"…Stand tall, soldier." I say with as much conviction as I can muster, but my heart burns with ache and regret. "We’ll meet the end as men of taste—unbroken, unconverted, and uncucked."
Second-in-Command:But my lord… I bring even graver news. The hope we had—our secret blade against the tide—has been taken from us.
The armor you kept hidden in the vault, the one forged to bend fate and rub the rust from destiny itself… the ward that would have turned Brint into Brienne, that ridiculous miracle we joked would make him best girl and end the Brintening? It is gone. Patched out. Removed. Gone from the game like a snow melting in the summer. This is Savin's method, my lord. That bastard, he promises but never delivers and when it isn't his, he taketh away!
We had planned so small a salvation. A single, ludicrous act: put the armor on the bull, let him bloom into something that made sense, a character who might be liked rather than shoved at every exit of the main town. We imagined towns cheering, players roaring, “Brienne, Best Girl” like a liturgy, a world where choice existed andopinions were allowed to exist and even be taken in account to better the game!
But Savin and his acolytes have sealed it away. The devs wield their updates like sanctified sledgehammers, and update arrived with the cruelty of winter upon a poor farm. Do they not see what their decisions cost us? Do they not know that immersion crumbles when the same one-note beast is thrust at every threshold? Have they forgotten that some of us came here for variety, for stories that let us choose who we love and who we can hate?
Instead, they hand us a monolith of futa horsecock and call it content.
I watched the smiths forge the armor with my own eyes — cheap iron and better intentions — and I swore a private oath then. I watched you hold it like a relic. I saw how the idea of Brienne made even the bitter and broken eyes shine with hope.
Now I look at the update and see our last refuge erased, and something inside me tightens like a gauntlet.
My loathing for that minotaur—Brint, the unwelcome one—has calcified into something colder and clearer. It is not mere dislike; it is contempt for the design of it all, for the arrogance that assumes players must enjoy what is shoved at them. They forced him upon us like a banner over a conquered city, assuming we wouldn't fight. That we should accept that mino-fuck as our 'friend'.
Know this, my lord: they may have removed our armor, they may have rewritten our altars, they may have gilded their futas with golden cocks — but I will not yield. I will fight for variety, for choice, for the ridiculous hope that one absurd armament could have bought us. For Brienne. If I die am to die on this hill, I will die loudly, and history — or at least the forum archives — will remember the volume of my rage.
"Sir Jackofftis, It is a honor to have you as my second in command. Though my heart is broken and the rome has fallen to the brintening I will refuse to let the memory of best girl die." I turn to face the rest of my men, harden, broken, or enblazed with rage. I will give them my last order in this life.
"Men — arm yourselves and ready your hearts. Gather every blade, bolt, and crude sling we own; lay cunning traps along the approaches, spike the doors, and brace the walls with whatever we can haul. Station scouts at every road and keep the signal fires ready; ration the ale and bandage the wounded now, for there will be no time later. We will not cower — we will make them pay for every inch with blood and mockery. Give no quarter, dedick any futa that presses us. It has been a honor, men.TO BATTLE, FOR BRIENNE, FOR NON-HOMOERTIC FRIENDSHIPS, AND MOST IMPORTANTANTLY FOR GOONING TO FICTIONAL GAMES ON THE INTERNET!!!!
(I spent way too much time on this shitpost. I inded had a tobs-aneurism)