Various adventurers and ragamuffins introduced themselves, bragging of exploits exaggerated, spontaneously invented, or even stolen straight out of children's stories. Mordrag found it hard to believe that the spindly young man using a chair leg as a club slew the powerful dragon of legend, Ymratu the Devourer. As for himself, Mordrag Desertheart knew that he would only need to let his bulk do the talking.

Grabbing each side of his sofa cushion, the massive man slowly raised himself up. A few eyes looked towards the Gothi, intimidated by his size, but the chaotic rabble of the tavern remained largely the same. A few different would-be heroes approached that bloke Rask individually, and Mordrag followed suit. Not bothering to set his glass down, he strolled down into the horrible stench of the basement. With a smell akin to an abandoned slaughterhouse in his nostrils, the big Gothi pushed his way through the gathered applicant.  He walked up to the leader and clapped a large hand on his shoulder.

“Mordrag Desertheart. Boom! I bring the mushcle,” he smiled at his own word slurring. Not-too-subtly flexing, the barbarian shot a look at the proper woman he had noticed before. Wretha Thorne was her name and the raven beauty resembled a delicate wine, wrapped up in the finest apparel like a wedding gift. He sent her a lewd wink over the rim of his glass. As inebriated as he was, the large man paid no mind to the rivulets missing his mouth and catching in his beard.

Mordrag finished his circuit of the room by grabbing the buttocks of a female dwarf brawler and a pretty young archer, receiving a smile and a slap respectively. Thoroughly enjoying himself, Mordrag sat back down in his original chair and rested his hands behind his head. As jovial as he appeared, however, the man wasn't here to enjoy himself. Though his body was relaxed, the Gothi let his right hand fall onto the handle of his makeshift polearm hammer. He had taken note of Rask's warning that there would be tests.