Quote (nickxcore @ Apr 15 2012 11:11pm)

Merauder Da’ Ear-Collectah’

Charsi drew in a quiet, shuddering breath of desire as the young barbarian approached her shop again. She cursed her own nervousness – what in the wide world of Sanctuary was wrong with her? In her younger days, she had invited other barbarians into her tent to teach them her art of “true blacksmithery,” as it was euphemistically called in this province. But this barbarian now approaching was different – last night he had made her look like a total nubcakes on the Blood Moor of love . . . and he was only Lvl. 18! Clad in the finest vermillion ancient armor, his rings and amulet gleamed angelically in the light . . . but his winged avenger guard looked worn. Still though, that had no effect on his satisfied-looking countenance.

Control your emotions, foolish girl, thought Charsi to herself as the young warrior of Arreat reached her. “Oh hi there, Merauder!” she said, noting the bag he carried. She tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. ”What have you got there?”

“A little something I’ve been making for you,” said Merauder, with a rugged smile like Sean Connery’s. “But first, how come I don’t get a kiss?”

Oh this crimson-clad barbarian, sly as the desert jackals of Lut Gholein and witty as Bob Sagat before he whored out to America’s Funniest Home Videos! Charsi found herself giggling like the supple schoolgirl she was deep down inside. She took her Horadric Malus and touched it to Merauder’s helm. “Clink!” she said with a smile, and the avenger guard was fully repaired instantly. “That one’s free of charge, baby.”

Merauder blinked hard as Charsi conked his helm with her hammer. “Phwoa, Charsi. That’s the good stuff. That’s the stuff that makes me forget about my problems.” Then he was steely-faced as he held her and drew her close to him. “That ain’t the only thing you’ve been giving me for free, is it? Well guess what; I’ve got a little reward for you.”

“Oh?” said Charsi as Marauder opened the bag he held. Charsi looked inside and saw what had been her heart’s desire for a month now. She reached inside, clasped the beautiful necklace, and drew it out. Last week she had shared a cigarette with the young barbarian in her tent after a most glorious blacksmithery lesson in which he had not only learned from her experience, but, like a tru boss, had surpassed her. During that time she had told him of the two types of necklaces she desired. The first was a pearl necklace which, like the tru boss Merauder was, he had given to her gladly that night.
But this second necklace she now held was, in her own opinion, far more glorious, and her heart fluttered as she held it before herself now. For it was a necklace that Merauder had made himself, a necklace stringed with the ears of noobs, “pros,” publets, and modders! A veritable trophy of his wins, all for her to wear! “My god,” said Charsi as Merauder fastened the necklace around her using all of George Cloony’s suaveness and 0% of his retardedness. “The ears of the nub-cakes who keep coming to me for repairs, who couldn’t tri-wirl a dropped mana potion to save their lives! – empirical proof of your pure ownage!”

Merauder nodded. “Now that’s a real ‘String of Ears’ that’s worth wearing, aye?”

Charsi laughed, joining the canned laughter that sounded overhead through the air of Sanctuary. “But Merauder,” she asked inquisitively, “I don’t understand. You’re only Lvl. 18. How is it that you’re able to bring home all these ears and make the Grim Reaper himself look like some fucking door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness?”

Merauder nodded, considering that this was a poignant question indeed. “Well baby . . .” he began, taking out another bag from his inventory. “Some questions can only be answered in the ancient tongue . . . ” He sold the bag to Charsi, who looked inside with curiosity – it was filled with an uncountable amount of SOJs! “. . . a language from a place called The Mid-Nineties. The ancient, perfect tongue from an era when hip-hop was not corrupted.” The earth trembled, the heavens shook, and a stage with dry-ice mist and the most bad-ass light show ever rose up beneath Merauder’s feet. “. . . an ancient tongue that we medievalists of Sanctuary know only as Old School.” A mysterious inscription appeared in the corner of the sky: OVER NINE-THOUSAND STONES OF JORDAN SOLD TO MERCHANTS! SHIT JUST GOT REAL!, and Charsi watched as Merauder, suddenly with a mic in his hand, broke shit down hardcore:

How I pw3n these nubs so fast?
Listen to my verbal blacksmithery;
How I get this mic you ask?
I stash my mic where my torch should be.

People always lookin’ for 24/7 Baal runs,
But I’m here to say that’s a recipe for fail, son;
All I need is lvl.18 to Conc and stomp they ball sacks
Rockin’ ‘gelics and da’ Sigons, I don’t even have Ondal’s stashed.

Nubs think Beast/Grief is da’ mark of tru skill,
But I keep it real with LLD where it’s time to get ill,
My name grow’ far and wide, nerdz be makin’ me a meme,
And even lyrical mastaz can’t touch my basic rhyme scheme

Cuz’ I keep it simple, stupid, I shoot an arrow like Cupid,
I use a word that don’t mean nothin’, like looptid,
And even if you ain’t up to speed with all my references
I got somethin’ for the ladies and all of their preferences –

I’m cold as a Fathom, temper’s hotter than Eschuta’s
I be in da club wit Charsi, wit Patron and Sambuca
Cuz’ I pay my dues in LLD, sharpening my game mechanics,
Now I keep da’ Moor bumpin’ for blacks, whites, and Hispanics.
Now I keep the ears droppin’ like health and mana potions,
Now I keep da’ blood flowin’ like Calamine lotion,
Now I’m sayin’ Charsi that you be my heart’s devotion-
You da one I sell these ears to, you da one who’s got tha’ notion
That tonight we poppin’ bottles of tha’ Dom Perignon,
That tonight you gonna feel that you tha’ queen of the prom
That tomorrow I’ll be pw3nin’ nubs like Bush on Sadaam,
Like Obama vs. Osama girl you know that I’m tha’ bomb.”