Chapter 292: Bar Talk
[Location: The Melting Pot Inn – The Slag Heap]
Leaving the Exchange center, Damien wandered for a bit, before heading to the inn
And sure enough, just like before, the air inside the tavern was thick enough to chew.
Smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of cheap rust-liquor filled the room, creating a haze that stung the eyes.
The noise was a constant, low-frequency roar of machinery and grumbling voices.
When Damien walked in, the noise dipped for a second.
The drifters, laborers, and cast-off demons of the Slag Heap eyed him. He was the "Solid" who had caused a scene ever since he arrived.
In a place where hope usually died at the door, he smelled like a variable, at least if nothing else he added some color to their daily lives.
For this, Damien ignored them. He adjusted his mask and walked straight to the corner booth where a massive shadow loomed.
Ziriork, the Ferro-Ogre, was nursing a fresh bucket of molten lead. His metallic skin, studded with rivets and natural armor plates, gleamed dully under the flickering mana lamps.
"You did it," Ziriork rumbled, not looking up. "I can smell the registration ink on you. And the stench of High-Grade Abyss Cores."
Damien sat down opposite the giant. The rusted bench groaned under his weight.