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Ogrim entered the beer tent and his senses were greeted with familiar sounds, smells and sights. Everyone in the beer tent spoke as if they were in the middle of a hurricane, shouting and gesticulating wildly to get their point across as they fought the volume generated from hundreds of other greenskin throats. In retaliation every other orc within their close vicinity would raise their voice. This sparked many a confrontation and alcohol being what it was, acted the part of catalyst in the reaction and soon yet another localised fight broke out. These wild knots of flailing fists and feet were common but often brief and rarely fatal but they served a purpose; it was a natural release for pent up aggression.
Shouldering through several groups to get at the food and alcohol, Ogrim growled at those that voiced any complaints, his sheer size and scar matted hide lent credence to the fact he was not an Orc to take issue with. Eventually reaching the bar and pushing aside a pair of younglings, Ogrim found himself seated next to an orc who was shorter than himself but equally as stoutly built. Nodding and grunting a greeting, the one eyed greenskin bellowed out to the familiar bar tender.
”Phylog! Stew and a brew!”
Phylog scowled and nodded in return, flicking his head at an idle female as she scurried off to get what Ogrim wanted.
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