He got on his feet and strolled over to the next bbq smoker:
"Oy, are you Zane?"
The adolescent ork male in wife beater and sagging blue jeans with flashy belt buckle gives you a wide, tusky, drunken smile as he shakes his head back and forth slowly. As he slurs out a few words in Or'zet, the only phrase you understand is:
"...ten nuyen..." as the inebriated kid motions with his metal spatula at the meat on the grill. From behind though, you hear a voice speaking english loudly to the DJ.
Yo Zane! party on man! I came clean just to have fun! my mom, like always is here but no suits today. Just chillin and bitching.
Turning around, Janitor sees an elf, one of the only ones here, exchanging a few words with the DJ before headed off the table full of Krubb brass.
Or'zet: Yo! name is Balls... Great party! Nice to meet you. He extend his hand.
The talking and laughing comes to an abrupt stop as you approach the table and a shirtless ork covered in scars and tattoos growls at you briefly before the troll interrupts him.
"You that same Balls that used ta rap with One and Zane back in the day?" Without taking his murderous eyes from you, the scarred ork answers him in Or'zet before you have a chance to.
"Yeah, this that same keeb. That's his momma rightchea." The table erupts in laughter and "momma's boy" kinda jabs.
"Hey, fuck yall trogs." says the troll, stopping the joking abruptly.
"This keeb spit fire, yo. He's finna rock that stage, too. If fuckin One ever shows up." He motions for the group to make room at the table for you.
"C'mere and sit down. Let's hear some styles, show these trogs whats really real, wiz?"She dropped her Concealment and zipped toward the DJ to say hi.
He hardly notices your tiny form until you're hovering a foot or two away from his face, so deep is his concentration on what he's doing. Dolly has seen her share of parties and more than her share of DJs in her day, but nothing outside the old history trids comes close to what this dwarf is doing. After watching him work his machines for a moment, it dawns on her that he's not using ANY software! No auto-synch, no beatmatcher, no nothing. Barely visible through his long frizzy hair, you can see he's wearing a pair of headphones connected to the mixer with a cord. A CORD! All the effects, all the tricks, all the scratching, the fades, the scratches, the juggles, ALL OF IT; he's doing manually with his two cracked, paint stained, and callous hands. It's really quite the spectacle. You're not aware that he's noticed you until he shouts over the music without looking up from the tables.
"Whaddup Dolly? You gonna make a request or sum?" 