Well, Garrus can fear being the only unusual-looking person in the room no longer. Seven feet tall, bright red only muted slightly by his tan duster coat, he is technically unarmored but not unarmed, with a golden-handled sword slung on his back and now two very old handguns on his belts. His mood lightened slightly by getting his old revolver back, he's tucked the dagger he has to swap in the pocket of his coat for now.

"'Scuse me, folks," he says in his deep rock-crushing voice, gesturing that he'd like to squeeze in by them to get to the bar.