Speak to the Barstaff

Heading away from your drink, which will give no ill or extra effects if drunk, it tasting aniseedy if drunk, you wander to the bar, waiting for the lanky furred thing to move out of the way.

It grunts at you, tilting its head to one side to reveal flowers on its neck, before wandering to where you sat.

"Don't mind 'im." The one in the navy hood turns out to be a woman, pale skinned, face covered in tattoos moving endlessly like the gold in her attire, "He's a Drohkan, has to sit where others have once sat you see."

Whether you do or not is irrelevant, for the bar woman has already leant forward in expectation of your order: