“What the hell was that out there?” yells Coach von Bloöd.
“Sorry, Coach,” says Thung, as the team medic wraps bandages around the axe in his skull.
“I want to see hustle! I want to see some execution!”
“But we ran that play just like you–”
“No! Literally execution!” says von Bloöd. “Can’t any of you decapitate their paladin?”
“Us not been playing dungeonball very long!” whines Ragachak. “Ragachak forget most of rules.”
“There are no rules!” roars the Coach, swelling with dark rage. “Just go kill the stupid adventurers!”
“Yeah, right,” mutters Bazuzel, “after we all got nerfed in 3.5.”
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Pennies don’t go bad from mere
Exposure to the air;
They need immersion–turbid, warm–
And gentle, cruel care.
Don’t let their tarnish verdigrize.
Don’t keep it bright or clean,
But mold it, topiarylike,
Into a thing of green
And verdant, fertile, grasping hands
Impossible to sate.
Then turn them loose in pocket change
And watch them propagate:
Each zinced-out copper currencette
Will sow discord and strife
And reap a feast of misery
From someone’s ruined life.
Don’t act surprised to see it work,
You who set loose the flood.
There’s a reason, after all,
That pennies taste of blood.
Crucible and the other dungeonbots burst into a room, surprising eight kobolds. They attack first, their hammers and flamethrowers damaging four of the kobolds. Then the kobolds attack and damage them. Then the dungeonbots kill two kobolds. Then the remaining kobolds attack. Then the dungeonbots kill four kobolds. Then the last two kobolds attack but don’t do very much. The dungeonbots kill them.
“Healing?” says the clericbot, holding up a steel plate and some rivets.
“I’m fine,” says the thiefbot, picking through kobold brains for pennies.
“Ah,” says Crucible, as tiny rubber blades wipe the blood from his optical sensors. “Adventure!”
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Wooden bridges, it transpires, have a pretty short lifespan when you try to march the world’s largest army across them in a storm. A thousand Persian soldiers all try to invent armored swimming. They fail.
“Christ,” says Xerxes. “Surely my invasion of Greece can suffer no more humiliating setback!”
“A floating bridge–” begins Harpalus.
“Fine, whatever!” says Xerxes. “I’m going to whip this stupid strait with a hot iron while my generals call it names!”
Then they do that. I’m serious, look it up.
The Hellespont is largely unaffected by the whipping, but some of the name-calling cuts pretty deep.
Lichcraft is fraught under optimal conditions, which is to say without thralls like Scarjob and Gretch.
“I told you to watch the alembic so it didn’t boil over!” wails Karaaz the Flagrant, rushing to beat out a small but spirited fire in her phylactery lab. Scarjob and Gretch cringe.
“We did!” says Scarjob, who didn’t (they were playing a game with Gretch’s eyeball).
“What’s an alembic?” says Gretch hesitantly.
“TWO RETORTS CONNECTED BY A PIPETTE JESUS HOW MANY TIMES,” shouts Karaaz the Flagrant.
Then she’s late to the Future Liches of Morcroft meeting and everybody snickers at her under their cloaks.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010