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My liege, if you recall, the prophecy stated that you would fall by the hands of your first born son. Yes, I understand that twelve daughters is a very impressive feat, but mayhaps you should consider quitting while youâre ahead?
My liege, you mustnât be so reckless. If you recall, your prophecy stated âyou shall not die by any efforts of man or woman, nor of any material from this landâ, and it feels rather pertinent to your most recent decision. Please consider the situation with your father and your brother, and to a lesser extent your 32 younger sisters, and know your prophecy is not one to be neglected. Your father tempted fate and look where that got him. Yes my liege, I do know it was a heart attack that he passed from, but the royal guard directly saw your baby brother reach out towards your father with his hands as he passed. Yes, I know the prophecy would be better stated to say âbeside the handâ rather than âby the handâ, I didnât write the prophecy. No my liege, I mean no disrespect. Yes, I agree, this was a very inappropriate time to discuss your father, and we should go back to the issue at hand. Yes, I do recall that no man or woman may slay you, however, if you think about the prophecy with the context of your newly imported elephant,
My liege, this is hardly the appropriate attire for a hunting trip, especially one to the woods you were forbade from entering. Yes your majesty, I know you are ruler of this kingdom, but if you recall your prophecy- you mock me. I take your safety and fate with the upmost sincerity, and you respond with âmi mi mi mimiâ? Please recall your- yes I know what your prophecy states, âyour reign shall last until nature itself regains your throne and crownâ, I was about to recount it for you. Look my liege, I think this hunting trip is a terrible idea. You are far too clumsy and the forest floor is uneven with roots! If the stairs of the palace or your own feet are enough to cause you to trip, remaining upright may be difficult, and, to put it frankly, falling hitting your head on a rock would hardly a glorious engraving on your tombstone. Please donât wear the crown on this hunting trip, theyâll know youâre the new queen because of how similar you look to your sister. Itâs a prideful act that will only- oh the royal messenger is here. What news do you have? Oh this requires my immediate attention. I will return, my liege. Do not attend that hunting trip in your current attire, though you should consider not going at all.
Now, as a part of the induction protocols, all new employees are to be informed of a long-held family tradition. When each new ruler comes to power, they receive a letter a few days later from the old soothsayer. Yes, the one who lives in the woods, we paid for them to live there. Thought it would be a good way to avoid receiving more prophecies, as she wouldnât receive notice of the coronation until afterwards, but now they just get sent in the mail. We used to add in 15 minutes leeway to the schedule for when the soothsayer interrupted the event, it was a nightmare to try and predict when theyâd show up. If it were up to me, weâd stop the postal service going that far, but only the Queen can make that ruling. Iâm getting sidetracked. As I recall, the Queenâs prophecy states âyour heart will bleed when the man who could never love you distances himself, his aim not one intending to hurt you, yet he will be your demiseâ. In order to circumvent this, she is not allowed to take a hand in marriage, and any casual romances are monitored to ensure attraction is present from both parties. Furthermore, suitors are not informed of the Queenâs status as royalty, further preventing anyone attempting to woo her for wealth or political status. Sheâs also elected to take on many hobbies to fill her time, to focus less on any romantic endeavours. Itâs a good system, if a little difficult to source new hobbies on short notice. Oh, yes, please voice your concerns. Itâs always a good sign when new employees take the Queenâs prophecy seriously.
Well yes, this is why we hired you. Sheâs been interested in archery as a hobby recently, and we canât exactly send somewhere accessible to the general public. What if she falls for someone outside of our control? No, itâs much safer to hire you as her private archery instructor. And I presume sheâll learn quickly, not every archery instructor considers himself an âarrow aceâ.
My liege, Iâve been reviewing some of the royal funding and budgetary records, and a few things have come to my attention. Now, I understand that we have surplus funding in the royal vault as a result of your prophecy, which, if you recall, states that âyou will die by a blade not intended for battle, but one that will find itâs way to you in a moment of joyâ. I stand by it being a wise decision to keep you away from any activities such as woodworking or cooking, and that the money that would have gone into funding those activities was yours to allocate as you wished, but I suspect Iâve found some errors on the records. Firstly, we have two categories of payments going to the soothsayer; one for living expenses, and one, as I have just discovered, labeled âpropheciesâ. I suspect that- I beg your pardon my liege? We pay for the prophecies? Why on earth- Weâre paying them to not deliver us prophecies, thatâs why they live out on the far end of the woods. This doesnât- Tradition? I understand itâs a tradition my liege, but if we are paying for it to be inconvenient to deliver prophecies, and then paying for the prophecies themselves- Is that why your sister wished to go to the soothsayer in person rather than wait for a letter? She was aware of this? And the rest of your sisters too? My liege, surely you see that it undermines our efforts in preventing prophecies to pay for them. At the very least, one of the payments should be discontinued to improve our financial status. Youâre right my liege, this is a very complex discussion that requires more time to process, and I shall âshut up about the soothsayerâ as you so eloquently put it. We will be discussing this later. The other issue I came to inquire about was that within the records for the entertainment budget, each performance is listed by name. I once again would like to reiterate that the extra funding for entertainment, while not aligning with my recommendations, is reasonable given the circumstances of your prophecy. However, once again with considerations to your prophecy, âPablo the Knife-Jugglerâ,
My liege, Iâm beginning to understand why you have called me to the castle rooftop. As your most trusted advisor, overseeing your actions and assisting with difficult choices is why I have been employed under your family for so long. However, one key aspect of my services that has remained fairly neglected by your sisters, and your father, is that of your prophecy. Often advice regarding your prophecies leads directly to the passing of the crown, and I believe this to be a critical moment in your rule. You had a much simpler prophecy than most of your sisters, but the vagueness that comes with that should really indicate where to place your trust in me, and the rooftop seems to be that very place. If you recall, your prophecy stated that âPride shall be your downfallâ, which- No my liege, I believe that you can do a kick-flip,
My liege, I am incredibly concerned about the prophecy you have received. Usually it takes a week or two to come in the mail, but not a day had passed since your coronation before the wax seal of the soothsayer arrived at the palace doors. I have spent the past few hours contemplating what should be implemented considering its slightly paradoxical nature. As you recall, your prophecy states that âin a time of unmatched uncertainty, the one you entrust the most shall betray youâ. I have been the royal advisor for your family since your fatherâs rule, a well trusted and respected figure by many who came before you, and I shall do everything within my power to prevent a potential betrayal, regardless of how the prophecy speaks of me. As such, having worked for your father and under all of your sisters that ruled before you, I feel I have accumulated enough sick leave,
Thank you all for attending the all-staff meeting. We have several topics to discuss today, so weâll begin post-haste. Firstly, Iâd like to address the royal elephant in the room. We still have no idea where the royal elephant is, and may have to cut back on searching due to budget cuts, which leads us to our next point, the metaphorical elephant in the room. With our last Queenâs untimely death weâve made significant progress on finding what was the cause of her death. Based on the fact she died at her one-year ruling anniversary banquet, and her prophecy, which if you all recall stated that ârended flesh for naught but greed shall end in rended fleshâ, we believed that it likely something about the food killed her. We had checked for choking hazards and tested others for poison and had found no clues, so our thought process was that her body was unable to tolerate something resulting in her demise. This is where the budget cuts come into place.
We hired a mage.
Settle down. I understand this is a controversial decision, but the benefits have already begun to reveal themselves. While the mage is unable to detect ailments on a corpse, several of the princesses have all shared an ailment referred to as a âshellfish allergyâ. While it is unclear what allergy means, it sounds detrimental, and the mage clarified that it is deadly if not handled. As lobster was served at that banquet, that is likely the culprit, and as such shall be removed from the palaceâs future supply orders, preventing future queens from following her path. Staff members will be allowed access to the current stock until we run out, so I hope a nice lobster dinner will quell your fears.
Now, some of you have likely been worried about this decision in relation to the current Queenâs prophecy. We have made sure to screen this mage as thoroughly as possible, and have concluded that he is, in fact, a mage. Not a swindler nor soothsayer, not a wizard nor fae. We have determined his status as a mage. This is of great importance to us, as I would not like to be responsible for the passings of any more rulers. I will admit that taking a month off right at the start of a new reign was not my finest decision, but thatâs not relevant at the moment. What is relevant is the new queenâs prophecy, which should be easy to recall given how short the letter was. As you should recall, the prophecy stated âWizardâs curseâ, but as this is not a Wizard, we have no cause for concern. Now, as a mage is very costly, the budgetary restrictions over the next month will be implemented across the following areasâŚ
My liege, a letter has just arrived from the royal soothsayer. It is likely regarding your prophecy. I shall read it verbatim for you. *Ahem*. âYou shall die underfoot of an animal trained for war.â Ah. It appears this letter was intended for your dearly departed sister. Had this letter arrived three days earlier, her rule may have lasted more than a week. It would have been very helpful in preventing her horse-riding accident. My apologies my liege, I know you were looking forward to hearing your prophecy, and I am truely sorry to disappoint. I shall alert you when it arrives. Thank you for your attention, you may return to caring for the royal hounds.
I would like to thank you all for attending this all staff meeting on such short notice. We are here to discuss the events regarding the passing of the most recent Queen. It appears I have neglected that horses are not the only animal trained for war, that animal related incidents may occur to more than one queen, and that the soothsayer is, in fact, a soothsayer. In related news, we have located the royal elephant.
âaverage person eats 3 spiders a yearâ factoid actualy just statistical error. average person eats 0 spiders per year. Spiders Georg, who lives in cave & eats over 10,000 each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
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Mustrum Ridcully (the Brown, but never to his face), Archchacellor of Unseen University, is literature's best and most astoundingly successful wrong man for the job.
Some context is important. Before ascending to the highest level of leadership within the Disc's premiere magical establishment for learning, the position of the Archchancellor was filled by whomever had successfully assassinated the previous occupant. The quickest way to move up in the world, literally speaking, was to make sure someone else dropped by an average of six feet. Of course, this led to a lot of power-hungry madmen who were convinced they could control the Forces Man Was Not Meant To Know, many of whom died with remarkably similar facial expressions when they were inevitably proven wrong.
Then along comes Mustrum. Unlike many wizards, he is an outdoorsman. He is loud. He is physically strong. He is a mountain man in a pointy hat who believes in keeping rare species rare by hunting them (and everything else he meets along the way). He is a sportsman and, generally, considered to be exhausting by the rest of the faculty.
He is also, seemingly, impossible to dispose of by the usual methods. On top of everything else, Mustrum Ridcully is a very powerful wizard. By the age of 27, he was a Seventh Level Wizard (out of Eight), and that was quite some time ago. Still, in a building of magical Oppenheimers and Einsteins, he is Theodore Roosevelt; loud, boorish, and utterly unmovable.
He has a one-track mind, and on that track runs the Ridcully Freight Train. He can focus like the sun through a magnifying glass when he wants to. He is not Stupid, but he can be a bit Daft. He would fight to the front of the line to push the button labelled 'Do Not Press, Ends World' before the paint can dry. As such, he can occasionally end up in situations no self-respecting Dumbledore or Gandalf would, but no one with half a brain would mention such things aloud for fear of being brought along on his next hunting trip or fishing expedition.
He mostly concerns himself with University affairs, taking particular glee in any legal motions a given idiot might attempt to bring against it. They have a whole pond full of people who have tried to sue the University, you see. But he also understands that the wizards, in order to be left to their own devices, should leave the world to all of the other devices.
Rare are the times when Ridcully NEEDS to step in to save the day. In fact, he never actually DOES so in any of the books. Certainly, he helps out. Does a thing here or provides a bit of information there. Despite this, however, there is never any doubt that were it absolutely required, Ridcully COULD end basically any conflict in the books with a pocket full of fireballs (9 times out of 10, anyway). That he does not, and that no one ever asks him to, speaks to the wisdom of the man and the face he shows to the world.
All the previous Archchancellors would have demanded to shape history and show off their power, you see. And they did.
But compared to his peers and especially previous holders of his job, Mustrum Ridcully is an extreme outlier and total oddity, but he is also the only Archchancellor of the UU to hold to job for more than one book. Obviously, it was the other Archchancellors who were wrong.
And Mustrum Ridcully is certainly the wrong man for the job. Here's hoping he keeps it forever.
Rare are the times when Ridcully NEEDS to step in to save the day. In fact, he never actually DOES so in any of the books. Certainly, he helps out. Does a thing here or provides a bit of information there. Despite this, however, there is never any doubt that were it absolutely required, Ridcully COULD end basically any conflict in the books with a pocket full of fireballs (9 times out of 10, anyway).
I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.
...I might need to back up a bit.
My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.
They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.
Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.
My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.
Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.
It's a Great Van.
Very easy and comfortable to drive.
Stunningly good MPG for it's size.
The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.
It's just also.
Quirky.
Mischievous, even.
---
If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.
It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.
My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.
On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.
Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.
---
As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.
The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along.
Sometimes, they fight for Dominance.
The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.
Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.
I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song-
The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors
-is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.
You all know this song already.
...but in case you've forgotten the tune:
Yeah.
The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.
It does not play this song at a normal volume.
Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.
Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.
...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.
---
So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.
It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening.
I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window.
My feet are up.
There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv.
-But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage,
including,
among other valuable possessions,
the keys to her car.
...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.
There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.
Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.
Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.
I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.
The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.
It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.
I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic.
It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.
While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.
Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.
I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.
I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.
Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.
It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.
I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.
The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.
We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.
I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.
The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.
I look down at myself.
In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:
Flip Flops.
Not matching.
It's below freezing outside.
That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.
Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time.
It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.
The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.
A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal.
It is also Bright Red. with black accents.
The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.
The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.
My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge.
It is ALSO bright red.
A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.
The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.
I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:
The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.
This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes.
So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.
The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.
I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.
"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"
The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.
$6.66
"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.
I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.
It also turns on the music player.
I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.
Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.
---
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I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down.
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Everyone shits on elf metal. Just because dwarf metal (GRANITE FORGE, UNDERBEARD) and orc metal (URROSH GROGAG, TUSK) are widely renowned and pioneers of the genre and style as a whole doesnt mean we all need to collectively bash LAST KING ELIANDOR'S DIRGE FOR THE FALLEN LEAVES PARTS IX-XXII
bro, eliandor puts out one extremely mid album every 70 years, and it takes 6 months of NON STOP PLAY to get through the a side. meanwhile, TUSK shows up in stranger's garages every 8 months to show off their new unreleased shit inspired by the traditions of previously unknown tribes in the steppes, reinvigorating their culture and integrating them both with the metal scene at large and the rest of the orcish population from which they were previously estranged due to their isolation. let me know when your shitty elf monarch starts doing the kind of work for cultural introspection that literally any orc metal band on the Feral Five Hundred list does every day
[long hit of pipe] Hearth-Kin, most of these folks donât even believe in Hobbits to begin with! Surprised youâve heard of Alehouse Powderkeg; it was a limited-run LP and never circulated widely! Who are you, to be so knowledgeable?
And all of you are always forgetting about the foundational contributions goblin punk (Garbage Stitches, Mika and The Goo Boys, and of course Sloppy Sticksâs album âIf You Call The Guard Youâre A Bitchâ) made to ALL your different scenes, but especially in dwarf and orc metal.
why is this post completely broken in every way imaginable
Broken notes⌠deactivated account⌠removed imageâŚ.
Finally, we have them all.
In addition: OPâs name is just⌠gone. No â[insert username]-deactivated[insert a bunch of numbers]â as is the standard for deactivated blogs.
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