In light of the terrible strat posts people have been posting lately (mainly terrible posters like xxkaliboyx and some others I can't remember, I figured I'd provide some quality examples of strat posts from years past).
From the greatest town crier Warband has ever had the fortune to spawn, Kamikaze_Joe -
http://forum.melee.org/index.php?action=profile;u=676 go troll his posts and give him upvotes
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Joe was fucking with his favorite Champion Courser when the door to his glorious Sex Palace burst open. A mere Rouncey, a simple working horse, strode into the gilded hall. He wore a flowing heraldic coat, on which was sewn the glorious seal of Free Companies of Calradia.
"Sire," he said, his eyes nervous and cast down, away from the glorious debaucher before him. "Sire, I have news of an alliance between neighboring factions.
"I am with my mistress!" Joe cried, still thrusting. Sweat from the bestial duo dripped audibly onto the gold-tiled floor. "Can't you see that I'm busy? Fuck off!"
"Y-yes my lord. I'll just tell them you're b-busy I guess."
"Tell them the usual," Joe grunted. "It's signed, etc."
The doors burst open again. In strode a red haired woman, beautiful but stern of face. She wore the finest of Plus Three Cavalry Robes. She looked from the Rouncey to Joe, then grimaced, pushing past the anxious messenger. "Joe, Jesus Christ, stop."
"What do you mean by this, Kesh? Bursting into my hall--"
"Oh my God, just stop. You delusional fuck. Just get out of the 'Sex Palace' and get to work. We need you to go south to boot CHAOS nerds to EU."
"Oh... Ok." He looked down at the panting Champion Courser. "Leave me, my mistress!"
"Please stop talking to the horses Joe. You can fuck them, but please don't talk to them. It's unnerving."
Joe begrudgingly unsheathed his dick from the Champion Courser and collected his pants from the dusty stool on which he'd placed them. Clothes in arm, he stumbled through hay and horse-shit, his bare feet slapping audibly against the dirt floor of the stables at Mechin. He strode out beside Kesh, visibly upset, his imaginary play time over.
Joe rode towards the keep of Senuzgda Castle, pinching his nose against the stink of still smoldering wood and corpses, churned earth, and rotting men and women. The battle had been costly.
He smiled into his gloved hand, remembering the inhuman valor of their warriors. Bale, for example, had sprinted up their ladders time and time again, waving his hands and grinning, shrieking like a dinosaur. The enemy's hammers consistently beat him off the ladders, but he persisted. Such honor!
Joe jerked in the saddle, his horse stopping suddenly.
A little foreign man stood in his path. He twirled his flowing mustache angrily, the motion sending his chainmail a-clinking. "Signora caza! You stoppa da horse!"
"Wut?"
"I am la Arrowaine! Yousa da Effa-Chee-Chee scum! You steala mah pizza!"
"I--"
"You maka da chaos you bitches, lika all da rest! Fucka you, I spit!" And then he spat.
"Shut up we're better than you, go away."
Joe's champion courser, at the touch of his spurs, surged forward, knocking the little mustachioed man aside. He needed to get to the keep, as he had an appointment to keep with it's new masters. The ritual was to begin: The FCC Victory Circle Jerk, his favorite event!
Joe stood behind a herd of some seventy five Champion Coursers, fifty Warhorses, and eight hundred Champion Rounceys, trying desperately to cram them inside a quickly filling castle. "FUCKING MOVE," he screamed, his voice barely carrying over the neighing and stamping of hooves. "ITS NOT SAFE OUTSIDE!"
He turned to see a rising dust cloud behind him, a few miles off. A CHAOS raiding party was hot on his heels. He needed to get the rest of his horses into the safety of the castle. He ran back and forth behind the herd, waving his arms and slapping rumps, shouting. Slowly, the animal ocean flowed though the castle's gates.
An unloomed rouncey approached. He said, "My lord! The leaders of Frisia and the FCC are having a long-distance parlay!"
Joe smiled. Nothing could distract from the thought of imminent death like these two factions' attempts at diplomacy. "Thank you, good horse." He grabbed an armful of hand-written dispatches from a basket on the horse's flank and kicked it in the face, dismissing it.
Joe had read through five dispatches, quite giddy by this point, when a +3 Courser appeared, panting and bloody-faced. "Lord Joe, there is no more room in the castle! We are being crushed!"
Still reading, Joe said, "Have the guards throw ladders. You can climb up if the angle's not steep. Fill up the walls and towers."
The courser looked skeptical. "As you wish."
After a few minutes, Joe had satisfied his lust for nerd rage. This round of communiques had been particularly entertaining--the parchment upon which the last exchange between Keshian and kasMVC was written on was actually speckled with dried blood.
He looked up at the castle. Horses stood all along the walls, upon the keep and towers, and filled up the courtyard. They bristled from every surface of the building like the feathers of a great bird. His four-legged friends had done well.
Summoning the rouncey again, he wrote out his own contribution to the diplomatic event: "Nerf cav."
Joe was tying broomsticks to his horses.
He was doing this on a section of wall in New Senuzgda Castle, squeezing between sweating, stinking animals. He would have like to have more room, but he had needed to cram hundreds of horses inside, what with CHAOS and FIDLGB armies roaming the countryside.
Horses were everywhere. In the courtyard, along the walls, in the towers. He had even gotten a few inside the keep, despite The Sweet Prince, Haru's desperate pleas.
"Alright, guys," Joe said, tying the last of the broomsticks to a Well Bred Rouncey, "You remember the plan, right?"
A few nodded, though most stood silent, grim faced. Or as grim faced as horses got.
"I'm not sure where WITCHCRAFT is right now, but you'll find him, I'm sure of it." He stepped a little ways back, and took in his work, laughing--they looked ridiculous. He had taken the precaution of tying several broomsticks onto the armored horses, what with their being heavier.
"My lord," a frightened Mamluk Horse said, a broom tied to his face, "I'm not sure--"
"Shut up," Joe said. "WITCHCRAFT wants talking horses." He took a deep breath, both anticipating and fearing this moment, assured of his success but nonetheless dreading failure.
"Go," he said.
They hesitated, looking around anxiously.
Behind him, Joe saw the faces of many castle guards staring wide-eyed from arrow-slits in the keep. Somebody, maybe Espo, was running towards him, waving his arms. The hundreds of other horses inside the castle stared with open mouths and stricken faces. All eyes were on him, waiting for this moment. This success.
Joe drew his sword and put on his war-face. "FUCKING FLY MOTHER FUCKERS!"
They surged over the crenulations, away from his wildly swinging steel. For a brief moment, WITCHCRAFT's special delivery was airborne, their legs peddling madly at thin air.
Then they plummeted, screaming, fifty feet to the rocky ground below.
Joe peered over the wall, frowning at the pile of twitching, groaning horses below. Cries of "OH GOD, MY LEGS!" and "WHY, WHY?!" graced his ears. It sounded like the lighter rouncey's had landed on top.
Espo, almost at Joe's side, stopped, threw his hands up, and walked back across the courtyard towards the keep. Yes, today's failure had disappointed many. WITCHCRAFT would need to wait a bit longer for his horses.
Joe sighed, realizing that the one thing cav couldn't do was fly.
New Samarra Castle
Lord Joe stood behind his Champion Courser on the stairs leading into the dungeons. "My love," he said, "It's two fucking steps."
"B-but I have four legs. I'm not sure how this is supposed to work." She put a leg forward, then hastily brought it back.
She was a good horse, but vertical movement could be a problem.
Joe squeezed past her sweat-coated flank . "Just let me know when you're ready, alright?"
He walked into a long, stone hallway. It was dark and cold, despite the flickering torches. Waiting for him was the leadership of the Free Companies. Great lords, all of them, in glittering mail and finely woven heraldry.
Bale muttered something about "nutcase" and "horse". Kesh, her hair lighting up the dungeon with it's glory, seemed worried.
Also present, much to Joe's surprise, was Lord Tydeus. Tydeus hadn't been present during their seizure of the castle, and shortly thereafter the armies of SEMEN STORM had surrounded the place, yet somehow the warrior had gotten in. Joe smiled at the dour group before him. "What'cha need?"
Gristle stepped forward, he seemed less angry than he was sad. He fiddled his little plate-shaped hat. "Joe, we need you to, uh, interrogate a political prisoner. BADPLAYER. He has resisted us, but perhaps you can do something to get him to talk." He glanced over Joe's shoulder. "You and your, erm, maiden."
Kesh cleared her throat, and a man's voice came out. "He glitched the fucking castle, and we need to know how... So we can do the same. This wizardry could help us defeat Hospitaller and their vassals: Occitan and SEMEN STORM, once and for all"
Joe nodded. "I'm gay."
"I knew we could count on you."
---------------------------
Joe and Champion Courser strode into the interrogation room. BADPLAYER hung from the wall by chains, his sweating, shivering, form shocking to behold. His neckbeard hung to the floor, devoid of its usual luster.
"BADPLAYER--sorry for shouting that--you've been a naughty boy."
"Joe? Is that a horse? Oh God, what the fuck are you going to do to me now?"
"We," Joe said, "Are going to talk."
"I've got nothing to say to you. I thought you were going to protect me." He sounded breathless. The Terrortops must have had his way with him.
Joe looked to his horse, smiling. "Honey, I think it's time for the Halibut." He strode to a chest in the corner and retrieved a large fish.
"Are you talking to your horse? Jesus Christ."
Joe put on his fish-beating face and leapt across the room. He fell upon BADPLAYER, smiting him with savage blows.
-------------------------------
In a room next door, the leaders of FCC sat in a circle. They could hear the sound of wet fish-slaps through the wall.
Gristle was pacing. "He's going to kill him. We can't do this. Not when BADPLAYER came to us in friendship."
Tydeus spoke, "We need to know. I can't just ban him on a hunch."
WITCHCRAFT said, "I could try some potions. They don't work, but BADPLAYER--sorry for yelling--doesn't know that.
Kesh frowned. "They work sometimes. Remember that siege and the necromancy?" She looked suddenly worried. "Wait. What if--?"
"OH GOD YOU'RE A WIZARD!"
Joe's cry filled the dungeon, along the neighing of his triple-loomed Courser.
The leaders of FCC and Tydeus leapt to their feet, drawing swords and rushing into the hall. Gristle fumbled with the keys to the interrogation room. The sound of scuffling feet and grunting could be heard on the other side. The door clicked, and the brave lords rushed in.
What the saw was terrible.
Joe and his horse were locked in a deadly struggle with BADPLAYER'S neckbeard. It had grown to twice its normal length, and had a life of its own. Joe wrestled desperately for control of his Halibut.
The lords of FCC and Tydeus fell upon the dread neckbeard with fierce battle-cries, hacking and grappling. BADPLAYER was laughing, cackling, his beard growing more and more.
Suddenly, the fell neckbeard was on fire, a torch caught in its Mountain Dewy tangles. Somebody yelled "GOTTEM COACH!"
It was over. BADPLAYER was consumed by the flames, his last utterance an angry shriek.
Tydeus, panting, sheathed his sword. He looked at the confused faces around him. "I'll, uh, talk chadz about that. Let's... Let's just say I banned him, for now." This was met with muttered agreements.
Bale shook his great, horned head. "Why did we fucking do this in the first place?"
Joe removed his thin cotton shirt, sticky with sweat, and flung it away. He then removed his pants, for good measure. The stables of New Knudar Castle were sweltering this time of year. He yearned for his old quarters in the keep.
But Kesh didn't like him sleeping in the keep. Not after that whole bestial orgy thing.
The stables were boring, in addition to being painfully hot. Horses of all shapes and sizes stood in small groups, chatting idly, their colts carefully ignored, left to their own, playful devices. The murmur of conversation filled the hot building.
Joe, still naked, sought to entertain himself by entertaining others. He approached a little group of horse-children, his large, uncircumcised dick dangling much like those of the adult horses. "Children," he said, "would you like to hear a story?"
"Please go away."
Joe scoffed. "Sorry! I guess you don't like stories... Would you prefer flying lessons instead?"
"N-no." The horses looked terrified. The stables had fallen silent.
"Are you sure? You're Uncle Rouncey seemed to enjoy himself." This was silly-talk, of course, as that particular rouncey was just a pile of bones at the foot of the castle walls, bleaching amidst the remains of his comrades, and some broomsticks--a failed venture of Joe's. He wondered, briefly, whether the younger horses might have a better chance of flight, being lighter.
"I think w-we're ready for a story."
The adult horses resumed their chatter in the background. Someone said, "Christ that was close."
"Good! I'll tell you about the time that HoC sucked." This was a very pertinent tale, as word of HoC's most recent aggression was spreading across the land like wildfire. They king had send out messengers to every corner of the continent with orders to go door-to-door like fucking Jehovah's Witnesses, screaming their master's drunken war declarations word-for-word.
"Alright. Once upon a time, I fought in a big battle between MURDER BONER and HoC. Knowing ahead of time that HoC was bad, I offered my services to the other team. They welcomed me, no doubt hearing of my phallic strength--" and here Joe paused to flex his large member. "Our foes formed the dreaded..." He paused again, this time for dramatic effect. "THE DREADED HoC SHIELDWALL!"
The colts jumped, all of them frightened. One of the gasped.
"Yes! I know! It was terrifying. But then they actually tried to fight us and we killed hundreds. I myself was the third best of our soldiers. We were keeping score, you see."
"But Joe, didn't they know how to block?"
"No, young one." He shook his head mournfully. "I'm afraid they couldn't block for shit."
"That sounds sad." The other colts nodded.
"It was sad." Joe scratched his untrimmed pubic wilderness. "Funnily enough, I signed up for the wrong side. Our glorious leader, Kesh, whose gender transcends all reason, told me that I was supposed to help HoC during that little war."
"That was silly!"
"You're going flying."
Joe stood naked before an easel (he worked better unhindered), a paintbrush poised mid-air, his eyes distant and thoughtful. He wanted this portrait to be perfect--a masterpiece.
A work of love. Inspired.
He looked from the painting to his beloved model, Champion Courser, who stood a few feet away. She looked at him with tired eyes, "My love," she said, "Are you done yet?"
"Shut the fuck up and hold still."
She shifted her head back to the agreed upon pose, her head hovering over a bowl of grapes.
A messenger knocked, then entered. "My lord, sorry to interrupt your, erm..." his gaze lingered on Joe's painting. "You are aware that it looks like a three legged penis, my lord?"
Joe twisted, his face a mask of inspired rage. "This is art, you uncultured pig! It is beautiful, and captures the essence of my beloved!" He pressed his face to the paper and inhaled. "Can you smell the art?!"
"N-no my lord."
Joe drew his paint-stained face back and, seizing his painting, leapt across the room, his dick sent a-flopping by the explosion of movement. He pressed his masterpiece against the messenger's face. Leaning in, he whispered, "Can you smell it now?"
A mumbled, "Y-yes," was the reply.
"Good," he flung the painting away. "The message?"
The man, his face coated in reds and blues and pinks, took a moment to remember. "Acre. Acre isn't doing shit."
Joe gave him two thumbs-up. "Fucking fantastic."
Distracted from his work, he rubbed himself absent-mindedly, tracing little blue swirls around his nipples. The movement stirred something inside him: an idea. He walked over the courser and, ignoring the messenger's presence, dipped a finger in some spilled paint. He dragged his finger across the horse's flank.
"What are you doing to me?"
"Painting. I have found my Muse."
"Alright then."
Joe was masturbating in his room.
A carrier pigeon landed on window sill, interrupting his happy-time.
He stared at it for a long while, his hand dripping moisturizer onto the floor. "You'll do," he said. Then he lunged, snatching up the helpless bird, his hand like the eagle's claw. "PLEASURE ME, MESSENGER!"
The bird slid over his dick like a glove.
A few pumps, and it was all over. The animal's eyes bulged, and it exploded, like a little sex grenade, showering Joe with feathers and semen.
Matey burst into the room. "Joe!" he said, "Did you hear about MB's new..." His voice trailed off as he took in the scene before him. He saw Joe sitting on his bed side, covered in semen and feathers with a bird carcass in hand, it's flesh peeled away from the head like a banana. Matey made confused noises, a series of "Uh's" and "W-what's?".
Joe slowly raised a finger to his lips. "Ssssh."
Matey stepped out.
Joe stumbled forward along the mountain path. Driving snow and whipping wind were making the journey arduous, and the trail's cobblestone surface, worn smooth by many pilgrims, made the hike treacherous. He dragged a reluctant caravan of twelve Champion Destriers along behind him.
Beside him walked his on-and-off-again passionate lover and/or fuck-buddy, Champion Courser.
OP Courser cast a worried glance behind her, still walking. "I'm worried about them. The cold will kill them before we can get to the top."
Joe looked back. The horses were miserable, shivering in the cold; this, despite the scarfs he'd tied around their necks. He'd thought that that'd be enough, but apparently he'd overestimated the animals' tolerance for cold.
One of the Destriers called out, the cry almost inaudible because of his shivering. "E-e-everything g-g-good up th-th-th-there, my lord?"
Such fucking pansies. Joe shouted back, "E-e-everything's FINE UP HERE, YOU SHIVERING FUCK! GROW SOME BALLS!" He added some spice to the statement by thoroughly groping his own genitals, which, it should be mentioned, were the size of melons, despite being exposed to the cold. It should also be mentioned that Joe was naked, save for a lovely orange scarf.
Joe turned back to +3 Courser. "They're just being pansies. They've got scarfs, I don't see what the problem is."
They continued their ascent. At last, after another hour of schlepping, they made it to the mountain's summit.
It was flat--a small plateau. Snow piled up here and there, as it continued to fall from the sky.
In the center of the plateau was an alter: A massive stone donkey with golden spectacles stood on it's hind legs, defying the cold. Offerings were piled at it's feet--mostly money. There were some flowers, too. Torches glowed. Somebody shouted.
Joe and his horses were not alone.
Kneeling before the statue was a man whose face was as white as the thickly-swirling snow, and his hair was a sickly green. He work a strange, purple jacket. He looked foreign.
Behind him stood a train of naked women, all with sumptuous titties.
Every now and then, the man would scream, "BUMP!"
Joe whispered to Champ Courser, "He's bumping with tits. Let's not disturb him."
"BUMP!"
Joe and his horses circled around to the other side of the plateau, careful to keep the statue in sight. Joe tied the horses to a jutting rock, and they gathered together before him. One destrier spoke, "My Lord Joe, where are the cookies you promised?"
Joe ignored him. He turned to address the distant statue. "chadz," he shouted, "PLEASE HEAR MY PRAYER! FULFILL YOUR PROMISES, AND GET YOUR PEOPLES' SHIT TOGETHER!"
"BUMP! BUMP!"
"I OFFER YOU SACRIFICES: THE THINGS MOST PRECIOUS TO ME!"
The destriers were starting to get the gist of what was about to happen. Cries of "Wait, please!" and "No, no, no!" sounded behind Joe. He didn't care. There were enough fucking horses in this world as it was. No one would miss a few cav.
It was for the greater good.
"BUMP!"
He drew his recently nerfed sword, and mounted his beloved Champion Courser. He needed to make up for the shittiness of his one handed weapon by being on horseback. Good speed bonus. He whispered into his beloved's ear, "Let's nerf 'em, baby."
"Let's."
He put his spurs into her sides. She lurched forward.
The two of them spent the rest of the day killing destriers, hoping desperately that the Great Donkey would take two a moment to remember his forgotten people.
Joe stood on a windy hill top, looking down on a dismal scene. Some distance away, the village of New Ayyike was besieged, encircled by an army whose tents and patrols bore a red banner.
He couldn't make out the heraldry, but he knew that Le Chevaliers Occitans had Ayyike surrounded.
He turned to face his beloved Champion Courser. "Chevaliers," he spat. "The good Cavalieres."
She gave him a worried look. "I don't think either of those are things anymore, Joe."
He mounted her, a single, fluid motion. "Lies," he said, "Evil, Hospitaller rumors. Don't let those EU vassal scum put lies into your head like that."
They galloped back to the rest of Joe's army, and after deliberating with his subordinates, decided that now would be the best time to reinforce Ayyike.
Joe lead his army towards the Occitanian fortifications at a brisk trot, in single file. He had so many horses that most of his men were able to ride on two horses at once, which doubled their rate of movement.
The train of mounted soldiers moved steadily towards the enemy's perimeter. Tents and barricades loomed before them, and red banners flew.
Then, suddenly, they were amongst them.
Men with twirly mustaches in bright chainmail stood in small groups on either side of Joe's still-moving army, but none made a move to intercept them. The air was filled with the enemy's strange language.
Champion Courser whispered. "What are they saying? Why aren't they stopping us?"
"I do not know, my love," Joe hissed back. "They're speaking Spanish, and so are likely busy with their quesadillas."
Her eyes widened, but her face steeled itself with new resolve. She continued to weave through clumps of soldiers. "Remember the Maine," she said.
Joe's gaze took in the armored men. They all seemed busy eating their strange, flat sandwiches to pay Joe's 400 strong army any attention. Their mustaches were gooey with cheese. Joe and company managed to get inside the village without any trouble.
What he found shocked him.
More of the Spanish dogs. They filled every crack and crevice of the small village, intermingled with FCC soldiers.
Kesh approached, smiling. "Joe," she said, "Glad to see you could make it." She followed his worried gaze. "Don't worry about them, they're just waiting to besiege us after the upcoming battle."
"I see. They were all to busy with their panini's to bother us outside." He dismounted and saluted his leader. "Remember the Maine!"
"Yeah, Joe. We'll make them suffer for, whatever that means."
(Written as a good-bye post to Daruvian)
Joe sat on his horse with the rest of the cavalry, waiting for Kesh's signal. He stared at the back of the woman's unhelmed head, distracted by her glorious locks. They glowed like fire in the sun. He wondered if her nether regions were similarly maned.
A sudden movement. Kesh's hand rose, and Joe along with the rest of the cavalry charged through a breach in the castle wall, crushing their own infantry in the process. Cav always have the right of way.
Joe sallied forth with his fellows, now plunging through the enemy ranks. He skewered an archer with his trusty lance before popping out the ass-end of the enemy's formation. Like poop.
Everything was chaos. He couldn't see any friendly cavalry.
He braced himself to charge back through the enemy formation, ready to kill a dozen more men, because this time their backs would be to him--he would be fighting a familiar battle now.
Then, suddenly, something hit him really hard in the fucking head. It knocked him sideways out of the saddle, his world spinning. His foot caught in the stirrup. He dangled, half hanging, half lying on the ground, looking up at the sky. His horse just stood there.
A mounted figure appeared between him and the blue. It was a familiar face. "Good fight, Joe," Daruvian, King of the Frisians said from above. He was looking down at him with a little smile, twirling a spavalthakalakaiono.
Joe spat out a tooth. "Frisian Freedom huh? More like Frisian my old friendg--"
Daruvian slapped Joe's horse, and the beast flew away from the battlefield.
-------------------------------------------
Later that evening, Joe was sitting in the keep of the same castle, sipping cocoa before a blazing fore. WITCHCRAFT sat beside him, sipping scotch in a beanbag chair.
Joe sipped. The hot drink and burning logs all reflected his temper--he was angry, hot, raging inside at his defeat.
WITCHCRAFT, sipped. "Joe," she said, her voice startlingly male, "We all lose eventually."
"But he's so fucking bad."
"I know," WITCHCRAFT said, "I Know."
Joe felt his face go hot, and his throat clench. "I must have my revenge," he choked out, a half sob. He dropped his teacup. It shattered on the stone floor. Tears and cocoa pooled at his feet.
He felt WITCHCRAFT's hand on his shoulder. "C'mon man, don't cry."
Joe sobbed something incoherent.
"Yeah sure," WITCHCRAFT said. Joe felt the reassuring hand disappear. "Joe, how about I help you out? I'll cast a spell maybe..."
Joe sniffed, hope causing his heart to flutter. "Can you make him go away WITCHCRAFT?"
"Why are you yelling?" WITCHCRAFT said. "And yes, yes I can Joe. We'll make the big bad Daruvian go away.
-----------------------------------------
Daruvian was in his room, sitting at his computer. Horses and men clashed on the screen in a medieval simulation, of sorts.
He sipped an apple martini, careful not to spill the full glass. He smiled. It was pretty good, for a first try. A little too strong, for something that you'd drink in your room for the taste of it, but still good.
He set the glass back down on his desk, preparing for a new round to begin.
A sudden trembling sent the green liquid rippling. The house shook.
He frowned, still in his seat, his hand now clutching the drink to keep it from falling. Was this an earthquake?
Another tremor, this time stronger. Daruvian moved to stand up.
Another tremor, this time strong enough to knock him off balance. He fell back in his chair, spilling his drink in his lap. He cursed, but a terrible rumbling overwhelmed his voice. Suddenly, the air pressure changed, and his ears popped as if he were in an airplane about to land.
Then there was a massive roar. The house rocked and groaned. The roof was peeled away by some terrible force, exposing Daruvian's room to a grey and cloudy sky. The wind was whipping him backwards, pushing him into his chair and pushing the chair into the desk.
Then the wind let up and a bright light flashed, blinding Daruvian for a full minute. When it relented, he pried his burning eyes open again to see two figures hovering above his room, where the roof should have been. They were fully naked men, built like gods, their nipples erect and their eyes glowing with some ethereal power.
One of them spoke, his voice as deep as the ocean. "Daruvian, we have come for you."
"Holy shit, please don't kill me!"
"Death is merely a transition, Daruvian."
Daruvian, shaking in his chair, tried to explain: "That's not my real--"
"Dicks, dicks, dicks," the other man said. He stroked himself.
The other, other man said, "You are being taken to a place where you'll be happier. You like dick, right?"
He was right, but Daruvian wouldn't have chosen to phrase it in quite that way. "Sorry?"
"Your clan. Frisia. They profess a love for dick. You're gay. We have been called to take you with us to a place of eternal, homosexual bliss."
That didn't sound so bad. Clearly, he didn't have a choice. "Will I even get to say goodbye? To my family?"
"You may say goodbye to your internet family." The naked man gestured with a well muscled arm towards the computer, still intact despite the destruction surrounding it. "Type your message."
Daruvian pulled his chair up to the desk, he raised shaky hands to the keyboard and typed his good-bye. It took a few minutes. He knew that the cRPG community wouldn't quite get it--he was vague, intentionally. He had a persona to fulfill. The trolling was the best part of it all, really.
He stood. "I'm done. I'm ready to ascend."
One man said, "Dicks, dic--."
The other man said shushed his partner. He turned to Daruvian. "Good. Take my hand."
Daruvian did so. It was strong, and warm. He liked it.
Both men began chanting. "Dicks, dicks, dicks, DICKS, DICKS, DICKS..." They got louder, and louder, until their cries echoed through Daruvian's very being. There was a trembling, and a bright white flash, and he was gone.
Joe was back to killing from horseback, and he was doing well. A random brawl had broken out in an open field, just in the shadow of a big castle. A little river bisected the battlefield. It's waters flowed slow, and reflected the sky back at itself. It was lovely, despite the bloody business transpiring all around it.
The river was keeping Joe from running down one last group of random men-at-arms. They fled to the relative safety of some ruins. Joe watched from his side of the river, smiling.
He knew they would wander back into the field. They always did.
He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and yelled, "HEY NERDS! YOU'RE BAD!"
Someone shouted back, "NO WE'RE NOT!"
"YES YOU ARE! BAD BAD BAD!"
Another voice, "F-FUCK YOU!"
In a few seconds they were charging back. Joe cantered back into the middle of the open field and waited for his prey. This was too easy.
He heard the thudding of hooves behind him. He twisted in the saddle, just in time to get hit in the face. He was flung from the saddle, spitting out teeth and trying to curse through the blood and his broken mouth. He'd been blindsided, too distracted by the infantryman.
It must have been another cavalryman.
He tried to get up, but a heavy boot planted itself firmly on his chest. Joe looked up into the face of the man who'd so cruelly dehorsed him.
He recognized that face.
Joe sputtered, and managed to say, "I-I though you were gone!"
Daruvian, back from the dead, leered down at Joe, batting his mace against his thigh. The bastard was loving this. "I came back, just for you... Gf." He said that last part like, "guh-fff".
Then he walked away, leaving Joe to sob on the ground while the men he was chasing earlier gathered around him and laughed. They pointed fingers. They spat. "NERFED HIM GOOD!"
"YOU SUCK!"
"LOOK WHO'S BAD NOW! BAD BAD BAD HAHA!"
Joe covered his face with his hands. "Oh god," he sobbed, "I'm so bad! I hate you Daruvian, you shitty, shitty cav!"
Then the soldiers kicked him until he died.
Dozens of warriors from every part of Calradia waited inside the city of Nova Ichamur. Men-at-arms, knights errant, wealthy lords, and a few homeless persons were scattered throughout the sprawling city's towers, streets, and rooftops. Most stood in the city's central square.
Joe stood amongst this last group. It was hot, and crowded. Occasionally someone shoved somebody else. Every few minutes somebody got punched in the face, or kicked.
Somebody next to him said, "Butts." This was met with murmurs of agreement and giggles. Aside from this, and the occasional homosexual aside, most of the warriors present were silent. All eyes were on the beautiful woman standing upon the city's keep, the tallest building in sight. Her flame-red hair was silhouetted against a clear blue sky.
Joe groped himself.
Kesh cleared her throat, then spoke in a man's voice. Joe could barely hear her from down below. "Somebody go get the RoR guys, it's time for roll call." She looked at a piece of parchment, then shouted, "Holiday?!"
Someone a few feet away shouted up, "Here!"
"Dino_Penis?!"
A voice echoed back from across the city, "Here!"
"I'm_gay?!"
Everybody laughed. The whole city, in unison. Joe laughed with them--it never got old, and there was nothing Kesh could do to stop it. Every time roll call came around, he was verbally raped by Gay.
A naked guy beside Joe shouted up at Kesh, "Present!"
Kesh wiped away a few tears. The humiliation was starting to get to her. She returned to the roll call, though, calling out name after name until everyone had been signed up.
Joe's name had not been called.
His heart was beating like a war drum. His hands shook. He looked around wildly, sure that there would have been an extra spot for him. There was always an extra spot for FCC members. There was no way that Joe couldn't have been allowed in, unless someone else had joined the FCC.
Somebody... better than him.
Then Joe saw him, standing in the crowded square.
He was a handsome man. He carried a longbow--which no one used anymore because they were universally broken. A mighty erection was visibly pressed against his leather armor. Yes, Joe recognized this man back from the dead: The sWalker.
The sWalker had taken Joe's place in the roster. He deserved it. The most Joe could have hoped to contribute in the upcoming battle was launching horses off of the castle's walls into the ranks of the enemy, because for some reason he was a cavalryman. A level seventeen cavalryman, at that.
The SWalker, however, was a deadly archer--high-level. His arrows always struck home.
Joe knew what he had to do, though he loathed to do it.
He followed a crowd of warriors up the steps to the castle walls. Behind them remained the chosen few, who moved to the keep to arm themselves.
The crowd was weeping. Men cried and tore their hair. Joe pooped himself, but he didn't cry.
Somebody punched somebody else. There was no retaliatory strike.
They reached the wall. Joe looked out at the distant enemy camp.
Without warning, the crowd of unworthy warriors began flinging themselves off of the castle walls. There was only room for so many soldiers within. The rest had to go. They fell like rain to their deaths below.
The man in front of Joe hesitated, his tear-filled eyes staring down at pile of bodies below. "But I'm level thirty... I'm level thirty," He muttered, over and over.
Joe shoved him off. Swallowing his pride, he jumped too.
Joe was jerking off when someone knocked.
He jumped, surprised that someone would interrupt his happy-time. He hurried to hide the lotion and tissues under his bed, then gestured frantically at the horse on the other side of the room. She needed to make herself decent.
She looked at him. "Joe," she said, "I'm a horse. What the fuck are you asking of me?"
"Fuck you, you callous whore!"
"Alright then, I'll be in the corner." She returned to her usual spot. Her eyes unfocused, distracted by something only horses could see.
Joe opened the door, peeking his head out, hiding his still naked body behind it. To his surprise, he saw Kesh. "Hi Joe," she said.
"Oh, Kesh, good to see you." He opened the door all the way, revealing his physical beauty. He and Kesh were comfortable enough for this sort of thing.
Kesh shielded her eyes, murmured, "I should have expected that."
"How can I help you?" Joe hadn't meant for that to sound so sexy.
"I need you to watch my little Bambino for me. I need to run to EU to get some more troops and gold."
"Ah, the child. I'll keep him safe, coach."
Joe walked past Kesh, heading towards his friend's quarters. He knew that that's where he'd find the child. He'd played babysitter before--all of FCC had, at some point. It was fun, watching the Bambino. MURDERTRON hated it. Which makes sense, because MURDERTRON's a robot and robots don't usually do well with children, in Joe's experience. Everyone else enjoyed it in their own way.
He arrived at Kesh's quarters in good time. The door was kept unlocked, because the wee baby inside was too fucking stupid to open it. Dumbass.
Joe stepped in. A breeze from an open window graced his loins, slick with sweat. Sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room was the wee baby Bambino. All 150 pounds of diaper wearing, mustache-twirling, Italiano man-child. He was playing with a hunk of pepperoni, but looked up when Joe entered.
He struggled to form a coherent thought. "D-dad?"
"No. Shut up." Joe walked past the boy and sat himself on the bed and stared at the "Bambino".
Kesh had brought him home after a hard-fought battle. The retarded man-child was the leader of a group of conniving Frenchmen that was warring with FCC. Kesh had captured him--formerly known as Arowaine, with great ease, as he had found him idly strolling through the carnage of battle munching on a slice of pizza. According to Kesh, all he had to do was grab Arowaine by the hand and he just sorta followed him.
They had wanted to kill Arowaine. But Joe had suggested that they put him in a diaper and keep him in Kesh's room. Kesh was down, as was everyone else. They all decided to take turns watching him, each with their own reason. MURDERTRON was hard to guess at, what with his inhumanity. WITCHCRAFT used his babysitting time to teach Bambino spells. The dread Terrortops liked to scare little Bambino with his odd deformity. Joe harassed him. Kesh's motives were most likely sexual.
In a throwback to tradition, they renamed him "Bambino".
The child cast a skittish glance at Joe--this after having avoided his silent staring for so long. It was hilarious. This was why watching "Bambino" was so fun--the big baby was just so easy to fuck with. Joe smiled. "Hey, how about I read you a story?"
Bambino stared.
"Once upon a time--"
"Pictures?"
"What?" Joe said.
"P-pictures?" The little man-child made a gesture with his hands, as if opening a book. Joe noted the hairy knuckles.
Joe got it. "Oh, you want pictures with your story? Like a picture-book?"
The Frenchman nodded, his mustache bobbing. He was happy.
Joe laid back on the bed and pissed across the room, his urine arcing onto Arowaine's face. The guy swallowed a whole mouthful before noticing. He tried to crawl away, but there was no escape--Joe's stream chased him down without mercy, like a charging horseman falling upon a routing soldier.
He ran out of urine, and sat back up.
"Where's dad?" the piss-coated man on the ground wined.
Joe opened his mouth to give a sassy reply, but a sudden bang echoed in the corridor outside. It sounded like somebody dropped something, like a servant's tray. The Bambino looked started. Joe had an idea. He said, "Uh oh!"
Bambino-waine's attention snapped to Joe.
"Sounds like Keshy-daddy fell down the stairs!"
"NO!"
"HE DIED!"
"MIO PAPPA! NO!" He screamed. He cried. He rolled around in Joe's piss. He sobbed.
Kesh walked in, just then. He looked from the bawling Frenchman to Joe. Clearly smelled piss.
Joe smiled, and left.
On his way out, he leaned down, very close to the man-child. He whispered, "Don't be so mad."
Joe sat at the bar of a tavern inside the Jelbegi Castle. The other patrons, mostly soldiers bearing the heraldry of the FCC, avoided sitting near him. He was drunk, and in a dark mood. The Free Companies had lost every single one of their villages to an unholy alliance of Italians and homosexuals. Soon, these cruel invaders would begin attacking castles and cities. Cavalry was useless in castles and cities.
He was useless--powerless to stop the onslaught.
He swallowed the rest of his of Miller High Life. He threw the can over his shoulder, then reached into the dark, cardboard cavern of the half-empty thirty-pack on the counter and pulled out another beer.
The bartender, a fine Destrier, approached with some caution, a confused look on his dumb horse face. "My lord," he offered, "we have beer on tap if you'd like. We have lots of beer--you don't need to keep bringing your own."
Joe dribbled a mouthful of beer onto the counter. "Shut up."
"I-"
"Jesus, you don't even have hands. What the fuck are you doing back there?"
"You had the last bartender replaced, sir. Said you were more comfortable speaking with horses."
"Right you are." Joe sipped his beer, then turned in his seat and threw the can across the room. It exploded against a distant wall. He pulled a fresh one out of the box in front of him.
"Sir," the horse persisted, "Do you want to try one of our seasonal brews?"
Joe looked at the horse, silent. He drank from his can. The horse opened it's mouth to speak but Joe, still drinking, raised a finger. He drank at a slow, steady pace, his eyes locked on the horse's, until the can was empty, which took about five minutes. "Bartender," he declared, "This is the Champagne of Beers. The best brew in the world."
The animal didn't seem convinced, but nodded. "Right. Well, I guess you couldn't find a brew like it elsewhere. You could drink from one side of town to the other--do the whole village--and not find a thing like it..."
Joe wasn't listening. A voice echoed in his head, over and over. The whole village, the whole village, the whole village. He'd heard those words before, years ago...
In Vietnam.
Joe had been a rifleman--just another pair of boots. His platoon had been tasked with defending a little cluster of villages. A foolish assignment. He set up inside a hooch and waited. They sat there for hours, then days, waiting for the enemy was sure to come.
Then, one moonless night, the world reverberated with the crack of rifles and the screams of the dying. From his little house, Joe watched slivers of tracer fire stich themselves through the fabric of the night. Bullets hissed and cracked at super-sonic speeds around him, tearing through the dry lumber of the building he was in. After a few minutes the thing was ablaze, and Joe had to move--all this without firing a shot. He could only watch and run, helplessly, from fighting position to fighting position as they all were overrun by VC.
He got to his PL, in the heart of the surviving hamlet. The RTO was shouting grid coordinates into his handset. The PL looked at Joe, and at the wounded and dying around them all. He said to Joe, "Just run. We're dropping arty on us. We're gonna do the whole village if it means keeping it out of Charlie's hands."
Joe had ran, then.
A burst of clapping and laughter roused Joe from his flashback. He looked around the crowded tavern, which had broken into sudden applause. He was confused, some part of him still running through the dark jungles of south east Asia.
Joe grabbed at a passerby. "What the fuck's going on, sergeant?"
"Uh." The man swallowed, his eyes clearly recognizing Joe. "HoC is back apparently." The man shrugged. "Messenger came in and said so." He shrugged again, uncertain.
"Don't shrug at me boy, I was in the 'Nam."
"W-what?"
Joe stood, then peed himself. "I said," his voice rising, "VIETNAM!" He shoved past the man, cans of the Champagne of Beers clenched in each fist. He could hear the sound of gunfire and the scream of falling helicopters. Somebody--probably VC--stepped into his path.
Joe barked, then bit the man's face. He went down, hard, giving Joe room to leap out of the tavern and into the cool night air. He removed the rest of his clothing--finally free--and leapt onto the back of a passing horse. "TAKE ME TO CAMBODIA! WE NEED TO GET OUT!" he shouted. The animal leapt to his bidding, galloping towards the open castle gate and the safety of any place but there.
Joe threw an empty beer can. It flew, from where he sat in the castle's wall, across the courtyard. Not quite to the opposite wall. "HEY FUGGOTS," Joe screamed across the castle to his friends who were drinking on the other side, "IM DRUNK!"
MURDERTRON and WITCHCRAFT were drunk as fuck on the walls opposite from where Joe sat. "WERE DRUNK TOO!"
Joe smiled. He'd been pregaming getting drunk outside, of course. He'd gotten drunk in his friend's apartment, drinking Milwaukee Special Reserve Light, idly posting stupid role play posts on the forums of a free mod for a shitty game while he did so. He'd finished half the thirty pack before he'd started posting.
Joe, still smiling, jumped off the castle wall and plummeted to the earthen courtyard below. He broke his legs.
Joe's longship darted through the sea towards a milk-white shore, still some distance away. The Un-Nerfable barely trembled beneath Joe's feet, so perfectly calm was the water. The sky was a perfect blue, and the sun not yet too high to cause discomfort to Joe or his men. He thanked whatever gods there were for their assistance.
One of the oarsmen shouted out, "My lord! Is it yet time to strip?"
"No!" Joe turned around in his saddle to stare mightily into the man's eyes. "It is not naked time."
The man was struck by Joe's piercing gaze. He dry heaved, but managed to get out a strangled, "Yes, sir!"
"And call me by my proper title!"
He was crying now. Little lines of wet were appearing below his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dad!"
Joe bared his teeth at the man, asserting his dominance one final time before turning back around to face the rapidly approaching shore.
He pet Champion Courser. The proud beast stirred beneath him. "You shouldn't be so mean, my love."
"Shut up oh my god I hate you."
She sighed. "You're nervous."
That damn animal knew him so well. "You're right, you're right. It's just--so much depends on my success." He paused, suddenly mirthful, a pun on his mind, what with him being on horseback at the moment. "You could say that there's just too much riding on it...riding on me...too many we're riding on it much to the can't..." He'd lost the joke. His mind was drowning. He felt himself slipping away into some dark place. "...Much riding the joke can't joke.... No sergeant, can't do that...babies in the village..."
He hated this. Here he was, going back to Vietnam. "NOOOOOO! BABIES IN THE VILLAGE SERGEANT! NOT THE WHILLIE PEETE, WHAT WE YOU DOING!"
Something hit Joe's face. He blinked, his head suddenly clear. One of the men stood beside him, his face calm, an oar held high. "Should I hit you again, Dad?"
"That's quite alright." Joe dismissed the man with a little wave of his hand, then returned his attention to his horse-lover. "So much depends on our success. We need to find him, dammit."
"I know, love. Freedom is at steak." She corrected herself, "Stake."
It damn well was. He knew he was doing something treasonous--betraying Kesh and the current King of Acre. He had had to fund this whole venture himself, using his own ship and men. His own horses and food.
It had to be done. He'd known that from the start--from the moment he'd heard the whisper of a dying king. King Reinhardt, of Acre, one of FCC's many pitiful vassals, subject to an increasingly egomaniacal Kesh's unquestioned authority--Reinhardt had died. Joe saw it himself, one dark night. He'd been visint New Slezk castle, in the snowy north, on a routine inspection of Acre's cavalry forces. He despised the task--Acre shouldn't even be a vassal. Yet there he was, speaking with an officer in the stables when a messenger appeared, whisking the man away with a flurry of whispered lords. Joe followed, of course, his suspicions aroused. Remembering something he had learned from Gmnotutoo, mightiest of ninja warriors, Joe stripped himself down so as to be less encumbered. Naked, Joe had slipped past guards and servants alike, slithering snake-like on his belly through the castle. The spirit of the snake now fully in possession of him, Joe managed to slither up a tower wall and an open window, soundlessly infiltrating a secret meeting of the leaders of Acre.
None of the gathered knights and lords saw him. He wriggled naked across the floor, his balls flopping softly, under the dying King's bed. And then he heard it, amid a stream of incoherent babble. The name of an heir.
Joe slithered the fuck out of there. There was hope, now. He fled Slezk Castle in all hast, heading towards the nearest port, sending carrier pigeons in every direction at the first opportunity.
Joe was going to find Reinhardt's heir.
He was going to do it for Acre. The rightful king would not stand for this silly vassalage.
He was doing this for Kesh.
Kesh had grown too powerful. He had too many vassals and castles and soldiers. It was beginning to wear away at the man/woman's psyche, twisting Joe's friend into something terrible. Something dark, powerful, and terribly familiar to those with good memories.... Long ago, another man had been twisted by power, turning into a dark fiend of tyranny: Echo, of ATS. Joe shuddered at the thought of the name.
He would not let Kesh's brilliant mane of red hair be corrupted into a terrible neckbeard. The rightful king of Acre must return, fight for a free Acre, and strike a blow against FCC--to save it and it's leader from self-annihilation. Somewhere out here in the tropics was a man--or boy--by the name of Ronald McDonald, and Joe was going to find him.
"One way, or another," Joe whispered under his breath as his ship rammed against the shore, grinding to a slow halt in the sand, "I'm gonna find you. I'm gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha."
Joe observed a scene of beauty, leaning out of the window of his room in the castle keep. The walls and towers of Nova Jelbegi castle were dusted with snow, and still more fell from a sky made silver by moonlight. Despite the hour, men and women roamed the streets below, buying and selling, their voices sending a steady murmur up to Joe from below. The sound reminded him of the ocean.
Joe put his head between his legs and sucked his own dick. The length of his cock made this maneuver easy.
After a few minutes of sucking his dick to no avail, he decided that he needed to cum, come hell or high water.
His dick was going down.
He ran to his dresser, flung the top drawer open, and slammed his dick in it. He was surprised by how much this hurt. He started to cry.
Now weeping, he ran from his room with his pants around his ankles. He ran down the stone stairs, falling on his face at the bottom. He wiped away his tears and, blubbering uncontrollably, kicked off his pants and regained his feet. He ran past Kesh's room, and out of the castle keep onto the streets below. People stared, awe-struck.
Joe sniffled. "I-I-I-I-I n-n-n-n-need my dick sucked." He stammered at the crowded city streets. Not knowing what else to do, he began to chant: "Dicks, dicks, dicks, dicks..."
A woman with a child cradled in her arms took up the chant. "Dicks, dicks, dicks, dicks..."
Then, the blacksmith. "Dicks! Dicks!"
A passing horse cried out in ecstasy, "DICKS! DIIIIIIIICKKKSS!"
The whole city was soon chanting in unison. All of Jelbegi was chanting "Dicks", and Joe was happy. They were all in agreement, then. He stopped chanting, but the crowd continued. He gestured towards the woman with the child, and she heeded his call, walking towards him as if in a trance. She got on her knees and, tossing the baby aside, started sucking Joe's dick, still garbling the wet chant of "Dicks!"
It felt good.
Then the blacksmith, then the horse, then the whole city surged toward Joe's penis. Everybody wanted a piece of the penis pie, and Joe was ready to serve it up baby, serve it up. Hundreds of tongues caressed his cock.
A man approached, then. He was not chanting. He wore the heraldry of FCC, though Joe couldn't recognize his face. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Dicks!" Joe frowned. "Sorry. I'm roleplaying, is what I meant to say. Come, suck my dick with me." He put his head between his legs, and joined the sucking crowd.
Joe's frenzied typing was suddenly interrupted by the bursting open of the door to his dorm room. His roommate stumbled in, completely naked, a little drunk and sopping wet. He'd just showered. "Andrew," he slurred, "Andrew, I'm naked don't look." He fell, then got up again and stumbled to the window sill. "I didn't do my laundry, so I have to dry myself with paper towels." And he did just that, hissing like a cat while he did so.
Joe cracked open another can of Milwaukee Special Reserve Light. He drank, and his world spun a little. He lifted his head from his dick and stared out at the crowd of peasants and craftsmen, all of them chanting "Dicks, dicks!" He blinked, then removed his penis from the reach of their mouths. Confused, he backpedaled, falling off his bed and into a pile of empty beer cans on the floor.
He looked up, and saw a terrible creature. It was ugly, squat, and green. "THE GOBBLIN KING WISHES FOR THE PROUD CAVALIERES TO JOIN THE GOBBLIN HORDE!"
"Dad, please." Joe lurched to his feet and stumbled away from the ugly monster. He fell through the door to his room and rolled on the ground, into the hallway outside. The building was quiet at this hour.
The GOBBLIN KING chased Joe outside. "PLEASE RESPOND!"
"NOOOOOOOOO!" Joe screamed, then ran down the hallway and out of the building. He leapt upon the back of the nearest horse and kicked it into movement. It screamed and ran down the street, it's feet kicking against pavement.
After a while Joe pulled on the reigns and the horse stopped. He was in a dark forest somewhere, alone with the trees and chirping peepers and the moon. He looked around for a computer, wanting to type up another insulting roleplay, but all he saw were the silhouettes of trees and the shimmer of moonlight on pond, a few feet distant. He peed in it, shattering a perfect reflection of the moon with a healthy stream of urine.
Joe dreamt of wizards. He was running along a beach. The water was on fire and the sky was ink black. Sand flew out from under his feet and his chest heaved and his eyes were burned by sweat. There was laughter behind him. He was running in slow-motion away from something familiar but terrifying. He looked over his shoulder, still running, and saw robes and a wild tangle of red hair, all of it obscured by a dark mist. The thing shouted.
It hurled a bolt of lightning at him, and he stumbled and fell. The dark figure stood over him. It pulled back it's hood, revealing the face that Joe had been, inexplicably, expecting to see. Kesh frowned down at him, like a disappointed mother. "You goofed, son," she said. "You dun fucked up." She conjured a bow of fire and took aim at Joe's fast-beating heart...
Joe woke up shouting. "DICK MOTHER!" he cried, lurching to his feet. Sweat-drenched sheets fell away from his naked body and a draft blew in, chilling his balls. He was standing in a tent, all alone, his lover sleeping with the other horses. They'd argued before bed, and Joe had told her to bugger off, which she'd duly done. He groaned. He wanted her there now, to talk to about his bad dream, but he wasn't about to swallow his pride like that. He grabbed his trusty Masterwork Heavy Lance from beside his cot and, still naked, ducked out of his little tent into the night.
The dream bothered him because it was too similar to his situation. Too prophetic. He wandered through his company's little collection of tents along a beach, all bearing the heraldry of the Free Companies. The tents were assembled haphazardly beside their single, big-ass longship. One or two men wandered around, naked like Joe, because, upon landing, Joe had declared that night time was to be Naked Time.
He through soft sand until he felt the cold water lap at his feet. He stared out at the ocean, leaning on his Heavy Lance. The sea wasn't on fire like in his dream--it was just blackness broken up by random tumblings of white foam.
There was a click and snap beside him, and a sudden feeling of presence. Joe jumped, and looked over to see a comrade standing beside him, rather than Kesh-Wizard. WITCHCRAFT, or in some circles simply referred to as A Hot Elf Princess, was standing there wearing swimming trunks and a dark robe. She clutched a broom that Joe could not help but think of as being dick-shaped. WITCHCRAFT smiled at Joe, trying very hard to ignore his nakedness. She said, "I sensed you had a dream."
"Yeah. Kesh was fucking my shit up." Joe spat into the water. "Fucking OP ranged nerds, man."
WITCHCRAFT looked at Joe with a little bit of pity in her eyes. "There's more to it than archer gaity, Joe. You know that."
Cursed wizards, always so clever. "If that was a prophecy, and not a dream, my search is doomed." He twisted his incredibly long chest-hair with his free hand nervously. "I'll never find Reinhardt's lost heir, and Acre will never break free of us. Kesh's domination will continue, and he'll grow too strong. I'll lose him, WITCHCRAFT..." The sadness of the thought overwhelmed Joe, and he started yelling.
"Ok," Witchcraft said looking around self-consciously. "Ok, you can stop screaming Joe. I, uh, don't think all is lost."
Joe wiped away a tear. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I don't know what you saw in your dream, but just remember how vague that shit is. I had a dream that I fell down some stairs once."
Joe wondered where she was going with this. He sniffled. "D-did you fall down any stairs?"
"Yeah it fucking sucked," she said, and was quiet.
"Oh, alright. I guess that makes me feel better." Joe was indeed somehow comforted by WITCHCRAFT's wise words. Maybe he would find Reinhardt's mysterious bastard child, Ronald Mcdonald, after all. Maybe there was hope. He felt his penis harden.
WITCHCRAFT glanced down and laughed. "Well then," she said. "That's my cue to leave." She snapped out of existence, leaving Joe to look out at the dark ocean with a new-found boner and sense of purpose. Tomorrow, he decided, they would pack up camp and make for the interior of whatever island they were on. They needed to start asking questions and gathering intelligence. These were strange lands, and he had a feeling that Ronald wouldn't be easy to find, after all these years of exile.
Joe rode into the sunny, sea-side town at the head of a company of completely naked men. The bare-backed horsemen rode slowly, with confused and embarrassed looks on their faces. They had initially resisted Joe's order to strip (it was Naked Time), so he'd had to reassert his dominance over them by naked oil-wrestling their strongest men. Neither of the men that he'd wrestled had actually resisted, or even been told that the combat was going to happen, but fuck it #yolo.
The soldiers cantered into the collection of bungalows and huts and fanned out. They had forged several miles inland from their initial encampment at the beach, and the men were tired from marching. But, they were also eager. They had come to this collection of obscure tropical islands looking for Reinhardt's lost heir, Ronald McDonald. They would not leave until they found their man. Joe wouldn't let them.
Two of the soldiers dragged an old, struggling woman to Joe. She had thick, sun-tanned skin and grey, wispy hair. Her scared eyes darted from naked soldier to naked soldier, confused. Joe's men threw her at the feet of his horse. He stared imperiously down at the quivering woman, his hand gripping a Masterwork Heavy Lance with white-knuckles. He hissed down at her, like an angry cat.
She frowned.
"Where is the Wandering Scotsman?" he asked.
"I dunno."
Joe didn't have time for this wench. His mission as one of life and death--all for Kesh's love. He started shrieking, his tongue sticking straight out of his rounded mouth. "SPREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
The woman recoiled. "OH GOD!"
Joe's beloved Champion Courser started barking at her. The rest of the men, catching on, starting yelling at her in a mighty cacophony of verbal abuse.
Joe let out another hyena's shriek and leapt off his horse at the old lady, tackling her to the ground. He yelled in her face, "WHERE'S RONALD MCDONALD?!"
She sobbed incoherently, apparently overwhelmed by Joe's interrogation techniques. He dismounted the trembling woman and remounted his beloved Champion Courser. He gestured for everyone to stop yelling. He stared at the woman, eyeing her up like a bowler hat would eye up a fresh piece of kiwi. She had to die. He raised his Masterwork Heavy Lance high, ready to spear her dumb, kiwi body...
Then he stabbed her and she died.
Suddenly, there was a great commotion behind Joe. He turned in the saddle to see a band of swarthy men in tri-cornered hats, brandishing pistols (they don't work, there's no gunpowder yet) and curvy swords approaching his band of naked men. A booming voice shouted out from the midst of the band of funny men. "Joe! Joe! Where be yee?" A great, bearded man--the most glorious piece of man-pirate that Joe had ever seen--pushed to the front of the group of interlopers. He walked on a little peg-leg.
It was Matey. Matey frowned at Joe, up on his horse. "Joe, by the high seas what're yee doin? Ain't ya heard about the Confederacy?" He stared at Joe.
Joe scratched his balls.
"Fucks, man! They be invading us! WITCHCRAFT sent me to haul yer arse back home to fight t' good fight. He, err, said that 'Ronald can wait', whatever that means."
Joe surveyed his men, naked and looking expectantly at him. He looked at the dead old kiwi. He looked down at his horse, who looked back at him and nodded. He looked back at Matey, who had pulled a French fry out of his beard and was eating it. WITCHCRAFT was right, Ronald could wait. He was just a means to an end, and this Confederacy business would stall Kesh's rise to dominance long enough to spare Joe from his quest for a while. "Matey," Joe said, "Floop da whop whoop diddily doo."
Matey nodded and they went back to FCC land to beat up the shitty Confederacy of bad factions right in their nerdy dumb dumb, moonshine brewing, bible sniffing faces.
"Fucking fuckers!" Joe growled, his face just inches from his computer screen. He was staring with wide eyes, and heady mixture of sweat and adrenaline was pooling between his naked thighs on the hard, metal stool he was sitting on. The froth smelled like what he imagined sex smelled like. His hands shook, and he was crowning. All this, and more, was happening because Joe was really getting in-character.
He did this every time he posted in the diplomacy forums. There was this one rule, you see.
His fingers, made sticky by lube and maple syrup, slapped audibly against the keyboard. He was in a roleplaying frenzy. "Fucking knaves," he typed and wheezed aloud, "assholes. Learn how to be like real knights and pay for mercenaries. Real knights. Real knights! REAL KNIGHTS! REAL KNIGHTS!"
Joe broke.
His voice cracked and he fell from his stool into a fetal ball. The stool tipped over, spilling sweat all over his weeping, shaking, naked body. "R-real kn-kn-knights," he whispered. "We're all real--"
The basement door exploded off its hinges and flew across the room in a shower of splinters and plaster. The door-knob bounced over the hardwood floor, away from Joe, who watched it with great interest, still muttering about knights. He knew what was coming. A deep voice boomed, "SON?! I"M BACK FROM WAL-MART! THEY WERE OUT OF DICKS, HAHA!"
Dad was home. Joe curled up tighter and ceased his whisperings, hoping that dad might miss him.
"GET IT, BOY? DICKS!" There was a long pause, followed by an authoritative, "PLEASE RESPOND!"
Joe was silent.
"EHL OH EHL, WHATEVER THEN." A single can of beans rolled out of the doorway into the middle of the basement. "I GOT YOU BEANS," was all that Joe's father said before he climbed the stairs, his footfalls like cannon-fire. Joe remained on the floor, staring at the beans.
March, 1968. Khe Sanh.
Joe sat on his haunches inside a crowded bunker and waited patiently for the bombardment to pass. He surveyed the wide, tired eyes of the soldiers around him, and marveled at their fear. One man was curled in the corner, shaking and mumbling. Another smoked his cigarettes too quickly. The highest ranked of them, a sergeant of some sort, had happened to duck in with them and waited impatiently by the bunker's dirt and sandbag constructed mouth.
He pitied these people. They were scared. Noobs and peasants, all of them. They were mortal, too, which perhaps explained the fear. Joe had gone many, many years without feeling that fear. He'd wandered the earth a hundred times over, never fearing death, reveling in his immortality. It had started with a flash of lightning--a fall from Olympus's heights, banishment--and it had ended here, in the 'Nam.
The last missile fell, and the men tumbled out, their funny, ranged weapons in hand. Joe could hear whistles screaming along one side of Khe Sanh's perimeter, and knew that Charlie was about to make another push. The American soldiers around him ran towards the raucous. It was time for XP.
Joe mounted his Champion Courser, left just outside the bunker. He put on his Thrice-loomed Bascinet. "Mars is with us, today. We shall level up a hundred times over."
Champion Courser looked around, confused. "Where the fuck are we? Where are the cops?"
"We're in the 'Nam, baby," he said. They had spawned just south of the base, for after dying in a race-riot in Chicago, fighting for equality against a police shield-wall. Shitty 1hers.
Joe drew his sword and surveyed the battlefield. Several hundred meters of trenches snaked and criss-crossed towards the barbed wire perimeter. Beyond that was a field--perfect for cavalry--and beyond that the dense jungle.
He would avoid the jungle. That's where the 2hers camped.
His horse surged beneath him, and the two of them charged through the trenches, past very confused G.I.'s, towards the din of battle. Ranged nerds had already begun exchanging volleys of fire--it seemed that every peasant and his mother fought with ranged weapons nowadays. He ignored the crack and snap of arrows and bolts. Courser took him past the barbed wire and into the field. They galloped forward, eager for kills.
The enemy army surged out of the forest, into the open. They didn't even have any polearms; it would be slaughter. And so it was. Joe and Courser flew at the nearest VC and cut him down before bumping another fifty Charlie on their way through the formation. They circled around again, and did the same thing. Soon hundreds were dead and Joe's k/d pleasantly padded.
Afterwards, back at the flags, Joe said to Courser, "I could get used to this. Certainly easier than Titans, or those assholes with the flip-fops.
She looked at him. "Those were Roman--"
A catapult missile--something that landed with a mighty boom--struck Courser and blew her to pieces. "Son of a bitch," Joe said. "Shitty catapult fuckers can't even fight fair wow." He tried to get into a bunker, but he, too, was struck by a catapult. It didn't even hurt, lol.
He waited patiently to respawn, surveying the battlefield from above. The timer ticked down.
It got to "1". His screen went briefly black--something new, that was. He opened his eyes. Instead of Vietnam, he was looking at an army of knights, like himself. They were marching past him, just feet away, along a dirt road. He looked around. They were all in a forest. Beside him stood an equally confused Champion Courser. This world looked different--less detailed, more blurry, generally ugly.
A woman in the robes of a sorceress, clutching a broom in one hand, stepped out of formation and approached Joe with a happy expression on her face. Joe spoke first. "Where am I, witch? What sorcery is this?"
She smiled. "Welcome to Calradia, nerd. My name's WITCHCRAFT." She waved over at a mounted woman behind her. "Kesh! I trapped us another one!" She turned back to Joe. "You live here now. I trapped you with magic. Welcome to the gayest place in the universe."
The woman did not lie. Joe felt it, in his loins. He was suddenly craving dick. This was a strange place, indeed.
