[a sound goes off to her right. deep, rich, vibrating. quite disgusting. era has likely visited enough taverns and restaurants to recognize the sound of a chest-deep belch from someone with a rather particular culture. or possibly no culture at all.] Pretty sure you hear it less if you drink more, [the boy tells her.

he's a skinny thing, standing on the other side of the bar. wifebeater, dark hair spiked to stand up on his head, tattoos including dream thief across his finger-bones. clearly of a different age and world genre than she is.] But don't drink this one. [he taps his finger on the rim of his own pint glass. here, you get to drink on the job. particularly-- to kavinsky's thinking-- if the job is unpaid.] Non-alcoholic. We got some IPAs, stouts, this liquor that comes out glowy green and lights up more when you touch it. Let me know what you like.

[he sets his chin on his fist and looks at her. his pupils are enormous, which is not something that alcohol typically achieves.] Nice horns, by the way.