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


[I]Pain...pain...pain...[b]PAIN[/b][/i]

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.

[I]That is the last time I drink with a Tarellian.[/i]

Sebastian Peck, also known as 'Peckers', was the owner and propriator of [i]Maclador's Scrotum[/i] - 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.