uhh

"oh man this isnt asphault at all."

Volok "Oldest Oak" 'Sour Mash' Mulgrave Sr. is many things. Organized is not one of them, but their waterskin is tragically empty of asphault. This throws a wrench in their plans for soup.

Before them, their campfire rolls a bit to the left. Replacing it is a tiny scuttling crab, roughly the size of their fist. It swipes at their body, only to be swatted away by something moving too fast to be seen. Sour Mash sways on his feet, stumbling and bringing her left horn crashing down onto the crab before them. Where her skull hits the ground, the world is encapsulated in a perfect and resonant clonk.

"fuck, uh." She looks to the side, flinging a single crab limb off of the hubcap sized protrusion of spiraled wood that grows gnarled and unfettered from the side of her skull. In Sour Mash's right hand, all of a sudden, is a carbide longsword. It wobbles like an alcoholic in the dying half light of the room, unsteady and swaying lazy circles as if the plant were about to hurl. Their photosynthetic skin glints slickly in the light, gleaming off of a fawnlike dusting of moss and deer fur as they topple backwards heel over heel, swords flashing through the air before them as they hop back. Just in time, a conveyer deposits a Glow-Wight into the abstraction of hit point loss, and finds itself reconfigured into a meaty paste.

"oh fuck, did i just dip my tongue in--" A foot long, prehensile tongue slaps up against a horrifying goat eye. A blot of black slime is deposited on their eyeball. "oh fuck that's motor oil"

The gears of the conveyors keep turning, and Sour Mash deposits herself onto the mat with a dagger held firm to the back of her scrap-suit, tubes and hooks and ports recycling the sugars of their body into the glistening floral stinger at the end of their long, lamblike tail. The details only come into focus because she's striking a pose, and then the camera watches as she curls over to puke, only to use the momentum to impale a chute crab on the way down. "oh, uh, esoteric violence style, plucking mantis."

Their stinger flicks the crab down towards the chute downwards. It is followed shortly by Sour Mash sprinting at the wall, slamming one of their horns into it with verve and vim. On the way down, she lands directly in a puddle and the slick black gunk of Golgotha cakes itself into their hair, pulling their thick sapphire blue curls down into their eyes. It's inconvenient- as is the remnants of the fire they find currently under their sandals. Embarrassed, they step into a pile of green slime and promptly chuck a big one from the stench of the pit they find themselves in.

"ok i hope slog's busy, because otherwise i'm going to have possibly the worst time of my life," they mumble. In their mind, they think over what they need. Another cip of cider cor Cour Mash, mmmm.... yup. Okay. Sugars flowing, feeling... wghbv.c.xccnvmcmx,x/..

They've felt better. A single drop of scintillating wood alcohol beads at the wooden micron syringe that buds at the end of their mossy tail. Their internal chemistry is probably approaching something close to the 'whiskey' they've heard so much about, they just have to find some poor jackass to stick with the ethanol so the customers don't get sick...

Oh! Right, right. "i was here to find some... bacteria colony."

Sour Mash hops off through the waste, swaying and bobbing and coming ever so close to a foul mouthful of sewage every time only to reel back to their feet with care moments later.

"i cannot fucking believe i'm really going to try and get the slog scoby."