Dave Strider (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clocked_out) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thusia2012-10-28 07:02 pm
clocked_out) wrote in thusia2012-10-28 07:02 pm
(no subject)
Who: Dirk, Dave, curious individuals and whoever hears Dave's raucous vulgar mumbling
When: Day 89, morning
Where: same place new people always show up of course
What: two for one special
[there are two blond boys who look like they are probably brothers standing in the shrine area. they are both wearing radical shades, and one of them--with the round shades--is holding a broken sword, which seems to change states from being broken, to whole, to old and rusted, without any kind of prompting]
Oh my fucking god.
We are literally going to spend the rest of our afterlives being blown like a wayward tumbleweed between worlds and physical states until we land some place full of ghost centaurs where all the trees grow apples and all the grass is made of hay and they accept us into their tribe or herd or whatever the fuck horses or horsepeople call their gatherings with a welcoming neigh, tell us to lay our newly-acquisition hind quarters down and have an apple, spend the rest of our days frolicking in the clover fields engaging in incestuous horseporn.
And where the fuck did this sword come from.
When: Day 89, morning
Where: same place new people always show up of course
What: two for one special
[there are two blond boys who look like they are probably brothers standing in the shrine area. they are both wearing radical shades, and one of them--with the round shades--is holding a broken sword, which seems to change states from being broken, to whole, to old and rusted, without any kind of prompting]
Oh my fucking god.
We are literally going to spend the rest of our afterlives being blown like a wayward tumbleweed between worlds and physical states until we land some place full of ghost centaurs where all the trees grow apples and all the grass is made of hay and they accept us into their tribe or herd or whatever the fuck horses or horsepeople call their gatherings with a welcoming neigh, tell us to lay our newly-acquisition hind quarters down and have an apple, spend the rest of our days frolicking in the clover fields engaging in incestuous horseporn.
And where the fuck did this sword come from.
no subject