Vive La Revolution
We hurried back to Goblinsville, with its cozy hovels and caves containing poorly ventilated firepits that sent smoke filtering sideways out windows. Its fake daylight penetrated us like a steel dildo. Above mud roads that bent and forked like pipe dreams, the red sand from the above world found bedrock crevices to rain down, bringing with them rare advertising scrolls.
"We only tell Amere and Mathis about this, understand?" Sergei murmured, cursing his ancestors. After carefully leading the crocodiles to their pens, we finally got porridge from a kindly Goblin family. They let us have seconds and even thirds, for they had fewer mouths to feed.
Nobody can know that cannibalism breaks exp. Oh, and the thing with the Imitator.
"It's strangely quiet here," the old goblin granny sighed, washing the dishes by pouring flowing sand over them.
"We're very sorry, ma'am."
Like a shitty politician, Sergei hastily promised her something incoherent about the Imitator. Then, leaving the hut, we saw a group of Clownslayers sweeping the city streets. Half asleep, they yawned, leaning on their brooms like the world's laziest pole dancers.
Seeing us, they ran up and saluted.
"At ease, gentlemen." Sergei stood up straight, slightly more dignified.
"You won't believe what happened, boss!" a few exclaimed, waving their brooms.
"What is it this time?" Sergei intrigued.
"The PVP guilds heard noises at night, so they investigated the food silos." A Clownslayer with a bushy beard hollered.
"Wouldn't you know? They found some fat rats!" Another interrupted.
"Wait, what the Chucky cheese fuck? PVP guilds? I thought there were no rats in this game?" I yipped, unable to parse the new information.
"Funny story. The PVP guilds have been looking for the four sinners for weeks." Sergei inserted wryly.
Then it dawned on me why Matthis could only control a fraction of these losers. The rest were busy killing each other. It never even occurred to me that Goblinsville had always been a Mad-Max-style post-apocalyptic hellhole.
Makes sense.
"Why are they looking for the sinners?" I asked.
"Elder Garn is pimping his daughters to whoever catches them" A Clownslayer scratched his chin, mimicking how I was scratching my head.
"Really? Goblin girls? I'm down bad, too, but this can't be worth it, right?" I pondered aloud, bewildered. Homicide in exchange for whatever this was was just sad.
As if on cue, dragged in stone stockades like witches of yore, were four familiar figures, now gaunt and haggard. Craig, now half his old weight, was handsome now. The Squeaker, Lee, and Gordon resembled twigs. Great beards cascaded down each one of them, even the Squeaker somehow. Paraded by hooting and hollering PVP players, they were shoved down the main road to the derisive jeering of the local goblins.
"We're not them, I swear," Craig cried helplessly.
"Cheer up, Craig. We must embrace death with honest hearts," Gordon laughed.
"Dear god, please let Death be a hot woman." The Squeaker begged.
Ignored, they were continuously pelted by whatever a green toddler could or could not lift. Pebbles, woks, scraps of fabric, rotting food.