"Snarl"'s page

"Hunger. Snarl Get Food. Get lots food. Get drink. Get many lots drink. Getted gold, don't need gold. Needed food. Lots food."

Snarl pushed at the door before him and it yielded easily to him. As he tried to fit through the frame, he felt the course wood press against his neck and back, leaving small splinters in his skin. Not a memorable pain, but enough to annoy him.

"Fleshache? Not burn. Fine.... Hunger. Get food."

He strode to the "Foodget" place and asked for food and drink. The Foodgetman didn't seem to respond. Snarl began to get confused.

"Foodgetman. No foodgetman? Drinkgetman?"

Snarl noticed the man before him looking elsewhere. He followed his gaze and saw the small man with the ale.

"Ah! Foodgetman!" It didn't make sense to Snarl why the barman wasn't behind the bar and was so tiny, but that was vastly less important than quenching his damnable thirst.

Having finished his drink, Snarl took a seat and waiting for his food. For some reason though, his thoughts seemed a bit blurry.

"Drink getted. Need more drink. Need food. Need... food... Need".

Darkness engulfed him.

A solid thud resounds as the solid oaken door of the Formidably Maid slams against the wall, it’s salt-rusted hinges doing little to slow it’s attacker. A hulking frame barrels into the room, silhouetted by the last rays of a dying day. As the immense, hunched form forces it’s way through a doorframe built for fairer races, a bone laden necklace catches on the wooden wall. The sudden arrestation of the jewellery causes a snap and small bones are sent scattering before the beast. The sound of bone crunching underfoot joins his cacophonous entry, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, instead stalking straight to the bar.

“Food. Ale.” The guttural words seem strained and disjointed, like words read for the first time by a child. They are pitched straight over the counter at the bartender, who looks sharply around for patrons who might trade some heavy combat for a heavier bar-tab. None seem too keen.

“Ayelh!”, the end of the word trailing into a low rumbling snarl. The giant orc too begins to turn and look at the others in the room, and spots a small Halfling with a freshly poured pitcher of ale held between two hands. The orc marches at him with a purposeful look in his eye, reaches down and seizes the glass. As he brings it to his mouth, the Halfling – his own hands locked between palm and pitcher – is dragged from the ground and hangs limply, the colour drained from his face. In on consolidated effort the orc finishes the drink and drops it to the ground, Halfling and all.

For the briefest moments the room is totally silent. Then the chairs creak against wooden floorboards as the Halflings friends begin to stand and reach for weapons. Before they get far, they are again frozen in shock. Reaching into his belt pocket, the Orc takes 2 gold coins and drops them at the halfling’s feet.

“Pay.” Taking two strides to an (suddenly) unoccupied seat, the orc opens his mouth to grunt out the last words heard of him that evening. “Food. Ale.”