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"Oh sweet Jesus, it talks too. That's gross. Like seriously, what even are you?" He edged cautiously around the hairy figure, not wanting to get within two meters, until he eventually had his back to the bar.
He put down a customary tip (bribe) for the bartender before carefully turning to order a drink. He was very concious of the possibility of fangs.
"You got any Tombstone Brew? Or Canarian Star? I'll pay treble for a pint of Spitfire if you've got it... Bretonian ale. Christ. I'd kill for Bretonian ale." He thumbed the credit chit, turning it over in his palm. "Your mutt had its jabs? Don't want to be catching nothing by sharin' a room with it."
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