The rustic Earth-looking tavern looks cozy, in an alien, human kind of way. Not Turian comfort at all, but not uncomfortable. There are booths, a bar, a number of barstools, and a window that gives an excellent view of exploding stars.

The place is nearly empty, but for a human that's building.... something.... at the booth over there. His fashion choices (primitive looking furs) aren't the strangest thing about him.

Humans don't typically show up in blue.

...huh. And Asari don't have hair. Some kind of bioengineering? Well, it's probably rude to speculate.

"Excuse me!" he says, with the characteristic hum of simultaneous subvocal translation. "Do you happen to know what the hell is up with this whole situation?"

"Not any kind of Hell at all, I'm afraid. In fact," he carefully balances the latest addition to his bizarre tower-like construction, made up of various impressive looking materials and some expensive looking gems, then looks up at Garrus, "the bar is a very pleasant person to talk to, nothing hellish at all. You should probably apologize for the comparison, I hear comparing locations to devils can be taken as rude."

"Um."

He walks very carefully over to the bar. "My... apologies?"

Not at all, replies a napkin. There's no need to be so zealous in my defense, Gann-of-Dreams. Though I'm flattered by the thought.

Another napkin appears, thoughtful. And I've met some perfectly nice devils.

'Gann-of-Dreams' glances to the napkins to read what's written on them, then picks up another expensive-looking object to add to the slowly growing tower.

"Ah, perhaps there is no need, but then there is no need of song or speech, either. And yet the world is better for their presence. If I were not to defend our excellent host, who would?"

Who indeed. Myself, perhaps.

Garrus looks rather bemused. And these stools are not made for digitigrade legs. He falls back into parade rest unconsciously as the blue humanoid flirts with the sentient bar, imagining the attempt to relay this encounter to Shepard. He grimaces. (It's in the mandibles.)

"Far be it for me to deny you your own capable self-defense. But, my gorgeously varnished host, should you have need of my sharp wit, do not hesitate to call."

He glances at Garrus again, and hums thoughtfully.

"I suppose that if I am not to be Bar's champion, I should make some attempt at being welcoming. Welcome to Milliways, conveniently located at the end of the universe, and reached via displacement of perfectly innocent doors to instead lead to the bar itself, and occasionally by patrons wandering through the woods. If you depart and close the door behind you, you'll find it returned to its original state, and while you're away, you'll likely also find that all the world waited for you. Sometimes even if you stay in the bar for months, or, should you be so tempted, years."

"Well. That's certainly a thing."

Garrus lays one three-fingered hand on the bar's surface contemplatively. "I don't suppose you've got some dextro brandy in there?"

I certainly do. The first drink's free, as well.

"Terrific. I would like enough of that for this to stop being weird."

An understated alcohol cylinder appears; it's forest-green rather than fluorescent pink, in direct contravention of galactic fashion codes. Garrus can appreciate that. I'm afraid I'll have to cut you off once your intoxication falls under the umbrella of alcohol poisoning, the bar cautions.

"You can't have everything." Garrus knocks back the brandy and walks over to his apparent drinking companion. "So, where in the galaxy are you from? How does it work with us both being in here, anyway, shouldn't I have been paused while you were building your, uh, palace?" He nods to the shiny construction on the table.

"Sometimes it will let in multiple people from the same - let's go with plane, shall we? - at the same time, or with gaps of hundreds of years, or any number of possibilities. As to where in the galaxy I'm from, if I'm not mistaken, I'm not from yours at all. I was in the wilds of Rashemen when I came across this place."

"...Spirits."

He needs more brandy for this. Actually he doesn't. He should not get drunk per se, that would just make this even more confusing. He gets a Tupari and pours in the rest of his brandy, which will make it seem like he has more alcohol to drink and thus make this entire situation less ridiculous.

"So!" he says, forcibly bright in the face of weird shit. "Rashemen, that a nice place? I appreciate their latest fashions, certainly."

"I am hardly an example of typical Rashemi fashion, but I thank you for the intended compliment. It is certainly an interesting place, filled with superstitious natives, cryptic witch-clans, and appropriately enough, spirits."

"Hmm. You know what, I think I'm going to stop being surprised about things."

He takes a sip. "What are spirits like, when they're not dubiously extant ancestors who my dad used as a threat to get me to take my cadmium supplements? For that matter, what are witches like? Do they wear furs too?"

"'Dubiously extant ancestors' is actually not an inaccurate description, though you'd be incorrect to think that they only originate from your own species. They're more commonly animals. Witches are women talented in magic, and can wear whatever they like, but tend to favor gaudy masks."

He resumes tower-building. Is that a blue opal? That looks like a blue opal.

"Hmm. I'm guessing the 'magic' is not in fact glowy blue telekinesis? That's what it would've been in my universe, but I'm increasingly unconvinced any of the rules continue to apply."

Idly, he swipes open his omni-tool and checks its connection. Dead, naturally. Still, he gets a shot of the bar. "Mind if I take a picture of your shiny? I've got a friend who'd love it. Couple of friends, I guess, though I don't actually know whether Liara's into shiny things that aren't relics from some primitive alien backwater." He considers. "No offense."

"It can involve both things glowing blue and telekinesis, but no. Magic is not confined to such a narrow scope except by those that lack intellect or creativity."

Gann looks at Garrus imperiously, raising his eyebrows slightly. "None taken. You may, when I have completed it."

Artists.

"Actually, while I'm at it, mind if I get a picture of you? You're also very... uh. Aesthetic? By mammalian standards. I think. Right?"

This phrasing is amusing, and Gann smiles slightly.

"Yes," he says, preening a little. "To both questions."

"Great! Just, uh, continue being appealing, I guess."

Garrus is an amateur photographer at best, but Gann appears to have some kind of field around him that makes pictures come out perfectly. Does he even blink? Whatever.

"By the way, unless this is a very rude question, what species are you? I wouldn't ask if we were back home, because you look mostly human and the color might be some kind of chemical thing, but are you actually something new and different?"

Eyebrow raise.

"In comparison to what? My father was human, my mother was a hag, I am neither," he says, a little curtly.

"New and different to the species I'm familiar with. That's a yes, assuming 'hag' isn't just a figure of speech. So, anyway, I guess that was in fact offensive. I'll file that one with 'why don't Quarians just leave their masks transparent' and 'if you're genetically engineered to be perfect, why are your teeth like that' for future reference."

"Hags are a magically powerful species that bear some similarity to humans, and can interbreed with humans of the male persuasion. Typically after they are with child they eat their unfortunate mate alive, feeding on the horror, terror, and sense of betrayal as their victim realizes the situation and their imminent demise," says Gann. He pauses. "Daughters of hags are hags themselves, and their sons tend to be - hm, Bar, could you lend me pictures of a hag and an example of the son of one?" Pause. "And it was more graceless than offensive, but yes, it was rather tactless."

"Eech," Garrus comments. "Kind of the anti-Asari, huh." He looks at the pictures. "Definitely the anti-Asari. You're much prettier than these people. Oh, and, uh, Asari are- well, a biotically powerful species that bears some similarity to humans, and can interbreed with any sentient organic life form. They don't eat fear, though. They just, uh... meld. Emotionally. They call it embracing eternity."

"And sorry for being tactless. My species doesn't really... do... offense the same way most others do. When we get upset we usually punch each other until it goes away. Or until it turns into angry sex." He pauses. "That was also tactless. But probably less offensive."

"Tactless and less offensive, yes," he agrees, a little amused again. "Embracing eternity is certainly a euphemism. As is punching a method of conflict resolution."

Garrus nods. "It's not always that, they do the melding thing for other purposes too - my Asari friend would use it to learn a language, or to process information quickly, or, uh, kind of at the drop of a hat, so it might still be a little bit that, come to think of it." He shakes his head. "Liara, you pervert."

He looks pensively at his empty Tupari cylinder. "Wonder how she's doing."