*Breathes deeply through his nose and lets out a grunt like a broken Baneblade engine* Very well. I am no Skjald, but I shall make my offering. My name is Bollthorn Jotunson, son of Russ, Long Fang of the Vlka Fenryka. I have brought the murder-make alongside my Brothers, cutting a bloody swath through the enemies of Man ever since the Great Betrayal. Maleficarum, traitor and xeno alike have fallen before the bellowing rage of my heavy bolter, their flesh and bone bursting into the red mists faster than the eye can blink. I have impaled their bodies upon axe, knife and sword, and have spat in their faces as I cut their thread, so the last thing they would know would be my face as the light faded from their eyes.
*The door swings open slowly as the room fills with the sounds of heavy, thundering steps. The grim figure walks to the bar and sits down on the stool. He raises his gauntlets and removes his helmet, setting it gently on the bar. His visage is a grim one. He looks around the room, taking in the scenery with his cybernetic and organic eye. After a short observation, he opens his mouth to speak. His voice is rough, but slightly soothing for one so intimidating.* A fine establishment you have here. After seeing almost nothing but the foul wastelands and gloomy fortresses of Medrengard, any change of scenery is truly a grand one. But where are my manners? I am Thalias Blackhammer, tactical sergeant of the IVth legion. From what I've heard of this tavern, drinks are traded for tales of events truly epic. Well, do I have a tale for you. Infighting in Chaos is no rarity. But when the Iron Warriors fight among themselves, pride, ideology, and often the future of the legion is at the mercy of such conflicts. I honor my father Perturabo and his wisdom, but many have forsaken his past teachings and have set a course to be more like Horus' kin. No offense to any in here, but your ways are not our own. I do not call the dead emperor's servants, "loyalists". I see only a brother blinded by naivety and indoctrination. A Warsmith and I disagreed heavily on the subject and how to lead our company... My first act of defiance against Warsmith Goldran was after the defense of one of our outposts in Imperial space. My squad and I faced down regiments of Imperial Guardsmen and a few hundred Ultramarines. We held our ground valiantly, making every shot hit its mark. Flesh torn asunder and screams filled the field, power armor splintered and gave way under the mass of fire. But alas, our relatively small fortress could not withstand the combined firepower. Wall after wall fell until the inner sanctum was being marched upon. We found ourselves with the opportunity for victory, but it would be bitter. The extermination of the enemy forces, but the loss of an important foothold. We rigged the explosives, but not quick enough as we were spotted by Ultramarine scouts who reported our plan. My squad and I volunteered to hold the area till the countdown couldn't be reverted. By this time, we only had one clip for our bolters. We made each shot count before we ended knife to knife with the sons of Guilliman. My brothers fell one by one in honorable combat, but our goal was accomplished. Sirens blared as the whole fortress shook. Explosions tore through the entire base. Normally, I would've gladly died alongside my brothers, but today was not that day. In the confusion of the cataclysm, I ran to the hangar as fast as I could. *I thumb the empty knife holster and my mechanical eye and smile* Upon reaching the hangar, I was met by an Ultramarines Captain. He glared at me and his chainsword roared. Blood and flesh sprayed forth from the blades. I drew my knife and held my ground. The captain drew his bolt pistol and charged at me. Bolts chewed at my armor until a round grazed my right eye. My vision blurred, but I knew my appropriate time to strike. As he lunged at me, I threw my knife at his uncovered head. The blade whistled through the air until it met his forehead and dug in deep. His lunge ended abruptly as his motionless body collapsed on the floor. Alas I didn't have time to relish in my victory as the fortress shuddered as it neared destruction. I quickly procured one of the remaining thunderhawks and took off. I rendezvoused at a nearby moon to meet with our surviving forces, and Warsmith Goldran, whose pride and faith in the Ruinous Powers brought this shameful stain on our company. After much arguing, it became clear we had intel on the incoming Imperial invasion. Goldran had refused reinforcements citing our might would be more than enough. I called him a fool and challenged his competency. I would've dueled him then and there, but after such a defeat in our eyes, the support I had against him was great. But he consolidated his honor guard and we made our way back to Medrengard, where he assigned me a new squad. Nine personal lackeys of his who will attempt to kill me for questioning his authority. As for the drink, I'll take the special brew. I'm going to need it in the coming days.
Raucous laughter can be heard outside the bar, the thick guttural tones of orkish vocal chords are plainly apparent and soon the owners have stormed into the bar. There are five of them, all dressed in various shades of camo patterned gear and wearing assorted pieces of mismatching scout tech. Four of the brutish green skins take off to a shadowed corner of the bar, while one wearing what appears to be an apron colored light blue, grey and red with stains of blood approaches the bar. His right arm ends in a bastardization of an Astarte apothecary's reductor bearing a cycling wrist mount of four different syringes, the left arm is bare beyond an under slung buzz saw caked with dried gore and scraps of flesh on the blade's teeth.Pulling off a leathery squig hide mouth cover the Painboy addresses the sorcerer tending the bar. "Oiy, marine boy wiv de choppy stick. Git me an de lads back dere some O Gorgutz speshul or wotsit." A gnarled fist wraps around a bag made from what appears to be grot faces stitched together, spear like teeth pierce the flesh in places. Giving the money bag a good shake a small pile of sharp mostly intact ork teeth materializes on the counter.
The Apothecary paid no heed to these new figures that entered the bar. In fact, the Apothecary was performing maintenance on the narthecium that was mounted on the right forearm. He was making sure the redactor and other various instruments were functioning at full percentage. Something managed to catch the Apothecary's attention however. The Ork with the bastardized narthecium-like wrist mount. In silent rage, the Apothecary eyed the Ork. How dare he defile such a sacred device. Luckily, the Corvus helmet that he wore concealed his expression,
The Painboy noticed the Apothecarie's own device, a feral grin splits his features. "Oiy yous wiff de syringes. Das a right nice kit ya gots dere, lil too clean doh. Dat brand new or sumfin?" All five greenskins snicker and cackle from their positions about the bar. "Reminds me O da time i got dis'un! Was off a....uhh...BLOODGOB. Wot color were da marine boyz I got me urty syringes from?" The Dok twisted about to face one of his fellow kommandos. "Uhhh...dey was..yella! Dems yella boyz wiff de fist on dems shoulders!" "Right! Right right, was dem Yella Fist marinez! We waz workin fer a Warboss Madmaw at da time, sneakinz round yaz camp durin one O our scraps wiff yaz we found a buncha diein gits an a umie wearin most O wot ya are now side from da colorins an a few trophy bits. Drew dis pansy lookin slugga an blew off Nobgob's lower jaw over dere. Course takes more den dat ta stop Nobgob, easy fix it was fer me, krumpde da marine boyz helmet inta good shape an bolted it on in place so his tongue wasn't hangin out!" Laughing a moment Dokgob stops the story, looking about still waiting for his drink. "Anyways, was yappin on bout youz 'Emporah' an blah blah blah BOOM! Carved open hims chest like a kan wiff 'ARRRGH!' 'ere." He hefts up the buzzsaw, the blade cycles through with a threatening whiiiirrr before going still again. "Was a shame, woulda liked ta learn how he pulled out dems special lil fings we ate afterwards, one O da diein lads he had been fixin up called it uhhh...Gene seed? Maybe Green Seed? Ya lot tryin ta grow ya boyz inta orks? Be very flatterin. ANyways I ripped off his arm an nows I got me my fancy syringe kit! Good times all around!" Dokgob looked back to his company and shared a good long laugh about the ordeal. "So was bout you? Ya had any luck growin yerself propah fightin orks yet Apoffecarry?" Propping his head up with his left hand Dokgob watched the marine with a smug look.
Holding back the instinct to maul the Ork then and there, the Apothecary merely kept his gaze upon the offending Painboy who, in the marine's mind, was taunting him. With slight venom and measure to his words, the Apothecary begin. "You greenskins do not know what foul atrocities you commit when you defile the sacred geneseed of a Space Marine. It is a sacred thing that is implanted into the body of an initiate in order to turn him into one of the Emperor's Angels of Death. I will not forgive this, even though you are ignorant. Right now, my orders are to stay my hand, however I will not hesitate to kill you when ordered to. "
DokGob snorted derisively at the Apothecary. "All I'm hearin is lotsa big pansy words yer hidin behind cause ya know ya can't fight a propa ork, das right ain't it boyz?" Hoots and howls came from the decidedly green corner of the bar, BloodGob pumping his fist in the air. "Lemme tell ya wot, from now on whenever I mix some O yur gene seed in wiff da fightin juices I'm gonna calls it Pansy jucei, just fer da squigs an grots." Straightening up the Painboy made his best attempt at a high and mighty tone. " Yur sacrud gene juice naw good enough fer regular orks. Da real attrocity be dat ya lot can't scrap worth a damn wiffout it!" Thumping a heavy hand on the table he looked about. "WHERE BE ME DRINK SPIKEY MARINE BOY!?" [OOC: Just a quick note not being impatient with the OP who started the thread with asking about the drink~ Just part of the toons character, not sure OOC if our sorcerer barkeep is still posting or not, no pressure ^.^]
Noticing the confrontation with amused interest, a figure drops from the ceiling behind the bar. "Greetings warriors, please we are all here under order's to stay our blades. I shall act as bar keep till our true host returns to us" the dark figure starts to pour drinks; not reading the labels he found whatever was in his hand was poured into any mug he could find. "I do however find your banter about the apothocary's tools quite amusing and although I dislike Corva for his faith in that corpse god, our tools of recovering the sacred gene-seed of the primarch are the same and I share his displeasure at your barbaric use of it..... Yet your cunning intrigues me ork to salvage one of our most treasured devices and turn to your own purpose.. Clever ork, very clever indeed."
"Jealous O me kunnin ways are ya hoppy boy?" Dokgob laughed along with the rest of his boyz. "Well ifin yur tryin ta pay fer some wiff yaz drinks I won't be objectin! Just come real close like doh, don't want any uvers finkin about gettin free advice." Looking to the other Kommandos the Dok snickered, all of them clearly trying to hold back more laughter as the Painboy beckoned the raptor over with his arm saw.
"Come orks I shall drink you all under the table!" The raptor grabs several bottles and latches on to the ceiling above to orks table. "Drink up orks you'll need plenty of juice for when the real fighting start."
