Forum Chat Bar & Grill

[Strategia_In_Ultima]

Strategia dashes for the door - and makes it. Panting outside, he reviews his options.

"Hmm..... didn't I have a stack of dead seagulls somewhere? And where are those salamanders I ordered?....."

[NullAshton]

Ashton loads up on food processors, arming legions of small mech-like machines with them

Soon, Puke's army shall be no more...

[El_Phil]

Damn! A potential three fronted conflict. Byzantine Killer Mongoose, Gherkin Legions and whatever Staregia can scrape together from seagulls and salamanders. Perhaps the dreaded salagulls, seagull that are impervious to fire, or seamanders, winged reptiles who can steal icecreams with deadly accuracy!

[Puke]

I hope he goes for the Icecream stealing option. That will save my Gherkin army from pregnat women craving pickles and icecream, since the other half of the craving will be unavailable.

[TurinTurambar]

Turin looks at all the smelly rodents and regurgitated vegetables bedecking the place and giggles.

In a very distinguished fashion of course.

[El_Phil]

Right you asked for it.
El Phil talks to his troops

"Assyrian Geeskat, your honour has been insulted. I know that you all shower regularly, it is up to you to avenge the insult...."

[TurinTurambar]

His interest in the apparent coming melee having subsided, Turin lounges in a chair near the front of the bar, trying to look over David's shoulder as he furiously hacks away at his laptop muttering something about "I'll give you 'low poly-count', you as*h**e..."

"Ow! Hey! That thing bit me! Hey someone get this... Ow! Ow! OOoowwww!"

He briefly considers drawing Anglachel from it's sheath, but seeing as David hasn't saved his work in the last half-hour, and the black metal blade would surely melt his processor at this proximity he decides against it. Besides, now there are three of them on his left boot and one is on its hind legs making a dreadful honking sound and snapping at his testicles...

"Hey now!"

Realising drastic measures are now called for, he hops one-legged over to the air-lock, kicks the nearest five of the little bastardized honking rodents into it and quickly spaces them.... <poof>... pale pink mist.

They're still coming. Turin's quick but he's not that quick. He wraps his Elvish Cloak around him and leaps onto the nearest table. The Army of El_Phil mills about confusédly for a few moments and eventually gives up the attack, their opponent having become invisible.

"You will feel Traitorous Death on the nape of your neck, El_Phil..." he mutters to himself. "I swear it."

"Now go away ya little Varments, I need another Oatmeal Stout."

[Growltigger]

Cue sound of Growltigga the Great, 10,000 Armoured mongeese, about 500 badgers and an assortment of highly trained woodland rodent artillerists all start singing "Why are we waiting, why are we waiting whay are we waiting for the punch up to start???"

A slow clap start across the Byzantine horde, who are happily having a picnic waiting for the Assyrian Geekat charioteer legion to lay into the jalapeno armoured frankstein-esque gherkin battalion...

Blimey, you lot are slow to kick off, when old Dogscoff was on the forums (where is he when you need him), battles always started punctually, normally with a mutated giant squid called someone Gaelic (like Niamh or Ciambhe or whatever else containing a mouthful of phlegm) ripping its way through the floor and a scream as a battalion of kung fu lobsters charged through the door... if my Byzantine legions can face that lot, Assyrian charioteers and angry dill pickles are not a problem I can assure you....

In order to kick start proceedings, Growltigga boots a football into the middle of the cantina and waits to see if the Geeskats or gherkins make a play for it, after all, even mutated weird beasties love a good game of football (sorry, soccer to all those idiots and North Americans out there)

[dogscoff]

'TIG! How long have you been back? I never even saw you come in!

*dogscoff rushes over and gives the feline a big hig, using the opportunity to bat him forcefully over the back of the head with a phased-polaron frying pan. The resulting "SPANG!" echoes sonorously in the note of "C" through the cantina and Growltigga's skull simultaneously.

*dogscoff then calls in a cartfull of best mead to celebrate the return of the Kat. The mead is dutifully delivered by Fearghal, a 200-foot radioactive armoured battlesquid who kicks off celebrations with a bit of Irish set-dancing. Half the party-goers are immediately and gruesomely crushed into paste beneath Fearghal's monstrous flailing tentacles.

[dogscoff]

He wraps his Elvish Cloak around him and leaps onto the nearest table. The Army of El_Phil mills about confusédly for a few moments and eventually gives up the attack, their opponent having become invisible.

*Dogscoff uses correction fluid to sneakily erase the letter "h" off of Turin's elvish cloak, transforming it immediately it into an elvis cloak. Any advantage of stealth is immediately lost as Turin leaps up onto his feet in the middle of the table, produces a microphone from no-where in particular and launches into an off-key rendition of "jailhouse rock". His assailants are now doubly motivated to attack him, and do so with vigour.