@Dead Cruiser@Lady Selune@Andreyich@Flagg@Ollumhammersong

Pain...pain...pain...PAIN

Everything hurt, from the very crown of his head to the utter tips of his toes, his ears were still ringing and the taste of cheap and nasty gutrot continued to assault his throat and tongue long after they'd slid down into his stomach - a stomach that now felt as if a fully grown Ambull was crawling about through his intestines.

That is the last time I drink with a Tarellian.

Sebastian Peck, also known as 'Peckers', was the owner and propriator of Maclador's Scrotum - widely considered and known to be the worst drinking hole on the entire planet, a reputation Sebastian was quite fond of.

Now, with his bionic right eye giving a gutteral whirr (it being of a shambolic quality, barely better than a regular eye!), he glared and focused in on the figure that had just began to move once more, an individual that had to peel his head away from the table and wipe one clumsy hand over his dribble-covered cheek.

"You're awake then, you fething idiot," yelled the barman, causing the other man to flinch and cover his ears, his head feeling as if it were coming apart, "by the Throne you're lucky that I let you stay here. If it wasn't for our history and the life I owe you-."

"Yes, Peckers, I...I am well aware."

The man who interjected was decidedly average - six feet tall and not an inch over, his hair cut short and black in colour, one blue and one brown eye squinting in the already dimly lit interior of the public house - he stretched out two long arms, each covered in a fine layer of hair, and then two eqaully lonog legs connected to a slender but broad-shouldered torso.

He gave a sniff with his aquiline nose, nostrils shutting and his nose wrinkling at his own stench, one hand rubbing the opposite arm gingerly.

"It still amazes me that you were once my superior, you know. Now here I am, and here you are. Funny how the world works, ain't it?"

Former Sergeant Jakob Audens glanced through bleary eyes at the rest of the tavern - the interior with only a shoddy layer of greenish paint to conceal the metal of the walls and ceiling, eight or nine oddly stout tables surrounded by currently empty chairs, and various liquids spilt over the usually sticky floor - those two morbs coming to rest on the form of his former squad mate.

Peckers had once been one of his underlings, the previously musclebound man now beginning to develop a layer of fat over his stomach and around his cheeks in particular, both of them sporting much-worn fatigues of a dull grey, military-issue boots, and the Imperial aquilia on their upper left arms, and both deserters (although they much preffered the term survivors) from a near-annihilated Guard regiment.

"Oh do shut your hole, Private Peckering!" Snapped back the dazed NCO, his head thumping at the sound of his own voice, "I'll have you know that I've had an offer of employment and will not be around to be heckled by you for much longer."

"Alright then chief, where's the rest of you then? Or you doing this alone, eh?" Crowed the publican as he wiped an already filthy cloth about the inside of an even dirtier glass.

Jakob muttered something about the pub owners mother, looking down to find that his most prized possession - a worn and used, but perfectly maintained, Triplex Phall M-Galaxy Pattern Lasgun - was right where he had left it; to the ex-Guardsman this versatile weapon was his most beloved item, only his bayonet comparing in any way, and just like most nights he had slept with his face on it.

"You'll see, you damned hog, and then you won't be laughing. I've sent word out that I'm looking, and you know as well as I that there are plenty on this rock looking for a 'good time'."

"Ach." Was all the barman could say, turning to fiddle with something that Jakob couldn't see.

It was coming to the night cycle outside, the prime time for customers, and God-Emperor willing the time for Jakob to find out just who needed a job.

Into what was possibly the worst-named bar in the entire sector trudged what was very likely the largest man to ever set foot in the establishment. Easily seven feet tall, he ducked under the door frame and shuffled awkwardly into the establishment. He remained hunched as he trod toward toward the bar, perhaps trying to downplay his own tremendous size. His boots and workman's coveralls were clearly sized to fit an ogryn, and yet his musculature strained against them all the same. An industrial respirator hung from his belt, but besides that there was no indication of what existence he led in New Cadia City.

The giant sat down at the bar, the metal stool beneath him squealing under his weight, and retrieved a handful of coins from his shirt pocket. He dropped them on the counter in front of the barman; the largest of them no bigger than his thumbnail. He cleared his throat to get the barman's attention- as though he didn't already have it- thus making a noise like the groaning of a grox bull. As the owner came over, the huge man stared down at him with sinister yellow eyes.

"As much as this will get me." He growled in a dark and muddy voice. "Don't care if it's cheap, I just want a lot."

The Thirst was in him, thought Eynyn Ramus. Every time he indulged it, the Thirst came back faster; he had made this bitter realization many years ago. It was still too soon after his last one, so cheap swill would have to do for now. Too many too soon and people would begin to notice. This place was enough of a scum hole that if he kept it up it would take a hundred years for anyone to notice the bodies, but it would take far less time for someone to notice him. The vast majority of the Imperium had never seen an Astartes, much less one out of armour, but this port was busy enough that the risk of discovery remained. He needed to leave, sooner rather than later.

Clack.
Clack.
Clack.

A series of sharp raps came from the outside of the bar. Then, the door would be pushed open, a handsome looking man moving in. He wore a thick jacket, the hood of which came down and concealed his eyes, but beyond that it was hard to deny that he was certainly easy on the eyes. Solid musculature, what little could be seen of the bottom of his face offered a tastefully bearded chiselled jaw, and he looked to have missed out on the memo regarding drugs and a lack of sunlight that plagued so many of those who were stuck in a hive world.

The man barely made an attempt to hide that he was packing. A las-pistol, the serial number conspicuously absent and having been replaced by the telltale scrape-marks of a sander hung at his hip, and although the long staff that he carried didn't look immediately lethal, there must be a reason that the ends were shod in metal. Clacking his way towards the bar, he would place the staff down carefully, keeping his head down as he scooted atop the stool that was placed there.

The bear of a man next to him was a curious 'sight' indeed. He wondered if he had come for the job much like he had... Hm, it really was up in the air. On the one hand there was the fact that this was a fairly common bar for workmen too bad at managing their money to afford to go elsewhere to turn up, but on the other hand the man looked like he could crush a head with a clap of his hands around their head.

Nonetheless, the man would reach into the wide jacket he wore and retrieve a wallet, taking out a bill and placing it down onto the surface in front of him. "Glory to the God-Emperor, may his light continue to shine for a hundred eternities. Amasec, if you wouldn't mind. Something pleasant- that doesn't run the risk of blinding me." He doubted such a thing could even be found in Malcador's Scrotum (a name that reeked of one who didn't believe in the glory of the Emperor enough,) but nonetheless, he would attempt to secure something at least vaguely palatable.

The door to the Scrotum was soon forced open on it's rusty hinges yet again to admit a dour looking character. Covered in drab grey from head to toe, his bionic limbs hidden beneath his worn trench-coat creaking with every movement from neglect of oil and properly sanctified lubricants. Save for his face he was covered head to toe, with a hood drawn up that failed to hide the resperator grill replacing his fleshmouth and nose. A network of military style webbing covered his torso, pockets filled with all manner of odds and pieces, from munition for the autogun cradled in his arm, too tools and scraps of technology scavenged and/or hoarded since his parting with the priesthood. He looked every inch the vagabond, and he despised himself for it. Ten years ago the mere thought of associating himself with a tavern as... colourfully named as this would not even have been comprehensible to him. To variables and probabilities so ludicrously low as to be almost incalcuable. Much less being forced to work alongside the dregs of human society that would patronize it. But such was his sad state of life.

As he stepped into that disreputable hole of an establishment, he became grateful for the respirator grill. Simply breathing through a fleshnose in an establishment such as this was probably hazardous for the lungs. He could only imagine what the horrid stench of such a place was. His filters detected nearly enough alcoholic residue in the air to make one drunk by breathing.

Octavian quickly scanned his surroundings for potential threats, his organic eyes quickly searching every corner for shadowed threats and every patron for weapons pointed his way. Satisfied when he detected a negligible threat level, he allowed himself to venture deeper into the decrepit tavern, though he did not relax. Finding himself a seat facing the door, waving away any offer of drink While he took in the sight of those others gathering around him. He imaged at least some of them were here for the same reason he was. And it didn't take much effort to determine who those individuals were, and who were regular drunkards.

@Dead Cruiser@Lady Selune@Ollumhammersong

Peckering had only just gotten back to wiping his dirty glasses when, with footfalls like the tread of a tank, a figure more like an Ogryn than a man approached the bar and demanded as much swill as he could have – and what he paid with would get him a considerable amount. Now the barman was not a small man by any stretch, but this man...this man...looked like he could dismantle the entire establishment with his bare hands.

“Right you are, sir,” nodded Sebastian, turning away only momentarily to duck low and heft an entire keg from below the bar. In one fluid movement, clearly practised for many years by now, he heaved it onto the bar-top in front of the 'man', pulling a small tap from somewhere else and breaching the keg; for a moment he was hesitant as to whether this being would even need a glass, so in the end he grabbed the largest beer stein he had and placed it beside the keg.

What was contained within the keg was what Sebastian Peckering liked to call his 'medium malt' swill, an entire step above the usual gut-rot but still rough enough that it could likely be used to power a vehicle or strip paint from a wall.

He slid the coins from the bar, and would have returned to his glasses, when the staff-bearing individual made their way into the bar. The sigh that Sebastian let out, even as he kept his eyes on the hulking figure nearby, could probably be heard by most of the patrons in the place.

"Glory to the God-Emperor, may his light continue to shine for a hundred eternities. Amasec, if you wouldn't mind. Something pleasant- that doesn't run the risk of blinding me."

“Glory to Him indeed,” said the barman with a bobbing of his head, figuring that this handsome devil may actually be able to afford something better than slosh, “one moment please.”

Further rustling around revealed one dusty bottle, the label faded but the amber liquid within clearly in good condition, a tumbler fetched alongside it and both placed before the refined newcomer.

“That'll be three Thrones.”

Great...a damned cogboy, he thought to himself as Octavian wheezed shambled into the Scrotum, watching him with a suspicion born of experience of interactions with the servants of Mars in the past, not really up to serving their kind but not adverse to giving them a place to sit either.

Meanwhile Jakob had been taking notice of every happening, knowing that the arrival of such colourful and out-of-place individuals could be no coincidence; in fact his time in the Guard has taught him very well that there was no such thing as happenstance anyway. No, they were here for something and he would know what it was.

With a cough to clear his throat, and in his best overly dramatic voice, he gestured to his former subordinate.

“A glass of Gorsk Whyte if you will, Peckering – I could do with a drink to tide me over, you know, before any potential employees arrive! What those Van Malahki bastards gave me should even be able to pay my way off-world. Wouldn't that be something?”

House Van Malahki was one of the largest crime families on the planet – unafraid of authority, fearless of repercussions from other syndicates, and utterly ruthless in their pursuit of domination and power – Jakob Audens was not lying when he claimed that this job could very well make or break a man.