Dear Die-ary, entry the first of an Elevationist's elevation to Elevation

[Wulvarik 162]

I had arrived here with nothing but the clothes on my back and a small purse of silver, the origins of which are better left undiscussed but still caused a slight burning sensation during urination.  There would be no more silver incoming via that method, but it would have to be enough to begin my new empire.  My lackey, N, would be arriving shortly as well but it was up to me to pave the way.   (Diarist's note:  Names shall henceforth be abbreviated for the dual purposes of making future prosecution more difficult and keeping me from having to learn more than that of people's names)

 

I was told that this was a land where men could be men, women could also be men, and tiny dolls fashioned of woven grass into the shape of men could most definitely be men with manly kung fu fist slapping action if you push the little levers in their back.

 

Elevation.  The land of dreams.

 

I struck up a conversation with a pleasant enough chap, hereafter named A, who offered to show me around while I looked for land to claim.  He looked restricted with his heavy metal armor and weapons and I could see his horse struggling under the weight, so I agreed in order to offer this fellow my protection while I got my bearings.  So we set out into the wilderness.  I won't regale you with the stories of how I saved him from all manner of spiders and scorpions and uncomfortable chafings.  Those tales are guaranteed to send manly shivers of manliness down any manly spine, but they were all for naught.

 

Instead, I shall tell you of my failure.

 

As we wandered through the woods, my attention waned.  Instead of focusing on my ward, I began to imagine where I might build a home and place shrubberies at different heights for a two-level effect with a little path running down the middle.

 

The scream caught me off guard.  A was nowhere in sight, but I knew that scream.  It was a scream I had caused a thousand times, most recently during a game of Scrabble where somebody had played quixotry on a triple word score.  I knew deep in my heart of hearts that A had shuffled beyond this mortal coil.  Which irked me, because shuffling is really annoying.  I mean come on, lift your damn feet.

 

The bandit, H, had been victorious over my ward.

 

He broke through the trees behind me with the scent of fresh blood still lingering upon him.  He was obviously used to dealing with easy meat packaged in metal armor riding around on horseback, as he stopped short when he gazed upon the unexpected vision of manliness before him.

 

We made eye contact and he stood there.  I could see him going over every poor decision he'd made in his life that had brought him to this moment, face to face with imminent death.  His horse paced nervously, obviously sensing that this was more than its master had bargained for.

 

"I...  I...  shall let you live...  this time..." he managed to get out, as he turned around and heeled his horse into motion, breaking through the trees and riding for the horizon as if a thousand legions of hell were on his heels.

 

*author's note:  Some details of the above retelling may differ slightly from H's account, but I was too distraught at having failed A to document the encounter exactly.

 

In accordance with the Man Code of old, created by Sir Manly von Broington the Third in the Year of the Man 276, I spent the mandated 5 seconds of mourning with my head lifted to the sky, screaming to Valhalla to let them know that a warrior was coming.  I then realized that I'd confused that particular passage of the Man Code with a different bit of writing, stopping screaming, and continued on my way, down one guide.

 

I traveled through that wilderness for an unknowable amount of time.  I mean, somebody could theoretically know it, but I don't, and nobody else cares, so I'm pretty confident that it's unknowable at this point.  After a near-death experience with a really spiky thorn brush (seriously, those things hurt), I came to the ocean.

 

As the sun shone across the water and through the trees, I knew.

 

This was where I would set up camp.  This is where I would gather my followers.  This is where I would leave my mark upon this land.

 

This was home.

 

I quickly took some of my silver, wrapped it in a note saying "Wulvarik claims this land", and heaved it in a generally king-ward direction with all my might.  I heard a distant *thunk* "Ow!" and knew that it had arrived.

 

The land was mine.

Edited October 25, 2017 by Wulvarik

[Olloch 1,318]

@MclavinLets kidnap and recruit this guy into our bandit squad

Press gang style

Edited October 26, 2017 by Olloch

[RipPeralT 99]

6 hours ago, Olloch said:

@MclavinLets kidnap and recruit this guy into our bandit squad

Press gang style

new herald you reckon?

[Wulvarik 162]

Ah, fellow Elevationists?

 

Or just appreciate some tale from a cunning linguist?

[Rhianna 892]

The above are Roman bandits based on Elevation Wulvarik - although they have been known to roam the open seas and descend on poor hapless home server boiz and gals to rob them of their hard earned coins with no remorse or feeling. They aren't to be trifled with imho  Arrrrr me hearties and a bottle of rum (   oh wait that's pirates hmmm messed up the theme:/  )

[Wulvarik 162]

Bloody Romans!

 

Always getting up in people's grills with their aqueducts!  And irrigation!

 

I mean sure, they can throw one hell of a party, but I hear they skimp on their Urions and only get the ones that cost a cent.

 

Romanes eunt domus

Edited October 27, 2017 by Wulvarik

[Wulvarik 162]

Though, after giving it some thought, I must admit that the bandit's life does sound like an exciting one.

 

Sure, the sunburn would be hellacious on the skin from standing that long with one leg up on the crow's nest railing while your shirt is unbuttoned and billowing in the wind as an eagle soars alongside you, but that's nothing that some salve, applied liberally by a buxom barmaid, can't soothe.

 

I guess my salve-related expenses would increase significantly.

 

Perhaps if we ever meet on the field of battle I shall stay my hand from delivering the killing blow, so that we may discuss the life of the rogue over a cup of hot cocoa with tiny yet manly marshmallows floating atop it.