The green thing held me up against the dancing firelight, squinting with Orkish short-sightedness to make me out clearly. Though I knew he couldn’t see me, it didn’t help that I could see him, his face, his scars and worst of all the various bodily fluids dripping slowly and endlessly from his various orifices like a sickly syrup, “D’ya t’ink I c’ud eat ‘im, Bozz?” He leered lecherously, greedy for experimentation with me: His unfortunate tiny captive. We both looked at Bozz at this point, each desperate for the opposing answer though secretly I knew the ugly monster holding me at arm’s length was more likely to get sympathy from the equally as disgusting beast than I was. He looked carefully from me to Gromp, as if he had some sort of “Humanity” inside his twisted form somewhere and I knew too well that he hadn’t the brains to tease me. He opened his maw a second, quickly closing it again and looking terribly confused as he placed a black, decayed finger against his balding, green skull and scratched with a widened, yellow gape in our direction.
Suddenly the aged tavern door flung itself across the dusty room and collided with the damp, brittle benches, covering the dim tavern with glittering shards of glass, dusty chips of decayed wood and a large, sickly, yellow shaft of light from where the grumpy piece of wood had been groaning back and forth on loose hinges masked a monstrously huge figure which instantly gave off a pungent air of rusty blood and fresh meat, “’ere!” Boomed the intimidating figure, ripping the grin from Gromp’s face and making Bozz jump to an awkward, drunken salute, “Been at da blud wine den?” He growled in disapproval, dashing past me and Gromp and towards Bozz’s neck, which he grabbed with a long black metal claw, pinning him up against the crimson-splattered walls and still staring down at him, “Da blud wine’s mine!” He roared, showing the frightened Ork in black, tar-like spittle and bits of raw meat, “I arseked you to gard da tavuhn from da humies ‘n’ you gows ‘n’ gitz drunk?!” He roared again, this time drawing a battle-worn machete from a nearby bench and pressing it against the frightened thing’s neck. Bozz’s eyes darted from the three of us as we waited in a tension riddled silence: If he didn’t say something soon the terrifying giant would press the blunt blade right through his neck. Thinking about it I wish he’d have just let the blade slip through him, slip through him like a brick through a wall because when he opened his mouth he was dropped to the ground and the giant green thing turned around and feasted his hungry red eyes on me, “Well ain’t choo priddy fera boy?!” He smiled his gigantic, tusky smile that was infested with more crimson lightning than I could imagine, it was almost as if he’d dyed his tusks in blood and even though I instantly regretted doing it, I smirked.