Adventurer who says, "Gee, (name), how come your mom lets you have TWO swords?" every time they meet someone who dual wields.
My cleric friend is on her usual routine. Our wagon lost a wheel on a pretty clever pit trap, and not two heartbeats later I was up to my whiskers in henchmen. Highway men are very, very simple animals, especially these human ones. Life as a powder mage, never lacking in explosive action and bombast.
Speaking of, that's my line. These guys all had twin swords. Every. Single. One. Six of them! I'm fearful I'll lose my voice. You see, we have a bet. I have a divination lens and so far, the name trick has worked every time. I'm convinced the church just uses these, but Ms Withers insists it's inner sight. Whatever. I etched a pentagram and some command runes into some quartz for my spectacles, I get to see all kinds of cool shit.
The guys we're in the process of burying don't have anything interesting about them except names. Sometimes they'll have stolen a deed, a cursed amulet, some occasionally have a bounty, cool dark secret, or are 3 kobolds in a trench coat. That last one is a common trick, turns out.
So the bandits of Dave's Gang emerge and I can't believe my eyes. Dave's tooltip suggests he found two sword fighting to work on the locals coz no one knows how to fight. Dave has made about 500 gold, paid no taxes for 1589, and his biggest haul was a gold necklace worth maybe 80 gold coins at a fine bazaar. Snoresville. I gave up the internet, penicillin, electricity, and frozen pizza for a lifetime of killing Dave's. Sometimes I fortnite dance just to feel something. Anyway, Ms Withers insists my divination lenses aren't accurate and she pays me 5 gold from her inheritance every time I am right. It has been 12 months. I have earned 0.005% of her vast wealth, totalling about 5,000 gold, give or take.
Dave, his gear, his notable loot, and deductions for my expenditures in ammunition make the profit margin razor thin, so each name is a reloaded shell. I also shitpost, and like fortnite dancing, no one knows how much plagiarism I'm doing. I'm so quirkly. Kill me.
"Gee Dave/Franklin/Rosie/Mark/Gabriel/Tom, how come your mom lets you have two swords!?"
That half second delay each time is enough to let me rack the pump for another cartridge. You'd think a rat with a shotgun would be disarming by itself, but you'd be wrong. These dudes are used to wagons like ours being drafted by nobles, so my admittedly nice cloak just screams wealth, not fine tailor selection. The fist sized hole in Dave's chest is insufficient deterrence. What possesses the average bandit to go all in on a basic robbery escapes me even four years into my new life as a sarcastic rat lady. Ms Withers sings a peaceful last rites dirge to the six idiots in the hole, and a sapling emerges a moment later.
30 gold. That's what they were worth to me, I guess. Kinda shitty. Could've made a killing if the dudes kept coming. Guess that's for my next brothel orgy instead.
