The Great Bull Roved out in Search of Curves and Coin

McMorrigan's Drink-em-Up and Inn was a shithole. There was no debate: the floorboards creaked like a motherfucker; sometimes the wind would howl through the numerous holes punched into the walls; the beds were ancient and the blankets threadbare; there were enough problems with the rat-bitten place that listing them all would get me banned for semicolon .

The place was a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Mercenaries, sellswords, and all manner of sleazy garbage passed through McMorrigan's every week, but as long as Old Man McMorrigan had a hand full of coin nobody said boo. The locals knew to avoid the joint -- they'd had enough of busted heads and hurt feelings, and now the brutes were free to run roughshod.

Grimm loved it. He couldn't get enough of this shit. Every time he was in the area he made sure to visit McMorrigan's. He was only disappointed when he walked away with full balls and clean fists.

Grimm was sitting at the far edge of the tavern, careful to keep his back to the wall. Don't be mistaken: he loved to get in rumbles and generally make a nuisance of himself; he just liked to do it on his terms. For now, Grimm was content to hang back, watching the drunks stagger around the bar, sloshing ale from cheap mugs. McMorrigan's was one of the few places where Grimm could be invisible.

Grimm lived in a world of animal-folk. It wasn't rare to see a bull like him plodding around the marketplace or sitting at the bar. But Grimm still stood out. Six feet, feet inches of rippling muscle, covered in dark grey fur and crowned by a pair of fearsome horns, Grimm was something else. The fact that he opted to wear a loincloth and nothing else added to the barbarity of his countenance.

He wanted to fight, but it was too early and he wasn't drunk enough. Not yet. There weren't any ladies around yet, either. Grimm could fucking weep. What was the point of going to McMorrigan's if you weren't getting laid, beaten up, or hired for a dangerous job?

Speaking of which, Grimm was nearly broke. A drought of mercenary jobs had left him with nothing to his name but the loincloth on his crotch and the bedroll by his feet. If he carried a sword, he would have been tempted to sell it by now. Maybe he should have robbed someone for their sword, then sold _that. _He was holding out hope that some sap would stumble into McMorrigan's, eager to part with his coin and rectify some personal injustice. Grimm sighed at the realization that he was diminished. Where were the heist jobs, the adventures? Now he spent his days beating up petty criminals and retrieving stolen family heirlooms.

He was aching for some action. Real action. Grimm was young, slightly dumb, and built like a brick shithouse. Who wouldn't want to hire him?

Grimm set his drink down and leaned against the wall. He was bored out of his mind, and growing tired. The young bull was starting to nod off when he heard the floorboards by the entrance creak. He lazily lifted his head to look at the newcomer to McMorrigan's.