[i]Clack.[/i]
[i]Clack.[/i]
[i]Clack.[/i]

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 A las-pistol, the serial number conspicuously absent and having been replaced by the telltale scrape-marks of a sander hung at his hip, and although the long staff that he carried didn't look immediately lethal, there must be a reason that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.