One hell of a king-christ hangover... jesus, was it a dream or just an overdose of paranoia over the Empire? Black riders, untouchable in their elysian meadows... there was a guy with me, handy with the sword, but he's gone now too... I was gone, couldn't finish telling you about that other adventure, but sometimes stories don't have endings... that monk in the turban, oh he's still around, hard hitter that he is, boxer in the old days is what he says... but I stole his clothes and his seashell, and his ether too... maybe I should have kept that, come to think of it...
Walking around in the Salamandian winter in your undergarments is no fun, any northerner will tell you that, but there was some reason, very important at the time mind you, that I wrap my fists around two shields and engage in ferociously underwhelming combat, like a football game where nobody can even see the 1st&10, let alone care about it... the big touchdown is a goblin running away out of boredom... but I'm getting old, more useless than ever, maybe this was somehow my attempt to strike back, get faster, faster than a handful of biker crank gets you, because they're building that hellhammer after all, and what's my airship compared to that... and would I even want it to? Think I left my smokes in there, but they can have 'em, tainted with Nixonian greed and general bad taste, they put mythril in those things now you know...
That's all for my report, at least for now. I'm riding with a guy name of Kawazu... he's got some strange ideas, and he's not the one walking sideways on account of the ether, or maybe he is... I caught him hitting himself in the face when he thought I wasn't looking...but I heard he had some success out East with a saga he started spinning, spinning...
Cid
Poft (under enemy occupation)
P.S. I probably won't write this exclusively as a grotesque of Hunter Thompson...
PPS. I might.
PPPS. But I probably won't.
Walking around in the Salamandian winter in your undergarments is no fun, any northerner will tell you that, but there was some reason, very important at the time mind you, that I wrap my fists around two shields and engage in ferociously underwhelming combat, like a football game where nobody can even see the 1st&10, let alone care about it... the big touchdown is a goblin running away out of boredom... but I'm getting old, more useless than ever, maybe this was somehow my attempt to strike back, get faster, faster than a handful of biker crank gets you, because they're building that hellhammer after all, and what's my airship compared to that... and would I even want it to? Think I left my smokes in there, but they can have 'em, tainted with Nixonian greed and general bad taste, they put mythril in those things now you know...
That's all for my report, at least for now. I'm riding with a guy name of Kawazu... he's got some strange ideas, and he's not the one walking sideways on account of the ether, or maybe he is... I caught him hitting himself in the face when he thought I wasn't looking...but I heard he had some success out East with a saga he started spinning, spinning...
Cid
Poft (under enemy occupation)
P.S. I probably won't write this exclusively as a grotesque of Hunter Thompson...
PPS. I might.
PPPS. But I probably won't.
Last edited: