The Seven Stars Motel isn't exactly the cutting edge of service or the lap of luxury. It isn't dirty, it isn't even run-down, but there certainly aren't any frills. Or wi-fi. There are porn channels, if you don't mind watching them on a tube TV. Unlike many places in the city, smoking is allowed. You can tell be the smell, here and there.
It isn't awful. It isn't wonderful. It's just there.
And tonight, it plays host to the Clan Gangrel, led by Priscus Dillon Connery, who is already in the meeting room. His iPhone is on a small table by the wall, plugged into a tape adapter, which is inside a cassette deck boombox that went out of style with MC Hammer's pants. It's playing Paint it Black by the stones, but Dillon isn't jamming out this time. The more he dwells on the things he is to address, the lower his mood sinks. Without anyone to smile for, or entertain, his expression settles into a scowl.
The Beast does nothing but Enhance this. It paces the background of Dillon's mind, in a sweltering storm of fire and ash. Snorting cinders, it awaits another to challenge, determined to make a show of itself before Dillon can heel it.
If Dillon heels it.
Grumpy Dillon is grumpy.
Drab meeting room is drab.