The glowing eyes are concerning. Fakir wishes, suddenly, that he'd found a weapon. He slides his backpack from his shoulder to his hand, in case he needs to use it as a bludgeon or a shield.

Though at least they're glowing white. If it was red, it would definitely be a problem. White, at least, might not be. He slows down, watching the dog carefully. It seems to be...just a well-trained dog, pleased to see someone, its strange eyes aside. It could, he thinks, be a ghost from one of these abandoned ships. But it could also have come from land.

Drawing closer, Fakir holds his hand out in greeting.