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Thus we rode, towards the heart of the Valley of Death, 120 ticks of the air's flames, and Much Spectacle's carriage expires. I arrive beside him, and ask him thusly:
>In this burning open field, good giant, how shall thee fare?
He peered daggers into mine eyes and spoke boldly in retort.
>I shall wait 'til you retire for the evening, thrust a blade into thine rearside, carve your flesh away, make cloth of it, and devour thine flesh until proper nourshment is secured.
And so I said:
>A fine monologue my friend, but I never tire.
And I simply ventured onward, waiting on the desert's edge after. Two moon falls later, he arrives with a cravat made of serpent, boots of lisarde, carrying his iron horse with him.
The message of mine story is thus: what was whence known as Somer Smash shall be named now as Armageddon, and whichever fools reveal themselves... shall be smote.
