ranzware
Turning and turning in the widening gyre.
The follower cannot hear the other follower.
Because the party leader cannot hold themselves from yelling at the top of their lungs, through Mountain Dew and Dorito-encrusted lips: “That’s what your f**king mum said last night, get new shrekt!”
The Xaurips’ guttural roars of pain grow louder as the Aedyran envoy, spewing the kind of hatred last seen in an Xbox game only at the peak of Live’s powers, spins and blasts away, never stopping to aim. By the end, their knees are weak, their arms are heavy, and their scale armour would surely be covered in the Living Lands equivalent of mom’s spaghetti had they not gained relative immunity to dizziness.
They can’t stop, though. They’re addicted to the shindig. There’s loot to grab, victory dances to jive, and – most importantly – corpses to teabag.
Back at camp, they apply yet another upgrade to their trusty arquebus and dream of a day when they might be able to coat its barrel, stock, and trigger with the tackiest custom skin you’ve ever seen. They ponder the rollercoaster ride that delivered them here, to a playstyle deliberately designed for maximum bellendiness, to companions which almost definitely hate them, to bowing before the obscene gods of all that’s M, L, and G.
They remember how it began with the purchase of an exceptional arquebus from the weapon merchant in Fior Mes Ivèrno. They remember thinking to themselves, as they stroked it, how much it resembled a Barrett 50 Cal. The perfect blunderbussy sniper rifle for them to fill the bussies of baddies with lead in the most dickheadish fashion possible. To stunt on these hoes who kept pointing and laughing at the fact their face was 90% obscured by a big slab of magic wood.
I’ll give you wood, they muttered under their breath, even though I am a small woman with purple hair who exists because playing as generic buff dudes is a bit lame. As with anything, the early days in Avowed were tough, and there was much to learn. They quickly discovered the extra importance that turning your back on your enemy every thirty seconds puts on maintaining good distance from strong melee attackers. They observed that the arquebus’ lengthy reload animation often lasted a split second than a single one of their spins, so adjusted the speed when possible, avoiding the need for a costly second blunt rotation.
They died a lot. They relied on their companions to save their insufferable bottom a lot. They felt the disapproval of the god who kept interrupting their naps to natter about philosophy burning inside their skull. They didn’t care about that. It was the godawful K/D ratio that brought them shame. The taking of Ls by a loser who couldn’t lay blame on any Living Lands lag. It didn’t matter though. Their hope would never die, even if they weren’t yet the sharpest tool in the shed.
Drawing on the power of the Faze Clan, they didn’t give up, and slowly but surely, they improved. In drawn-out fights that often ran for over ten minutes at a time regardless of the foe, the hitmarkers began to pop up more regularly as their timing got better, interspersed with the occasional red skull marker as the headshots started to connect in the insta-kill-o-meter sputtered into life, kicking out steam that smelt of unwashed teenagers’ bedrooms. They were a shooting star, and they were breaking the mould.
Eventually, they were ready. 360 no-scope bounty hunting was the game, and there was only one logical choice for the first target. This was an Obsidian RPG after all. They chose to go full New Vegas – to take drugs and kill a bear. Old Nuna was its name, and, having packed enough air horns to deafen an entire village, they set off for its lair – an ancient grotto. As they marched, they blasted a trap-infused mashup of Eminem’s greatest hits and every classic Minecraft song parody.
The moment, they owned it, they’d never let it go (oh). They’d only get one shot, and would not miss their chance to blow.
Entering the cave, they brushed the sporeling blood off of their facial wood, downed every single item of food and beverage in their inventory, and started blasting in a fashion so reckless that Danny DeVito felt a disturbance in the force. Bang, twirl, bang, twirl, bang, twirl. The world’s deadliest ballet dancer, Darcey Bussell made of hot lead, Cheeto dust, and pure, unadulterated vengeance. Some of the shots still missed, but they hit the ones that counted.
Old Nuna, mostly by virtue of being the biggest target and therefore the hardest to miss, fell first. “Oh my f**king god! Mom, get the camera,” they screamed like a hellion, as fedora-topped faces all over their field of vision winked, said “wow”, then disappeared under a tidal wave of popping hitmarkers and Illuminati symbols. Then, they set about cleaning up the comparatively tough to zero-in-on sentient mushrooms. Once it was all done, they set about their joyous teabagging, perfectly to the tune of the Thomas the Tank Engine theme.
On their return to Fior, they felt the eyes of the animancers on them, mainly because they were setting off fifty air horns at once to create an utterly disgraceful remix of that one Rick Astley bop. They laid claim to the bounty, and asked if they could exchange it for a lifetime supply of loot boxes. No, said the bounty master.
They leaned in to said bounty master’s ear, mimed pressing record, and proceeded to gently scream: “Right, I’ll tell you what you fat little Valian. You’re boring, you don’t sound Aedyran at all, so go Fior yourself. Go and crawl in the dirty dank little hole where you Fioring come from, you dirty dragon-eating little Fioring spellcaster!” Then, they walked away, delighting in the expressions of horror from the assembled throngs. It didn’t matter. The die was cast. They’d only get stronger from here.
Some revelation was at hand. The first coming of the Avowed 360 no-scoper was at hand.
Some rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouched towards Thirdborn, its energy drink-saturated mind dripping with an unshakable truth.
Inquisitor Lödwyn had raidposted in the wrong neighborhood.
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Kurt Indovina
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