twincannon wrote:What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little sprucecap? I’ll have you know I botted to the top of my realm, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on AD, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in walrus warfare and I’m the top marksman in the entire H&H hearthling forces. You are nothing to me but just another archery target. I will wipe you the fuck out with perception the likes of which has never been seen before on this Hearth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with posting that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the realm and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, grub. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my base stats. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Ring of Brodgar Wiki and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the odditown map, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.
I don’t give a fuck who you are or where your hearth fire is. You can count on me to be there to bring your fucking life to a hellish end. I’ll put you in so much fucking pain that it’ll make Frosty being pummeled into the snow in Wulf's Retreat look like a fucking back massage on a tropical island. I don’t give a fuck how much UA you have or how much steel you have, how well you can script, or how many brickwalls you own to protect yourself. I’ll fucking show up at your claim when you aren’t home. I’ll empty all the cupboards in your timber house, leave all the ovens running, open your gate and not close it, and turn your smelters on and let them waste fuel. You’re going to start stressing the fuck out, your blood pressure will triple, and you’ll have a fucking wound. You’ll go to Samarqand for safety, and the last thing you’ll see when you’re logging out is me porting in behind you, dressed like a trader. When you log on after, wondering what ticking time bomb is in your stall waiting to go off. You’ll recover fully from your wound. And when you walk out the front gate of the market to go home I’ll run you over with my fucking wagon out of no where and kill you. I just want you to know how easily I could fucking destroy your pathetic excuse of a life, but how I’d rather go to a great fuckng length to make sure your last remaining days are spent in a living, breathing fucking hell. It’s too late to save yourself, but don’t bother committing suicide either… I’ll fucking resuscitate you and kill you again myself you bitch-faced phaggot. Welcome to hell, population: you
