LO. He's the fallen warrior, ya'll. And he's in the lair of the neanderthal. Having sword brine of skin and toes, involuntarily shed by those who would oppose. Sword shattered to the hilt, though he knows if he can survive it shall be rebuilt. Or is it simply hidden by his war encrusted kilt? I can't tell by simply gazing, though the mystery is amazing, for the shade conceals what my mind congeals. Twicefolde the shrunken head as tassels glare, patrons of Asphodel eternally stare. As I write this, partaking of this fine french eclair, I can't help but regurgitate each bite as the one grey-dot of an eye knight molests me with his peircing sight. Step down knight, you got no fight. Look at you. All backed up in a cave. You got no skill. Shouldn't have stayed up on all night at that rave. Better run before those orcs bring the gnomish tunnel drill. Trackstar Flarfy can't save you, he's only a deputee. You're finished, you'll see. So long, sucka.