Bard, for his part, was focusing a little too hard on the tiny bubbles in his cider, the dents and scratches in the surface of the table, the electrical wiring bracketed to the ceiling. It was different for him. Ty and Beled could look all they want—that was, after all, the whole point of the establishment. For a Neoander, however, to stare in that way at a woman—she looked like a Dinan or perhaps a Dinan/Teklan breed—was a different matter. Not as far as the proprietors were concerned. The place was actually run, and presumably owned, by women. But there were other customers who had marked Bard when he had come in and who were devoting almost as much attention to him as to the dancers. Had he not been in the company of a larger than normal Teklan and a middle-aged Dinan man with a certain hard-to-pin-down "don’t fuck with me" vibe, there might have been trouble. A few of the other patrons might have joined forces to find out whether the stories about Neoanders were tall tales. As matters stood, the only thing Bard had to worry about was being glared at a lot, and possibly coming down with something because of whatever feral strain of yeast had infected the cider.