Makes me wonder how they'll expect to work off the tab. Ah, well. I ain't complainin'.

[He slides onto the stool beside Barnabas and takes a hearty gulp from his mug. This room looks very different from any tavern he's seen before, and the selection of alcohol is baffling, but it's a relief to know that beer still tastes like beer. He clings to his mug like a lifeline, a token of familiarity to keep his unease at bay.]

How are you feelin'? And don't say "fine." I get that you're tough, yeah, but I just saw you bleed from your dalpoundin' eyes.

[He senses that this may be hypocritical, coming from him. Stubbornly, he shoves that thought aside.]