[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=b8860b]Reginald Keystone[/color][/b][/i][/h1]
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[hr][center][color=b8860b][b]Location:[/b][/color] Qasr El Nil Barracks (Courtyard)-> Qasr El Nil Barracks (Officer's Club) 
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[img]http://www.g7smy.co.uk/war/02/barracks.jpg[/img]
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	The Officer's Club was but a short walk across the vast courtyard that too up approximately half of the space of the Barracks proper. It was attached to the larger section of the building, that is to say, the part of the massive open structure that wasn't reserved for row upon row of quartering and communal services. Tucked away in the stone building proper, behind heavy wooden doors guarded by able men with rifles and uniforms bearing the Union Jack, the centuries-old tradition of the Officer's Club upheld the grand notion that, with Rank comes Privilege. Of course, it also comes with Responsibility, but at that moment, the Lord Major was really more interested in the perks that his decades of investment into the Royal Army and Air Corps provided him, up to and including bringing guests into the facility with him. 

	After all, he was the ranking officer in this complex, and this was his command besides. The only person that could object, were he to go as far as institute a policy of wearing frilly dresses during rifle drills, was on another continent (so far as he was aware, anyway). This was his slice of the British Empire, what remained of it. 

	Reginald continued to lead his long-lost nephew over to the Club, noting the approach of the American lady. [color=b8860b]"If you wish to join for a bit of celebratory bubbly and simple supper, then by all means madame, we may head that way presently. Come along, then."[/color] 

	He informed the Guard present of the probable approach of Aziza and Harry, ordering their access on that night if they so wished it, and waved his present company inside. There were officers present, some very few at that hour, as well as a small number of retired Officers of the related branches of the British Military. After distinguished service to the Crown, the military continued to look after its own, even in response to their needs for decent spirits and socialization. Considering his own advancing age and rank, Reginald was a fan of this practice, insisting upon the best for such men. This was very much out of respect for service, but also the ever so slightly selfish hope that, were he to not pass away in a glorious and violent manner (God willing soon), the example would be noted and similar considerations would be applied to him and his. 

	The moment that the trio set foot inside of the establishment, doors in the back opened, admitting access to servants bearing the foodstuffs that Reginald had requested outside: Smoked meats, fresh local fruits, and a fragrant array of lightly steaming date bread. It was hastily set up upon a table near the bar, behind which a skinny individual wearing a fez cleaned glasses by hand. 

	[color=b8860b]"My good man,"[/color] began Reginald, [color=b8860b]"do be a chap and fetch us out the champagne, yes? Burawt wahulwat ealaa hadd sawa', min fadalik. There's a good fellow."[/color] He helped himself to a number of champagne flutes hung upside down above the bar in polished wooden slats, lining them up in front of himself. While he worked, he spoke. [color=b8860b]"So... Miss Ridgeway, Captain, Do you prefer dry or sweet? I was just telling our barkeep to provide plenty of both, as occasion calls for either. But please permit me another question before the bubbly arrives, Peter, mayhap one of related consequence. One which, in this regard, may be spoken of freely in mixed company, as it involves everyone to which you had introduction just tonight. Quite possibly a daft-sounding query, but do humor an old man."[/color]

	[color=b8860b]"How have your dreams treated you lately, Peter? Please be honest."[/color]