The door is noisily bounced inward on its hinges, followed swiftly and jauntily by a well... giant flaming mop of red hair. You see, after recovering from the eye-searing color, a rather sharp featured individual, in several layers of dusty, dirty, dilapidated, dreary clothing sweep toward the bar.
Speaking with some sort of screaching squeek of a voice, the carrot-to... the human male says, “‘Ey, barkeep, that need that good stuff for my,” the man stops for a moment to cough horribly, “... my throat. ‘ou know, that nice bottle of golden honey.”
After satisfying the barkeep with actual coin this time, you see the man trying to drink the heavy golden liquid, cough, and look around the room. Sidling over, while spluttering through the rather strong effect of the drink, to closet unoccupied seat to your group, he says, “ Ey, here’s a spot for me. Don’t mind my coughing this here golden goodness will clear it up.” This he manages with far less squeek, “Call me Kheldar,” but ruins the effect with a sudden hiccup.
