True that the eyes are a big, blazing hint. Just something about the peepers on the dead, Whether they're walkers, or night walkers. But there's a feeling, too, when it comes to creatures like this. Daryl is a hunter. He doesn't often feel hunted. Especially not when someone simply comes up beside him at a bar.

Anyway. Not bad English. He supposes.

"For a lack of looking anywhere else," he says with a shrug. Experience has taught him that there's little use obfuscating with these types. He can't put a precise name on why, but he can guess. So he makes no bones about it; this place isn't his scene. He doesn't know jack shit about the paintings, but they confuse him less than the things going on out on the floor, which are all fine, but in a language far more mysterious to him than French.

He'd offer a lighter (would he?) but he doesn't actually have one. No manners at all, alas.

Daryl really shouldn't be surprised. Just because there haven't been any sightings at home in ages (blood shooting everywhere, nails digging into his flesh, the wetslickcrack sound of a railroad spike— old stories from the granny who lived at the very end of the street, and her collection of photos of a woman who never changed— high noon, an arm disintegrating in his hand, a voice screaming, screaming) is no reason to think they've been run down everywhere.