The time has come...to rock.

[Braeden]

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My fellow chadzians.

Before me stands an idle village, one without lord or master, where peasants are doing something or whatnot.  It isn't important.

What is important is this.  I have in my possession 400 MW Stones, and I need help to throw them.

This is a lot of stones.  I can't throw them alone.  There needs to be a full roster to properly bury peasants with flying rocks.  I don't have any other gear.  That would be entirely unnecessary.  I have pebbles.  And you will help me fling them!

So sign up!  And prepare to throw!

http://www.c-rpg.net/index.php?page=battlesupcoming&battleid=872

[Jarlek]

Question: Who is it that can craft MW stones and is he/she taking orders?

[Braeden]

HiresX and yes.  We have quite the stockpile available for sale.

[okiN]

So how'd this plan work out for you?

[Keshian]

He won...














































the moral victory.

[Jarlek]

HiresX and yes.  We have quite the stockpile available for sale.

How much for 1000 of them?

[Keshian]

How much for 1000 of them?

Your eternal soul.

[Plaksteris]

Viva le Rockiaaaaa!!!
I just bought 4000 of em, hell yeah!

[Canary]

The gentle village-folk had answered the levy, they'd rallied to their own defense, they'd become given to a violent way. Their freedom was not something they'd lose kindly. They put all of their meager earnings into their armaments, shambles of wooden hafts, tattered leathers riveted with scrap metals. Old tools refashioned for a new, bloody purpose. There would be blood before they'd give up Fisdnar, oh yes. They need not fear mortality, only oppression, which surely was to come should they fail this fight. They had felt no fear, not for the battles, not for the fighting. Not until...

A chant, sounding over the hills and through the vale within which Fisdnar had rested. A pleasing and calm singing, but filled with longing... they had cracked a wry smile at first, but it had soon given way to gaping and muttered moans of what can only be told as pure terror.

Papa was a-throwin' stones.
Wherever he lobbed a rock was his home.
AND WHEN HE DIED - all he specced was power throw-oh-oh-oh.

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And the peasants were bloodied and dashed upon the stones picked from the earth, and there was much grimacing (and smirking)