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Message: <blockquote data-quote="larryfinnjr" data-source="post: 5683612" data-attributes="member: 99210">"Now that you've had the tour, lemme get you that drink I promised," and Hatchet leads the way into the Hungry Orc. The entrance is nothing more than barn doors. Hay spills out of the doorway and as you look inside, it covers the entire floor too. Torches haphazardly line the walls illuminating the tables and makeshift stalls scattered about; only a few of them are available for seating. A crude looking bar has been erected ahead of you and stairs to the right lead to a loft above. There is a disgusting and pervasive aroma of urine, and there is no question that the buckets and barrel beside the door are filled with vomit. There's music playing, but it is soft compared to the shouts, grunts, and hollers from inside. The hay on the floor is damp, sopped with beer, and covered in crumbs. There are orcs are passed out in all directions: on the floor, on tables, and under chairs. Arm wrestling, mug smashing, and other benign tests of strength are underway, but all gazes shift to you as you enter. The pervasive vibe is that you are unwanted, but you are at least tolerated for now. "And there's Ol' Stump, livin' like a king as always," Hatchet says as he points across the room. Across the way, there's no mistaking which table he means. It's the largest and it's been placed atop a finely woven rug. Numerous torches and candles illuminate the table and a board game of scattered pieces centers it all. And seated between two scantily clad orc females, the one known as Stump pays no heed to your arrival, but the two hobgoblins standing in front of him do.  Nabbing a tight stall near the door, four of you squeeze into the straight-backed seats while Surgeon makes due with a flipped over crate at the end. After a few moments, what passes for service at the Hungry Orc stops by the table and places a few mismatched bottles of varying liquer and ale, some obviously already sampled, one nearly empty. The mugs follow suit - some glass, some pottery...all filthy, most still with remnants of drink and other things stuck to the rims and bottoms. The barman holds out a stained hand. "Tree gol' fer da lot a'ya." With his good hand, Hatchet goes fishing through his pockets for the coin....</blockquote>

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