Chapter 34

The Knights of Cake Part II

The Knights of Cake rode across the turf churning sod, leaves and peasants underfoot. Plumes waving in the breeze, their armour sparkled, glittering as they caught the morning light. At least five of the six armoured figures sparkled. The shortest one at the back was decidedly mud-splattered. The rest positively oozed charisma and glitz. The hooves of their war chargers were stained red with the blood of innocents. Or at least the blood of NPCs, some of whom were presumably innocent. They were currently out hunting for players to murder.

The Purge was approaching and most of the sensible players had levelled up and were through the gate to the 2nd Level. Those who were left were the inexperienced, the suicidal and the reckless. And the Knights of Cake.

Tristan, (Age 27, Reaver lvl 10) rode at the back of the group. He was trying to keep a low profile. It was not going well. He had overslept, and he was itchy and bad tempered. His stomach ached. He had missed his morning bath and he knew Galahad had noticed. Sir Galahad was hot on appearances and not only was Tristan’s armour dirty and his hair tangled but his face still harboured the remains of an enthusiastic breakfast. Tristan loved breakfast. It was his favourite meal of the day, and he would eat it two or three times in a row if he had the chance.

Riding with the Knights of Cake was not as much fun as it had been at the beginning, he thought glumly. To start with it had been drinking, carousing and easy levels. But after the witch was killed Galahad turned mean. Well, Tristan amended in his head, meaner. Sometimes the silence was worse than the yelling. Tristan had a good mind to leave the party. He had fantasised about going for a while now. Two things were stopping him:

1) He did not want an axe in the back. Tristan might not be the sharpest tool in the shed but he knew people didn’t leave the Knights of Cake unless Galahad said so.

2) It was nearly time for THE PURGE and he did not want to get stuck in Level One without a party.

So he stayed.

Up ahead they spotted a party by the gorge. Galahad changed direction and the others followed.

“Here we go, lads,” he said, “get those smiles out,”

The party ahead seemed to be half way through a quest. They were trying to cross a deep chasm and were standing at the edge, looking a little helpless.

“Fair ladies!” declared Galahad, leaping off his charger in one smooth movement. He swept off his helm, revealing his rugged good looks and tossed his hair. Tristan rolled his eyes. He had seen this act so many times now he thought he might be impervious. The trick was not to look too closely at Galahad’s baby blue eyes – oh too late. The women of the party were practically swooning. One old biddy with a lute on her back was fanning herself. “And gentlemen,” said Galahad, winking. The two elderly men of the party visibly relaxed. “Can we be of service? Are you in need?”

“Henlo!” said Tristan. Everyone ignored him.

“Yes, we’d love some help,” said one of the women breathlessly.

“We are the Knights of Cake,” started up Sir Galahad. “We are here to assist you!”

“Why are you called the Knights of Cake?” asked one of the men.

“Just our party name,” said Sir Lancelot with a shrug, posing nonchalantly so that his chiselled jaw was displayed at optimal angle.

“We like to butter each other’s crumpets,” said Tristan. There was a pause.

"We're trying to cross the river," said the bard, giving Tristan a strange look. She frowned at his face, and he put up a hand self-consciously patting. He removed a cornflake from his beard. The bard blinked and turned back to Galahad.

"We went round to the bridge but it had been swept away, and we tried to wade across but it's too deep and the going is too hard."

"Hard things can be nice," said Sir Galahad, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Like my dick," said Tristan.

There was a long pause. Sir Galahad let out a breath that might easily have been mistaken for steam coming out of a kettle.

"That's it," he said, little bits of spit flying through the air. Galahad threw his glove on the ground. "I'm sorry Tristan, I love you dearly but I just don't think you are cut out for this."

“I don't get it," said Tristan, putting his helmet down with a crash. "I mean, you say the most terrible things, I mean just the other day you were talking about jam donuts and snickerdoodles and I know you meant –"

"That's enough," said Sir Galahad, hurriedly, sneaking a peak at the party who were all watching with open mouths. "I'm sorry but I really think it will be better for everyone if we part ways. I know I said we could get past this. But –" And here he wiped one hand across his brow, shaking his blond locks out of his eyes in a picture of attractive despair "–I don't think we can. I'm sorry."

"You can't just leave me here," said Tristan, looking panicky. “Without a party!”

"That's okay," said the bard, "you can come with us if you like."

"He can?" asked one of the others.

"Well, just as far as the next inn," said the bard. "We can see how we go."

Sir Galahad chopped off the bard's head with a thoughtful swing. The rest of the party ran screaming.

[Sir Galahad +10XP]

“Hey!” said Tristan. “That was my ride!”

Galahad looked at him, and his eyes were not friendly. Tristan swallowed, trying not to look at the dripping crimson edge on Galahad’s war-axe.

“Run, Tristan,” Galahad said, very softly. “Run. I’ll shut my eyes and count to ten.”

Tristan waited for him to shut his eyes but he didn’t, merely smiling as he strapped his war- axe to his saddle and starting to load his crossbow. “Run Tristan!” Galahad shouted, snapping the bolt into place. “And for god’s sake use your brain and remember to zigzag a little. The rest of you get those noobs.”

Tristan ran.

Galahad

The Knights of Cake consisted of five like-minded reavers and one wizard. The wizard was new, and Sir Galahad still wasn’t sure if he liked him. Galahad had high standards and it was hard to look sexy in an ankle length robe. The recently christened Merlin was doing his best, however. He had a jaw that could cut glass and dark brooding sensuality. He came in handy in a fight, as well as in the bedroom.

Sir Galahad, aspiring warlord and general all-round opportunist, was of course the leader. The rest of the knights were Sirs Gawain, Lancelot, Bedivere, and until recently, Tristan. Originally, they had been Pancocks, Jealous Hoe, Runny Mead, Magnificent Porridge and Bunny, but Galahad had renamed them – partially to assert dominance and partly because he liked things to be orderly.

After a long day of griefing and murdering the knights stopped at one of the inns for the night.

Up in his room Galahad removed his helmet, and set it carefully next to the bed. Natural good looks coupled with high charisma stats meant Galahad had no trouble attracting sexual partners, and if he ended up murdering them later, well, they should be more careful.

He tossed his hair, and grinned down at the young woman who stood before him. Her lips were soft and full. Swollen with desire the lower one was caught adorably beneath her teeth, as the full wave of his charisma hit her.

“Well?” he said, removing the last piece of his armour, and casting it aside. “Shall we?”

Her eyes were starry as she gazed up at him, and he tilted her chin up with one hand, drawing her close with the other. He leaned down and kissed her.

“Undress me with your words,” she breathed. Galahad’s eyes widened.

“There’s a spider in your bra,” he said.

“What?”

“I said THERE’S A SPIDER IN YOUR BRA!”

The young woman screamed at the top of her lungs and shed her clothing with impressive speed. Unfortunately for Galahad’s plans she also ran wailing out of the room leaving him alone. Apart from the spider.

He swore and tried to whack the pesky arachnid with a shoe. He missed. It scuttled across the floor and disappeared under a chest of drawers. He could have sworn it sniggered. Shaking his head, Galahad poked about a bit, trying to swat it. With a grunt he punched it with one meaty fit. The wood gave way splintering into fragments. He stamped on the remains, breathing hard, and then stared at the debris for a moment.

“It’s gone!” he cried. He strode to the door and swung it open. The corridor was deserted.

“Abigail? Ally? What the hell was her name? Alice? The spider has gone!”

But so apparently was his entertainment for the evening.

Galahad shut the door with a crash. He contemplated going downstairs to look for her, or someone else, but he was feeling a bit drowsy, probably from all the wine they had drunk earlier. He climbed into bed, alone and bad tempered. It was warm but felt a little strange, like there was some powder between the sheets. Dust probably. He was too drunk to be bothered. Soon he was snoring.

Ten minutes later he awoke, scratching furiously. Galahad turned over, trying to make himself comfortable, and drifted off. He woke again, a burning itching sensation creeping over his thighs and buttocks. He leapt out of the bed, scratching himself furiously. Turning his naked body this way and that, he examined himself in the mirror and he could see he was covered in welts and hives.

“What the hell!” he roared. Grabbing a pair of trousers, he marched downstairs and into the common room, fully intent on splattering the innkeeper’s head against a wall like a watermelon. But bizarrely the place deserted. The ashy remains of the fire were burning low in the grate and there was no sign of any patrons, nor any staff. Perhaps it was later than he realised.

“Hmm,” he grunted.

Stalking back up the stairs, Galahad paused on the long landing. He looked at the line of doors, and then pushed his way into the nearest one.

“Out,” he said to Lancelot, who leapt out of his bed, grabbing his gear in raw confusion. He ran stumbling to the door. Lancelot hadn’t been sleeping alone, but Galahad was no longer in the mood for company. He looked down at the sleeping lad with cold annoyance and prodded him awake.

“Out,” he said, as the young bard startled awake. “Now.”

The young man ran for the door. Galahad admired his rear for a moment and then hurled a dagger after him for good measure. It clanged off the doorframe.

“Gah,” he said, and climbed into the still warm bed. “Close the door, you savage!” he yelled, staying awake long enough to watch Lancelot put one cautious hand around the frame and pull it closed softly.

The next morning, he awoke, still scratching. Galahad yawned, stretched, and got up. Spotting a mirror, he admired his naked form in the mirror, turning to one side to clench his biceps. His self-admiration turned to curses as he perceived the welts that still marked his skin. He cast about for his underpants and trousers. Galahad bent to pick them up and then shrieked, as his fingers closed on the sticky, hairy form of a giant spider, about the size of a small dog, that was sitting inside. It bit him, sharp teeth puncturing the tender skin of his hand. He ripped it away, scrabbling backwards, and the spider’s grotesque human mouth split open to reveal a pink tongue. It blew a raspberry at him.

“Out fiend!” he shouted, hurling a lamp at it. The ceramic smashed on the floor, and the spider scuttled away giggling.

“What. The. Fuck.” Galahad clutched his wounded hand, veins of black threading their way down the fingers from the teeth marks. He washed it under the tap and wrapped it in a cloth with some healing balm he had stolen from a druid he’d fucked a couple of days ago.

Now in a thoroughly foul mood Galahad stamped down the stairs once more, looking for breakfast. His skin still hurt and he was ready to bash heads. The barmaid was up, at least, and spooning out steaming bowls of porridge. She handed him one with a wink, and he contemplated plunging a bread knife into her kidneys, just to work out the kinks. But then he remembered he wanted some ale. The rest of the party was already up, and watched him with some trepidation.

He would burn the inn to the ground, Galahad decided heaping his bowl with cinnamon and sugar – just as soon as he finished his breakfast.

“Wench!” he cried. “Bring me cream, and a mug of ale.”

“Coming right up,” she said, returning shortly with a jug of cream and two tankards of ale. He looked at them approvingly.

“So, tomorrow is THE PURGE,” said Gawain, looking a little nervous. “Do you think it’s time we–”

Galahad snarled and Gawain had the sense to shut up.

Breakfast restored his good humour a little. As they were finishing up the barmaid came shimmying over balancing a tray. On it were a host of cocktails, complete with little blue umbrellas.

“A gift,” she said, placing them on the table, “from that lady over there.” She gestured to the far corner where a rather attractive druid was sitting, one long leg crossed over the other, auburn hair brushing her shoulders. When she saw them looking, the druid waved at them and winked.

“Nice!” said Bevedere, grabbing one of the drinks. He raised it in the druid’s direction in salute before downing the contents. “Not bad,” he said, smacking his lips. “A bit cold, first thing in the morning, but nice.”

“A little early isn’t it?” murmured Gawain.

“It’s never too early to be smoking hot,” said Lancelot, grabbing one.

“Hmm,” said Sir Galahad, poking an ice cube.

It was indeed a nice drink, if a little unusual. He looked up again, but the druid had gone, which was a shame. His stomach rumbled, rather alarmingly and he had to beat it to the privy. He made it just in time. His innards continued to gurgle, as he strapped on his armour, and he began to have suspicions.

“What a morning,” Lancelot was saying, as he arrived in the stable and he had to agree.

Merlin was clutching his stomach and making faces, and Gawain was white as a sheet.

The stable boy walked over Galahad’s charger, and he jumped on, swinging his leg over and wincing at the pain in his abdomen, and the welts covering his skin. His wounded hand tightened on the reigns.

“Wait!” the barkeep came rushing out of the inn. “You haven’t settled your­­­–”

Galahad hefted his war axe, beheading the innkeeper in one fell swoop. This action earned himself a paltry +2XP, and he spat in the straw, unimpressed.

The head bounced into the straw of the stable, the innkeeper’s body flopping forward with a wet smack, before being absorbed into the fabric of the dungeon. Somewhere in the distance a cockerel crowed.

“Thank you,” Galahad said to the shaking stable boy. He grabbed a lantern and tossed it into the straw behind him. The stables went up like a cardboard box, and the boy ran shrieking. Soon the flames were licking the timbers of the inn itself.

[Sir Galahad +15 Arson]

“Bit of a waste,” commented Merlin, as they trotted out, screams and flames chasing them through the entrance. Flecks of cinder drifted on the breeze. “It’s the only inn in the area.”

“Don’t matter,” Galahad said gruffly. “We will pass the gate tonight. And I think their cooking gave me the runs.”

“Now that you mention it,” said Lancelot, frowning. “Me too.”

Bevedere belched.

“Bastards,” he said. “I hope they rot in the ground.”

“Come on,” said Galahad, pulling on his bridle. “Let’s see how much XP we can mop up before the level closes.”

The Knights of Cake (sans Tristan) thundered across the meadow. They stopped in a forest glade to relieve themselves (“I wish I could burn down that blasted inn a second time!” snarled Galahad) and then out across the wide plains that separated Merry Plebbingtons and Skelly Gorge. The pickings were slim today. With the imminent approach of the Purge most parties were heading onward. They rode on for some time until at last, on the broad mountain slopes on a green wide meadow they saw a likely looking party. A group of five people were struggling to right a fallen carriage. One of the wheels seemed to have come off.

“Fresh meat,” commented Gawain. Galahad didn’t say anything, but wheeled his charger towards the group.

“Smiles on,” said Lancelot. They arrived in a manly rush of armoured plate and steaming warhorse.

“Greetings!” started Sir Galahad. “We are the Knights of–”

“Oh, brave knights!” quavered one rather tall and rather odd-looking old woman. She was bent nearly double, and most of her was covered with a nasty brown sackcloth shawl. “Have you come to help us?”

She beamed up at Galahad, her eyes twinkling.

“Why ye–”

Lancelot made a distressed noise and bolted behind a convenient tree. There was the sound of armour being rapidly removed, and then a loud sigh of relief. This was followed by a loud twang and a muffled shriek. And then a thud, like a body smacking face first into the sod.

Galahad frowned.

“Lancelot?” he called. “You alright?”

“Oh, never mind him!” quavered the old woman, “please come and help us! Really we don’t know what to do!”

“We really don’t!” said another woman. She was dressed as a rogue and looked oddly familiar.

“What exactly is the problem,” said Sir Galahad.

His stomach rumbled, and he clenched his cheeks together urgently. He jumped off his horse, and removed his helm, hitting the stranded party with the full blast of his dazzling presence.

“Oh my!” said the old lady, fanning herself vigorously.

“The wheel fell off,” said the other one, helpfully.

“We are at your service,” he declared, fingering his axe.

“We are sooo grateful!” said the old woman. None of the other figures said anything, merely standing there stiff and unmoving in the breeze.

“Thank you!” cried the young woman, even though they hadn’t done anything. His eyes narrowed. There was something very familiar about her. She turned towards him smiling, her bronze skin glowing, her smile like the sun coming up and something clicked at the sight of those perfect lips. Last night. He had seen her naked form scurrying down the passage of the inn, shrieking about spiders…

“Ally?” he asked, frowning. She lifted the crossbow that she had been keeping hidden behind the carriage and levelled it at him.

“Alice,” she said, shooting him in the head.

[Sir Galahad -20HP]

The bolt struck him in the left eye. He roared in pain, his vision going black. Galahad staggered back, and he lifted his hand to his cheek. It came away wet. Cursing, he strained to look through his remaining eye, he lumbered towards the party swinging his axe, and shouting for the rest of the knights to join him.

Through the haze of his pain Galahad saw the old woman whip a glowing green bottle out of her robes.

“Aahaha!” she cackled, waving it at him. “Your peril awaits!”

“Get on with it, Fred,” said the young woman next to her.

“Spoilsport,” said the old woman. She lifted her arm and hurled the bottle with great energy earthwards.

It smashed with a tinkle of breaking class. Green light exploded outwards, a shockwave rippling out from the site of impact. Trees burst from the earth, showering them with soil, shooting upwards, a hundred years of growth compressed into seconds.

“Arrrrrgggggggg!” yelled Galahad, trying to navigate through the growing maze. Trunks and brand-new trees that were popped up everywhere, tripping him and whipping him with their branches. He swung his axe wide, aiming for the old woman. Thunk. It hit a tree trunk that had not existed moments before.

The two women ran away, darting through the trees leaving their companions behind. Gawain was the first to reach the carriage. He swung his sword, sinking it to the kilt into the nearest figure with a scream of triumph. He exclaimed, a frown marring his perfect brow.

“Straw!” he shouted, slashing and hacking at the other figures. “They are made out of stra–”

The carriage exploded. A wave of heat and white light flared outwards, momentarily blinding them all. Galahad clutched his streaming eye and howled.

[ding! Sir Gawain the Green Knight -1 Life <3]

“Damnit Gawain,” shouted Merlin. “Let me check for traps!”

But it was too late, the knight was gone, lost in the fiery explosion.

“Get them!” growled Galahad, pointing after the fleeing figures. They raced after them, Bevedere, Gawain and Merlin making better time than the wounded Galahad.

“Where did they go?” asked Gawain, skidding to a halt. The trees had stopped growing but the vegetation was thick and green.

“Coeeeee!” shouted the old woman, popping out from behind a trunk and waving at them. Galahad grit his teeth and loaded his crossbow. He aimed and fired at her. She ducked with surprising speed and he missed.

“I’m beginning to think,” said Merlin, seriously. “That is not an old woman.”

“Hahahaha!” sang the old woman. She popped out again, this time dangling upside down from a tree branch. Her grey wig fell off revealing short dark hair. She chucked a dagger each at Galahad and Merlin. Galahad’s pinged off his armour and fell to the ground [“Rats!”] while Merlin got a spell off, turning it into a snake in the air. It dropped and slithered away.

“You’ll have to do better than that!” roared Gawain, racing forward. The old woman who was not an old woman squealed and ran through the trees, robe flapping. Gawain and Bevedere gave chase. She performed a completely unnecessary cartwheel, flashing tanned and muscular calves, before darting through an empty clearing and vanishing into the trees on the other side.

“Let me check for traps!” screamed Merlin. “You idiots!”

Gawain looked down at the wire he had just tripped with a look of confusion on his good-looking, gormless face. A small hail of explosions went off around him, them both in a puff of smoke, each one removing a chunk of their armour, and then, their exposed flesh.

[Sir Gawain the Green Knight -10Hp -20HP -20Hp -20HP -5HP -50HP]

[Sir Bevedere of the Perfect Sinew -20Hp -40HP -20Hp -20HP -5HP -50HP]

“Too late,” said Bevedere, as he and Sir Gawain fell to the ground, a crimson pool forming around them.

“Fuck,” said Gawain.

[ding! Sir Gawain the Green Knight -1 Life <3]

[ding! Sir Bevedere of the Perfect Sinew -1 Life <3]

“No!” shouted Merlin. He stumbled back, and fell into a neatly concealed pit lined with sharp stakes.

[ding! Merlin -1 Life <3]

Galahad turned around, helplessly, anger driving him forward. He stepped forward and something popped. He looked down at the rope that had fastened around his ankle. He slashed at it desperately but it towed him into the air, so he was dangling, upside down. Galahad swung madly, slashing with his axe and trying to dislodge himself.

“Well hello there.”

The smiling face of the old woman filled his upside-down vision. This close he could see she was in fact a good-looking man with a rather bad makeup job. He looked familiar, but Galahad had killed so many people now it was hard to keep the faces apart.

“Why?” he managed to get out.

“Justice,” the man said. “Love. Revenge. Who knows? After all, why do any of us really do anything? Goodbye.”

Everything went dark.

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

Sir Galahad floated in the darkness awhile, contemplating the last few hours in some confusion. Before he could come to any concrete conclusions he was pulled, aching and screaming into a new body. His body? A new body. He was pushed through a door. Sir Galahad plummeted through the air, and fell, face first into The Meadow of Beginnings.

He looked down and swore. His new fingers, mercifully whole and healthy plucked at the rough chainmail shirt, leggings, and a battered helmet - his starting gear. A rusty axe lay next to him. A few metres away from him he could see Merlin’s body decomposing into the dungeon. What was going on?

“Oh hello,” came a voice, soft, pleasant and quite amiable. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He looked up into the face of the attractive druid who had sent him and his party drinks that morning. The cocktails with little blue umbrellas. Right before the stomach ache had started.

“Who are–”

His vision was filled with the sight of a morning star crashing towards his head. It was coated in blood and bits of brain matter. In his starting gear he stood no chance. His head splattered like a watermelon.

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

Galahad floated in the comforting darkness. Then he landed in the The Meadow of Beginnings with a thump, accidentally taking a bit out of the dirt. He looked up. In the distance he could see a group of figures clustered around a carriage. They were loading it full of blood-stained equipment. Silver plate armour, war axes, helmets with feathers...His equipment! Galahad scrambled up, the familiar anger pulsing through his veins. The blow struck him on the side of the head, and he reeled sideways and then fell to the ground.

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

He crashed into the grass disorientated, his vision spinning. This time he managed to roll aside as the morning star came crashing down. He threw his axe at the druid, but it bounced off, as if she was a boulder. He sprang to his feet, fear pooling in his stomach but before he could run the morning star crashed into his back, cracking his spine.

“Gah–” he said, and died.

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

He landed in the Meadow of Beginnings and looked up into the angry druid’s face.

“Please–”

“You know what I hate?” She advanced on him. “I hate petty, controlling, feeble minded men with big muscles who think they can do whatever they want without consequence-”

Galahad backed up, holding his axe like a lifeline, even though he knew it would do no good.

“It’s not cheating!” he got out. “If it was cheating I wouldn’t be able to do it!”

“That’s not the point!” she screamed. “And neither is this!”

SQUISH.

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

He rolled onto the grass, wincing.

“What are you-”

“I knew people like you.”

“What?”

“Pillar of the community, while everyone is watching. But in the shadows, you take what you want. You treat people like objects. What does it matter as long as you get what you want-”

CRACK.

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

He landed.

[Don’t you think that’s enough, dear?”]

[“Oh, just one more time.”]

[“Fine.”]

SPLAT.

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

Galahad’s body landed in the Meadow of Beginnings. He rolled, adrenaline surging through his brand new body. All he could see was the beatifically smiling face of the druid with the auburn hair. This time she looked serene, outlined against the blue sky, and hope surged in his chest. Puffy clouds floated by behind her, and the sunlight played in her hair giving her a halo of light.

“My lovely boyfriend doesn’t want me to finish you forever,” she said, leaning casually on the bloody morning star. “Because he’s nicer than me. I love him so I’m gonna stop.” She hefted the shaft of the morning star. She leaned forwards and hissed. “But if he wasn’t here I would bash your skull in until there was nothing left to bash. Death is too good for you, maggots are too good for you, you deserve to rot in a steaming pile of shit for a thousand years, you putrid puss-soaked boil on the face of humanity, Fred I don’t think I can do it, I have to kill him again, he’s just such a massive wanker-”

[ding! Sir Galahad -1 Life <3]

Galahad landed in the meadow. He rolled, shielding his head with his hands.

“I can be better!” he babbled, his mind reeling. “Give me a chance! I’ll try, please!”

“Sure,” said the druid, “I believe you.” They locked eyes for a long, tense moment. Galahad gulped.

“Now their fate is in their own hands,” said the tattooed monk, looping his arm through hers as pulling her gently away. She went with him, eyes still on Galahad.

“Nah,” she said, and winked at the stunned knight. “They are screwed. Not enough lives to make it to The End now. Would have been kinder to finish them off now.” She patted the monk’s shoulder. “But I’ll sleep well tonight. Thank you.”

They walked into the distance, squabbling, and Galahad let his head fall back onto the grass with a thud. He looked up at the sky overhead and tried to process. His philosophical inclinations were interrupted by the pain of a spider chewing on his leg.

“Fuck,” he said, springing up, and bashing it with the shaft of his axe. He missed and grazed the skin.

[Sir Galahad -1HP -1HP]

“Don’t forget!” shouted the druid at him, from the distance “THE PURGE is tomorrow! Might want to upgrade that gear. Just kidding, you don’t stand a chance! Enjoy your last day alive, arsehole.”