The hearty diftelt grounding when orcs sekkieren. Their laughter is more like an attack by pulse buffs, and yet there is no need to worry about being overwhelmed, glossaries are included, no one is left alone in new areas, not even here in hiding.
We are familiar with bars and hospitable courtyards, sloops and clean-up pools, but when the gates swing open to the hideaway, even the last person realises that the
DEMON CASE
It had its good points and nothing really, but nothing at all is even remotely what it seems.
And that it might even be super good, not just plain good, but for now, fight your way to the bar, cheat your way through the three thousand bodies in front of you, this colourful pile of dried fruit, dried out because underexposed. If you want to be an orc on drugs, you have to do something about it.
Party, party, party simpletons the horrors, horrors are just fairies too, they say, even if they are a bit more fuckable and they especially like orc fingers, but that's another cycle that must not be advertised here.
OVER THERE STANDS AN ORC IN CONVERSATION WITH A BALL, THE FINGERS OF HIS RIGHT HAND EACH ADORNED WITH A SHRIMP BEAMING IN ECSTASY AS A FINGERTIP HAT, JUST TO FORCE THE TRASHOPHASIA TO BEGIN TO DESCRIBE THE LITTLE CELLAR WE ARE ENTERING HERE.
The ball is funny, furball with a mouth as wide as itself, exactly centred, and almost adorable beady eyes. Have the honour, every person here is absolutely unique, but not good. You'll never get that fucking slogan out of your head, thinks Mr White, but it's so great to be swallowed up. You can already tell from the first impressions.
THE FIRST VOLUME OF A CYCLE
is always the one that gets you hooked, snorts the croaker to his right, just as intrusive, but less horny. Because band comes from binding, doesn't it?
" I'm here for the drugs, not for your chatter, Schnurz "
But we'd say it's the beep, and Mr White wasn't the first one he found on the alleyways and canals of the Freeport to snatch it from the other parks of immorality, The Secret is a different house number than all the replicas and attempts to fold flair.
WE ARE NOT IN A WORLD WHERE LANGUAGE CORRESPONDS TOO MUCH TO THE DEGREES OF POPULARITY THAT THE FANATICAL FANATIC APPROVES OF, AT SOME POINT THE FLYERS LEFT THEIR DESTINY AND DID WHATEVER THEY WANTED WITH WHOMEVER THEY WANTED.
Mr.White grabbed Fart and hurled him into the middle of the crowd, the force causing well perceived chaos and anger, but was just absorbed by the boisterous nonchalance of those who can't be taken away and yet make good deals because somehow, despite the lack of light, a light dawned on them.
And similarities of linguistic images arise, the mixing is in full swing, words are the stylistic device of conquest, words create and conquer, maths, numbers, all well and good, they are the building blocks of what is to be conquered, the enigmatic, the fucked up naked being, but it is the words that remain when the snow melts, and always screaming would be quite possible, but then we are just as confused as before.
It is words that can ultimately make distinctions and provide clarity for the aftermath of intoxication.
Meanwhile, maths and number crunching and looking at the crumbs more closely but here, here is the swinging eternal
DOOM SLIP
Mr.White is very very milky for an orc and it is completely insane if anyone, inclined and reader or annoyed in listening, believes to have already pre-shrunk images of an orc, the range is similar to the fairies and elves and in general of creatures, even those that no one could think up yet, immensely larger and as damn white as Mr.White has probably never been thought up an orc.
The fart throw has not created a space, but to immerse yourself for a moment, to be passed along in the crowd, and there is an ulterior motive in doing so, because friendships arise as easily as fellow human beings splashed in masses over the people, seems to be helpful and not just a phrase.
Yes, in the hideout, Mitnand is scattered like confetti from tubs sliding down the poles by the lovely ladies. Mitnand Confetti is just one of the first highflights we should just follow Mr White to understand.
Please be careful, it's one of those visits that doesn't lead to dawn, some of the guests have been here for decades.
" Ziiiivilisatioonn..."
someone he sneaks past, scraps of conversation here and there create a carpet of sound, he is in the crowd and the crowd is now around him, Fart has previously explained that it can often take days before you even reach the bar, and only the next person, depending on their energy and possibilities, really helps you to get ahead.
And the drain at the front is very variable, often people simply forget what else is on offer and of course it only really starts behind this foyer of dreams, the hideaway is a permanently updated wonder, constructed by people who really know what they are doing.
[tds_partial_locker tds_locker_id="866″]The visitors, however, are sometimes few and far between, there are not so many farts to guide them, ultimately you are on your own when the gate closes behind you, don't rely on the guide, be your own.
" I have a lamp "
the chum to his right whispers, her sticky hot, naked body full of sweet, beguilingly fragrant secretions, dark love-blue, three breasts dripping from her nipples, she unabashedly grabs his crotch, we all know why orcs are desirable mating buddies
" what a privates, Weisser "
He's getting hard, and the Mitnand is already starting to take effect too, later maybe he'll hint to her, these elves are a drug themselves he thinks to himself, mating with elves is almost like the very best second pastime next to taking drugs.
And that doesn't serve any nerd cliché hopes, there's no pimply expectation, it's the God-free, snow-drenched reality of togetherness.
Several priests and prophets are nailed to the walls of the hideout, each one a symbol of ancient beliefs and betrayal of the creatures. They are drying there in front of them and are mostly straw-coloured, one looks fresh, he is from the other shore, a clan from the one-goth country.
That ancient ruling world that is still trying to call to arms, that wants back what the demons took from it, sometimes one of the crowd below waves happily to him.
Mr White is tough now and that makes him even whiter, but he knows similar things from smaller dives like this one, he's a sin tester for Vandal.
Vandal, it has to be said, despite its relative emphasis on facts and truthfulness, is a bit of a cunt when it comes to reporting, yet it is one of the most important dailies in Freeport.
You don't take yourself quite so seriously, and that's probably why it's more successful than the somewhat more subtle end-time messenger, which nevertheless clearly resists the prevailing urge to be occupied and dominated in its name.
THE PURPOSE
has gone the other way and lets the newly hatched write in the light columns from their very first day of propaganda and confidence, which at the same time MAKES them more reliable representatives of this philosophy in later stages of their lives.
The purpose should be seen in the light of the situation, if everyone only wallowed in establishments like the hiding place, what kind of resistance would that be.
"Resisstanze, dance, dance, "
jokes his elven colleague Candyflip, who tries to raise the interviews to a new level, the new generation of scribblers that has slowly emerged since the creatures realised that it can be fun to be occupied and exploited.
IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO STICK TO THE OLD RULES ANYMORE, BUT MR. WHITE HAD BETTER NOT THINK ABOUT CANDYFLIP NOW, IT WILL ONLY MAKE HIM EVEN HARDER AND HE'S SANDWICHED BETWEEN THREE OTHER ORCS WHO DON'T LIKE WHAT'S THROBBING AT HIM SO MUCH THAT IT WOULD BE A JOY TO BE IN ONE OF THE ROOMS RIGHT NOW.
Not that anyone here in Trubel has problems with pairing, no, that's missing, but the tightness is simple, yes, everything is simple from the first line, wait until volume two in Publisch.
Yes, it's simply too tight, terribly tight, but sometimes it's so cheerful and exuberant, it tells of orgies that develop spontaneously, for example, out of this very moment that Mr White is in.
His awakened privates are pressed against the awakened orc, who is telling an obviously interesting story to some friends, also orcs, with his arms wide open. Mr White would actually have preferred to slip under this arm because further on something like a shortcut has opened up.
Well, why are there hardly any orc women, that's what this story is about, and since orcs are usually those who are the most ideal fighters but also mates because of their gifts, well, that brings interesting aspects to light in the most natural way.
And don't forget: mating is also an energy generator, not as strong as the rays from above, but even a little stronger than the dark sky light, which is just enough for the smaller creatures.
"Heaven."
is also what Mr White is thinking at the moment, for the two creatures are not in the vicinity of the chamber, they are almost knocking at each other in the most primal and simplest of all languages and only generate more of the light that the three-chested elf has illuminated.
The storyteller orc is impressed and irritated and groans in mid-sentence, it's a very frivolous situation as it doesn't happen to you every orc minute, although you have to admit, orcs are not short of offers, interests and greed, orcs are the best when it comes to celebrating the holy fuck until you can refuel again.
One of the greatest gifts, if you like, that the demons unwillingly produced was that the beings began to engage with each other and then to enjoy themselves, it is hard to remember how bored the separate culture fumbled along, priestly regulated mating, as Trash, a friend of Mr White's rightly says,
"Anyone who has never sucked on a fairy understands absolutely nothing about them and can eat them as stupid as a demon"
That with the
DUMB AS A DEMON
is also one of these slogans. The Quadrant, as the gang that owns the hideout calls itself, has a slogan shop at the top level of the purpose, which also helps the newspaper producers by preparing some things for the scribblers.
Somehow this chaos has already become quite organised, if you assume that sense basically clumps together and creates small, sometimes useful islands, even without regulating and pre-prayer.
But trash talk doesn't help here, and neither does the fact that he is the owner of this funny shop. And had the idea to test it anonymously.
Always these trashy ideas.
Let him and his mushroom stars go and sparkle, Mr White is close to revising his plans for an eternally lasting chamber friction, and the two muscle packs are just heaving their pelvises a little harder than the bystanders would notice, and it must be happily reported that most of them are picking up this rhythm almost like a wave.
It's not strong, that's true, but for one magical moment it all seems to be a Gemächte and Dirnendrüsentraum, which of course happens here all the time, yet from Mr White's perspective only the second time since joining the crowd.
Keep sipping, he doesn't look around, you could no doubt make yourself happy here as long as you have the strength.
Mitnand is also a tonic and therefore it is quite easy with the power. He can always understand why the purpose of drugs and mating and being deregulated is not very popular.
It is not helpful to hold the front lines and even less to reconquer the world.
"As if anyone really wanted that"
This sentence has always been in his ear, it was on the first wall you see when you step off the coastal edge on a narrow path in front of the harbour, it is not easy to swim across the water to Freeport, because who still has a boat or ship these days.
But then you get to the lowest of the layers, and that in turn is a bit of a problem only for masters.
The hiding place is also quite deep, but more in a broad "Look at this" bath of several layers, but even if Mr White goes down the path from above, just for the sake of interest and for a story in the Vandal, he has sniffed out the others.
It is not an easy thing for chandeliers to overcome the lowest layers, and not only because everything that is used up or unusable or that has just accumulated and fallen off is simply passed downwards, something very dynamic arises, it scurries on the ten or is it twenty, it always depends on how you count, yes, the scurry is already forked.
That comes across badly in terms of purpose, but actually, I just mean zooming away and constantly mating until you get eaten, it's not all elf dwarf goblin gnome fury.
MOULDY
By the way, the further down you get in position, the more you become a problem in the truest sense of the word. Remember, everything goes down.
And beings that could originally feed on light alone, there's not much extra talk about it now, maybe even the freest slaves are a bit shy when it comes to THAT, but suddenly being dual digests, that does something to you, the younger ones don't know.
But our world hasn't been fragrant for a long time, and as cool as the secretion that oozed out of the three-crusted elf was earlier, the demons may be the exploitative evil par excellence, but they pay attention to the purity of their elves back then. Even the most depraved of them would hardly touch what Mr White kicked out of them.
Except in one particularly sick idea.
At this point it should be said that young readers should please be denied access, even if it is hardly possible to really prevent this, a certain developed immaturity is needed to let the depth of the information sink in, the widespread kindling of the mindfuck that almost forces you to open the purse, and then also the thirst to do the same to the fugures you meet.
Well, all this may be satyriresque option in times of vandal and propaganda, even if we only interpret what may come first, master teaser Dortheim is involved!!!!
GNADE DIR PUNK
Mercy on you keyboard wanker, here is the real wonderland.
All still really wrist-shaking, and proudly from the editor-free cocktail of Kindle Publishing, Mr.White is like an old ego, but that's beside the point, just slipping after the lane that formed, and the slow-motion lust his chamber rubbing seemed to generate, it's only eight times as many revelers then the bar is almost close.
And it's probably the report itself already, even if he can only have written it in a few days' time, it proves once again that it's better to send liars in some situations, but they are rare and so endangered, croaks and horrors, well, yes, we're talking about nobler things.
When Mr.White conferred with his first demon, also in the context of his journaling activities, he understood some differences for the first time and actually the scales even fell from his orc skin, the deprivation-free understanding made him very delirious for a long time.
It's no coincidence that he remembers it right here in the hiding place, in this undulating vault, as his host said, not only here, but back then, but in a somewhat more epochal sense.
"Have a nice day, Mr White."
That's how he got his name. Or nickname, as Demon Wankelzwang explained at dinner. How he explained many things or was asked about them.
With the gentle request not to publish everything, even if publishing is very limited in a world without permanent resources and thus possible archiving. The walls and rocks are described wherever there are creatures, as well as many of the creatures, but one tries to preserve a bit of the past and present, not to let the mouth be the only propaganda.
Vandal, for example, has enough writers but a circulation problem, the collected copies are of course shrinking visibly despite the utmost care, which actually contradicts a free sheet and we all know what free sheets like to be used for, which in turn fits the story with the layers, finally I like the loops Master Chris?
Wankelzwang spoons his raw Jungelfe with an elegance that makes the orc, who was not yet called Mr.White at the time or was called Hängherum for the first time, realise why the purpose would make perfect sense.
We are gorumets in everything we do, my pale green friend, and you're not actually green at all, but terribly delightful white.
OH, THAT I CAN EXPERIENCE THIS, HE SEEMS REALLY ENTHUSIASTIC, THIS DEMON, HE IS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM WHAT HÄNGHERUM WOULD HAVE EXPECTED WHEN HE WAS GIVEN THE CHANCE FOR THIS PORTRAIT AND VISIT, PRECISELY BECAUSE HE WAS STILL INEXPERIENCED WHEN IT CAME TO DEMONS.
But in the course of a Vandal's career, it is seldom popular with this ignorance, the lack of archiving, however, makes for a plethora of metropolitan legends, it is estimated that of all the refugees in all the generations and locations, no lair visitor has ever had any demon contact or demon situations at best two to three of these annually, as I said it is all somewhat different than it seems.
Charisma and trash, and of course many in the first two or three tiers, but down there, and that's the majority, no, that's rare.
Wankelzwang was almost a bit too wesish. At that time he still had no joy on Candyflip and was mostly among orcs or goblins, dwarves, especially dwarves just caught his eye.
It is a strange thing to arrive in Freeport from top to bottom. It actually becomes more and more adventurous and wonderful at first, only to end up being deeply dark, horrible and alarming,
And then Ork sits at the table for dinner, Wankelzwang is a loner demon who seems to crave attention, he seems to spend most of his time preparing the creatures from his stable, but Hängherum thinks no more wrongly than he realises that this is not necessarily typical.
Even if wankelzwang obsessively endeavours to create this impression.
"Shall I show you the stable after dinner, Mr White?"
He wishes, even today, and long since full on Mitnand, that he had said no back then, the memory of it finally makes his privates shrink and somehow, someway, he has suddenly arrived at the bar.
Where Ekket has been waiting for him for a long time, the story is pretty damn well organised, with all the great tools from the writer's garden of our guild.
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