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Description
Slop, the grotesquely obese grease ball of a grot, managed to chortle;

Ar' Right? Slop's Bukkit! A place any ork can love! 'An grot fer that! Three or four types of fungus beer you know, loads o' squig whiskey and that rum that those meks make, even some class stuff, you know, madboy drink. Mork'n tough stuff that! Anyho I'm open fr'm dawn to dusk, right, with a right stonkin' selection o' grub and nosh for any taste! I take pride in my Bukkit so come on in, 'njoy yerself! A toof at the door or Krak an' Smak'll introduce you to da pavem'nt. Mah name's Slop, an' I own dis 'ere 'stablishment. Choppas and shootas at th' door if you were daft enough to bring em, but there's scrap enough for any greenskin inside, got it?"

"Hrrrraaarrghh!" Hissed Torturer, his dark eyes narrowing, his midnight black fingers clenching. "A virulent brewhouse, how pathetically servile! I sample naught but the most delectable of forbidden pleasures, the most delicate of unholy delights!" His voice echoed with dramatic intensity.

"Such mindless barbarianism." snorted Cailean, suffering to even look at the ramshackle establishment. "How sadly....unenlightened in every way. Truly, the Emperor's Blessings shine against such unrefined filth as this. What a sufferingly pathetic contrast."

Oi rolled his eyes. He was thirsty and knocked out some snotling teeth earlier. Time for a drinky pint.

"Right." Ledhed grinned, a rumbling statement that judged, concluded and discarded the two placed opinions in one word. He threw an arm around each warrior, Astartes and Corrupted, influence made physical with weight, violent promise and rank, noxious sweat. "But its 'ere, and we're 'ere, and as I'm makin' da decisions...we're set. That and my ol' boy Slop here owes me, right? Yeah so we're in. And no complaints!"

Needless to say the three drank long into the night. Ledhed was loud and simmering with violence, emphasizing stories with fists like rocks, an epic self determined night that neither he nor anyone else would really remember. Torturer sampled virulent squig whiskies, triple distilled through the finest squigs (not the same squig three times either!) so he was told, and wouldn't admit to how deliciously rocked he got that night even though he woke up drunk at noon the next day. Cailean the Space Marine Librarian drank about 12 thousand beers and won at grot toss but kept worrying about "kick me" signs stuck to his butt. Oi got really madass drunk and remembered screaming at everyone with exasperated rage but no one could hear him because he was just a weedy grot. He used the sticker he stole from the 'tin can humie' as a belt buckle for the rest of his life, lifting it only to make wee.

The end.

Oh Ledhed and Oi are mine
Cailean belongs to
and Torturer to

Description
Slop, the grotesquely obese grease ball of a grot, managed to chortle;

Ar' Right? Slop's Bukkit! A place any ork can love! 'An grot fer that! Three or four types of fungus beer you know, loads o' squig whiskey and that rum that those meks make, even some class stuff, you know, madboy drink. Mork'n tough stuff that! Anyho I'm open fr'm dawn to dusk, right, with a right stonkin' selection o' grub and nosh for any taste! I take pride in my Bukkit so come on in, 'njoy yerself! A toof at the door or Krak an' Smak'll introduce you to da pavem'nt. Mah name's Slop, an' I own dis 'ere 'stablishment. Choppas and shootas at th' door if you were daft enough to bring em, but there's scrap enough for any greenskin inside, got it?"

"Hrrrraaarrghh!" Hissed Torturer, his dark eyes narrowing, his midnight black fingers clenching. "A virulent brewhouse, how pathetically servile! I sample naught but the most delectable of forbidden pleasures, the most delicate of unholy delights!" His voice echoed with dramatic intensity.

"Such mindless barbarianism." snorted Cailean, suffering to even look at the ramshackle establishment. "How sadly....unenlightened in every way. Truly, the Emperor's Blessings shine against such unrefined filth as this. What a sufferingly pathetic contrast."

Oi rolled his eyes. He was thirsty and knocked out some snotling teeth earlier. Time for a drinky pint.

"Right." Ledhed grinned, a rumbling statement that judged, concluded and discarded the two placed opinions in one word. He threw an arm around each warrior, Astartes and Corrupted, influence made physical with weight, violent promise and rank, noxious sweat. "But its 'ere, and we're 'ere, and as I'm makin' da decisions...we're set. That and my ol' boy Slop here owes me, right? Yeah so we're in. And no complaints!"

Needless to say the three drank long into the night. Ledhed was loud and simmering with violence, emphasizing stories with fists like rocks, an epic self determined night that neither he nor anyone else would really remember. Torturer sampled virulent squig whiskies, triple distilled through the finest squigs (not the same squig three times either!) so he was told, and wouldn't admit to how deliciously rocked he got that night even though he woke up drunk at noon the next day. Cailean the Space Marine Librarian drank about 12 thousand beers and won at grot toss but kept worrying about "kick me" signs stuck to his butt. Oi got really madass drunk and remembered screaming at everyone with exasperated rage but no one could hear him because he was just a weedy grot. He used the sticker he stole from the 'tin can humie' as a belt buckle for the rest of his life, lifting it only to make wee.

The end.

Oh Ledhed and Oi are mine
Cailean belongs to
and Torturer to