[Crais is, as always, dressed in black and red. At this time of year, his clothing is linen rather than leather, but there's still something very military about it - clean, simple lines, high collar, precision in the creases down the front of his pants and the way his cuffs are turned back to just below his elbows. Perfectly groomed goatee, hair tightly back with the length bound all the way down and that hiding a fairly massive scar at the back of his neck.

He tosses back his Fireball (because bright red and reeking of cinnamon is delicious, and he has nothing to prove) then pays the bar tender and turns to give Felix a slow look over. ]

I don't like you at all. [ Probably. Wouldn't admit it if he did. ] I also don't care what your opinion of this is: I want a safeword from you. If you don't already have one, now is the time to make one up.