in the Dog’s Arse, chillin’

Introducing the outcast mutant outlaws

It was a time of great change, a time of death and destruction, of madness and muffin-making. Not only were the barbarian hordes at the gates of the Imperium, but they had come through the gates, had rested up for a while at the outskirts of town with nice warm cups of mead-tea, and then reinvigorated had gone about their barbaric business of rampaging, pillaging, looting, slaughtering, raping and burning.

‘Twasn’t at all a pity, therefore, from the Imperium point of view, that the very entities who would never in a million years have led or even been part of an underground resistance were instead ensconced within one of the City’s less salubrious watering holes, the Dog’s Arse.

Who were these so called entities? They were members of a merry band, a thirsty throng, a gritty gang of thieves and liars known by some as the Outcast Mutant Outlaws: OMO singular, Omoze plural.

So what were the Omoze doing in the Dog’s Arse? Just chillin’. And drinking, stupid. Yes drinking themselves stupid. Which didn’t take very long, I might add.

Present in the flesh were:

• the alien soul-eating will-sapper from alpha centauri: Dire Lord Cappuccino, and zir body-slave, the late and unlamented Bernardo of Albania

• two bodies sharing one teeny little brain, an eight-limbed double-gendered prostitute turned martial artist: JackJill
  

• a bright and brilliant peasant lass, fluent in all seven languages of the Imperium, not to mention the ability to understand the secret tongues of the sparrows, nanny goats, pilchards and sphagnum: Clothilde du Langue
  

• a miserable wizard or in other words whinging warlock or mangy mage who had lost his mojo in a very unfortunate incident involving a client and an unsatisfactory potion: Selestin.

Not present in flesh or spirit but still alive and kicking elsewhen were two more Omoze members:

• lower half clad in a disgusting loincloth of dubious provenance, unclad upper half featuring a pair of flappy old dugs and an unerupted third nipple, a nut-brown gnarly old stick of indeterminate gender and bilateral dis-symmetry, the Guru, and
  

• a pale and loitering youth, nameless from the day his progenitors had forgotten to blood-sacrifice their newborn son: the Seeker. Currently, lost.

continued under the "barbarians" label...

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