this week. His clothing betrayed him as a native of Desoleum, and of the deeper levels of some Hive at that. Just clean enough for the local standards of cleanliness, just drunken enough to still be able to order another glass of spirits. A big revolver in a chest holster only semi-obscured by the man's underhive-coat, its plastic handle carved with an amateurish aquila.<br/><br/>"Emprah's blessings" he intoned and plopped down in the seat next to Castella, then took a big gulp of the throat-burning concoction in his glass. A look of disappointment flashed from beneath the broad rim of his hat. "Fucking bastards, always cutting the liquor with sewage. Ehhh." He regarded the glass for a half-minute, then sipped from it again.