Doc Sammy
White Trash Weeb
- Joined
- Apr 25, 2017
- Messages
- 1,926
- Reaction score
- 2,644
The Village of Fort Ashberne, Northwestern Frontier of The Empire
The sun has finally gone down and it is now fully dark outside. Luckily the moon is full and the stars are bright, so not all is lost just yet. After long treks from wherever you came from, you have finally reached the rural fortified farming village of Fort Ashberne, a small bastion of civilization in the grim and perilous woodlands. Wild beasts and other far worse monstrosities lurk in the forests just outside Fort Ashberne and you have just made it in time, mere hours or even minutes before the local militia closes the gates of the lightly fortified village. Now you can finally rest.
There is only one place of rest in the small town and that is the Long Branch Saloon, a surprisingly large and accommodating tavern for such a small settlement, but then again it may be the last inn for miles and miles. So, naturally you walk on in.
Inside the tavern, a roaring fire is stoked in the fireplace while the smells of hard cider, mulled wine, and freshly cooked food waft through the air, all to the sounds of a musical quartet, a fiddler, a guitarist, a banjo player, and one on the mandolin, playing a comforting bluegrass reel. You walk up to the bartender, a surly raven-haired young anime bishonen-looking dude named Moe and have a seat at the bar.
Before you can ask the barkeep anything, a messenger enters the tavern and hands a letter to him. The surly pretty boy opens the letter and reads it before loudly getting everyone's attention.
"Yo! I'd like to have everyone's attention. I have a message here for Seymour Butts. Is there a Seymour Butts in this tavern?", to which everyone laughs loudly and mockingly.
Angry as the Nine Hells, Moe writes a letter on a napkin and hands it to the messenger. The letter reads as follows.
If I ever find out who you are, you little punk, I'll paint guyliner on you, put a T-shirt on you reading "I LOVE GOTHS", glue a Sisters of Mercy album to your butt, and mail you to Doc Sammy's house! Don't ever write me again, you motherfucker, you!
Little do you know is that all of you will be taking part in one of the most harrowing adventures of your lives.
The sun has finally gone down and it is now fully dark outside. Luckily the moon is full and the stars are bright, so not all is lost just yet. After long treks from wherever you came from, you have finally reached the rural fortified farming village of Fort Ashberne, a small bastion of civilization in the grim and perilous woodlands. Wild beasts and other far worse monstrosities lurk in the forests just outside Fort Ashberne and you have just made it in time, mere hours or even minutes before the local militia closes the gates of the lightly fortified village. Now you can finally rest.
There is only one place of rest in the small town and that is the Long Branch Saloon, a surprisingly large and accommodating tavern for such a small settlement, but then again it may be the last inn for miles and miles. So, naturally you walk on in.
Inside the tavern, a roaring fire is stoked in the fireplace while the smells of hard cider, mulled wine, and freshly cooked food waft through the air, all to the sounds of a musical quartet, a fiddler, a guitarist, a banjo player, and one on the mandolin, playing a comforting bluegrass reel. You walk up to the bartender, a surly raven-haired young anime bishonen-looking dude named Moe and have a seat at the bar.
Before you can ask the barkeep anything, a messenger enters the tavern and hands a letter to him. The surly pretty boy opens the letter and reads it before loudly getting everyone's attention.
"Yo! I'd like to have everyone's attention. I have a message here for Seymour Butts. Is there a Seymour Butts in this tavern?", to which everyone laughs loudly and mockingly.
Angry as the Nine Hells, Moe writes a letter on a napkin and hands it to the messenger. The letter reads as follows.
If I ever find out who you are, you little punk, I'll paint guyliner on you, put a T-shirt on you reading "I LOVE GOTHS", glue a Sisters of Mercy album to your butt, and mail you to Doc Sammy's house! Don't ever write me again, you motherfucker, you!
Little do you know is that all of you will be taking part in one of the most harrowing adventures of your lives.
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