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."

"Maybe the bar will indulge us and offer her a conveniently timed door."

He glances, pointedly, at the door.

Garrus snorts. (Well, actually he makes a clicking sound and flares his mandibles slightly. The gesture contains approximately similar emotional context.)

Then he sighs and gets up. "I'm sure Liara would kill me for this, but I think I'm too tired to take advantage of the time-stopping magic bar in whatever way a clever person could think up. It's midnight on my clock, I'm only awake because I'm an absolute wreck of a turian. So, I think I'll stop floundering through this conversation and bid you good night."

"There are rooms upstairs, and Bar will give you a key to one for either a reasonable price or becoming a staff member. If you'd like to not lose the door to the magical bar entirely."

"You know what? That actually sounds pretty nice. Bar, what's the price?"

Anywhere from 80 to 1000 credits, depending on your preferences. Alternately, you would qualify as security, even with only the weapons you have on you.

"I'm not strapped for cash, exactly, but security detail actually sounds kind of fun after three weeks of nothing. Sign me up."

She does so, and with a quick, ironical salute in Gann's direction, Garrus heads upstairs.

Well that was mildly interesting, but not particularly so.

Gann finishes his ludicrously expensive tower. It's surprisingly tasteful, for something made out of literally the most expensive things he could ask for. .... He asks to borrow some of Garrus's tech so he can take a picture of it, because he wanted the picture. And if he doesn't, no one will see it. Which is fine, really, but if someone wants to see it they can. Bar can relay the picture. Probably. And if not, eh, he tried. He takes the picture, and then pulls out one ludicrously expensive foundation piece and sends the entire tower crashing to the table.

(That was the best part.)

He glances at the empty bar, sighs, and heads off to nap in the infirmary. Wait, no, he means work in the infirmary. Where he will nap.

Briefly.

An apparently young woman runs in, followed by the sound of gunfire, with several wounds bleeding violet onto her pale blue skin. She looks around at the bar in abject confusion, taking in both the mid-20th-century human design sensibility and the lack of guns. The outside sounds fade, and she sinks woozily to the floor.

"H-hello?" she calls weakly. "I don't mean to inconvenience anyone, but I have been shot! Medical help would be appreciated!"

.... Siiiiiiiigh. And he'd just gotten comfortable.

He cracks an eye open, huffs slightly at the prospect of actually having to do his job, and gets up.

"Luckily for you, we have an infirmary," he calls, exiting said infirmary to attend to his patient. Looking bored.

She squints at him, then goes somewhat giddy. "Oh my! I've never - unless you're simply a human with - no, no, the - the- tint, the oils, all different... I've never seen anyone like -" She shakes her head firmly. "I'm rather badly injured. Do you have any gel?"

Well, when she reacts to him like that, suddenly he is much more interested in being pleasant.

"No, but I think you'll find that you're in capable hands anyway." He kneels beside her, inspecting the injuries. Hm, yes, quite within his abilities. And he doesn't have to worry about such trivialities as bizarre alien biology. "Please try to remain calm, this won't hurt at all."

She lifts a hand to gesture vaguely. "I'm, mm. Probably. I'm calm."

(She has by this point lost rather a lot of blood.)

"Excellent." He clears his throat, closes his eyes, and calls to a set of nearby spirits. Fulfill the bargain we made.

"Charisa, Salali, Sikya." These were the names of telthor with the forms of an elk, a squirrel, and a rabbit. There's more to them than their form, but their form was often indicative of what they did. Any one of them could manage to keep the woman alive, but often it's best to split the work and delegate each piece to a spirit more suited for it. A spirit's energy could be wasted attempting to do something it wasn't meant for. Charisa exudes pride and dignity and power, all of the austere and slightly pompous grandeur he expected of an elk. She would do the bulk of the work, knitting together flesh and restoring the vessel that housed this woman's life. Salali cut less of an imposing figure. Like many squirrels, he's quiet, nervous, prudent, and often prone to precaution at the expense of sense. Or perhaps not. If Gann were a squirrel, maybe he'd spend the majority of his time preparing, too. Regardless, the telthor squirrel would be best searching for remnants of projectiles and foreign contaminates, and removing them. Perhaps if he were in some kind of emergency, he'd remove Sikya's purpose altogether and hope for the best. The rabbit's nearly as touchy as Salali, but reacted to the circumstances of being a spirit of a prey animal quite differently. He is energetic, friendly, and most importantly for Gann's current purposes, nurturing. He believes the best reaction to the threat of oblivion was to live life to the fullest, and to help others do the same. As such, he's to restore the woman's energy and body. If Charisa is to repair the vessel, Sikya is to help to refill it.

Their jobs assigned, the three set to work. To an unskilled observer, there is a faint twist in the air, like the subtle near-invisible waves given off by excessive heat. The woman's bleeding slows, and then her injuries begin knitting themselves together. To a more skilled observer, the injuries knit themselves together from the inside to the outside, and little subtle specks of removed foreign matter flee with the slowed bleeding. The blood that pooled on her clothes and on the floor began drying to a dull black, as Gann directed Sikya to salvage the wasted lifeblood to return what could be returned to the woman herself.

To an adept observer, the likes of which would require years of practice, the machinations of the spirits themselves were visible. Attempting to get Salali and Charisa to coexist in the same space was a recipe for a very squished squirrel, and while Sikya and Salali could cooperate with more success, Gann knew from experience that Salali preferred to avoid his peers and work alone. Sikya meant well, but Charisa would be insulted at his blithe attempts to aid her. Having the three work together was not a recipe for disaster, but it was a delicately measured concoction that could end poorly if one part were to be taken to excess. But Gann was no novice, and such mistakes were beneath him. Whenever one of the three begins to stray too close to one of its companions, he corrects it, and keeps each focused on the appropriate part of the healing process.

And then her injuries finish knitting together, the spirits each wrap up their own part in the assignment, and the subtle twist of the air stills to normal.

"There you are," says Gann, brightly. "I recommend drinking a lot of fluids, and perhaps spending an hour or two in bed to recuperate."