Oriphiel

I saw Urban in a dream last night. I fell asleep pondering where next I ought travel, my worries obscured by the haze of rest, whence came him through such glittering shards of which memory and imagining join and crystallize.

"Leave me out of your dreams, you ****ing dork," he said. "I don't give a **** what you do, or where you go. Figure that **** out on your own."

As I woke, I did ruminate on those seeds of wisdom he had so haply sown, tending to them with the warm succor of patient consideration, till at last an idea did sprout, taking deep root in my mind.

I would get another really big sword. And this one would be even bigger.

I broke camp, extinguishing what faint smolders remained of the fire with a healthy morning piss, and set off down the road with a limp. That peasant gal back in the village I saved? Yeah, she had hand herpes. **** itched like a bitch. Yet until upon the path of a healer I might cross, I'd just have to suck it up and deal with it.

Not long on the path, I stood atop the crest of a hillock and did mark smoke on yonder plains ahead, churning through the sky so blue as liquor churns through a maiden true.

Twas a town I spied, within which I'd soon arrived. The past few days, I had hunted many a bandit, filling my knapsack to bursting with what coinage I had liberated from their coffers. And now, I dumped all that **** on the floor of the smithy's shop.

"Fashion me a sword," I said, "of such length and girth that I might cleave the very world upon which I tread, should it offend me."

The smith, an eldery gentleman of a portly sort, laughed as he cleaned his hands with a rag. "I'm a goldsmith, son. Says so right on the sign. Weapons aren't really my-"

I punched some **** off of a table. "Sword."

He seemed as if he didn't quite understand the situation. "Son, you need to calm down. Now, there's a blacksmith just a stretch down the road, not five minutes from here on foot. If you just-"

I ripped off my loincloth. "SWORD. NOW."

I saw many things flash across his face. Fear. Revulsion. Maybe some jealously. But I also saw understanding, and that was good.

"I'll get right on it," he stammered, hurrying to his forge.

And that's how I ended up with a seven hundred pound sword made of gold.

And it was glorious.

Until I swung it into an armored orc, and it got all bent and ****. You know, for a metal with such a heavy rep, gold is actually kind of a bitch.

I consulted the Mods on what I ought do next. Vanilla answered my call, and told me to join her cult for a woke 'n smoke. But a cult is no place for a true warrior, and so I sadly had to decline.

Before hitting up a nearby inn and buying a room and a wench for the night, I sought out the services of a local healer. I traded my warped weapon for a remedy, and so was rid of my penile ailment. In a manner of speaking, anyway; it made my dick fall off. But it was fine. I rolled with it. Hardly the first time a cheapo quicky potion had bent my gender.

__________________
----------------------
|---Mic's Albums---|
----------------------
-----------------------------
|---Deafbox Industries---|
-----------------------------