civilization 5 barbarians: a small rapscallion of a skeleton. his heart is full of malice that his tiny body cannot accomplish, so he settles for smacking your beverages off of the coffee table when you aren’t looking. his shenanigans are tiresome
civilization 6 barbarians:
this fucking dude –
he is made of metal. his bones are covered in spikes and when he howls his terrible war howl, the sun goes dark and birds fall from the sky. you watch in terrified awe as he picks up your car and bites it in half. his name is written on his forehead in three-meter-tall flaming letters, and it is FUCKMOUNTAIN DEATHMONSTER. there can be no hope in a universe that contains the fuckmountain
Ashley when do you plan to write a full fantasy novel in this exact style because holy shit.
“the riders have returned from the east,” the messenger shouted as he ran into the throne room. “it’s true, the beast Fuckmountain walks again.”
“the beast walks,” said Harshsmell the dwarf emperor, stroking his expansive shield-beard.
“and the Fifth Age of this world comes to a bony end,” moaned Bibarel the elf, prancingly.
“that isn’t true,” said a shadow near the wall. a man stepped out of it. four swords glittered on his back, and a hood covered his face.
“who are you, and how the balls did you get into my throne room?!’ shrieked Harshsmell
“I have come to put an end to this giant skeleton bullshit”
“fool!” shouted Harshsmell beardily. “no mere man can kill Fuckmountain! he pisses fire! his teeth are made of diamonds, and inside his head are thoughts only of malice and fucking shit up. no heart lies in his chest, because he’s a FUCKING SKELETON. he’s literally made of bones, the least-stabbable organ. you can’t kill that, dipshit”
“I’m gonna.”
“he ate two castles,” Harshsmell continued, moaning. “at the same time. i was there.”
the man stood his ground. Harshsmell glared at him dwarfily. “GUARDS! this man distresses me. take him away”
the guards moved forward to seize the intruder, but he stood his ground. though his face was not visible, Bibarel studied him.
“friend, is that Skullantula the Up-Fucker that you carry?” he asked
“it is,” said the man. he unsheathed one of his swords. it was made of jagged blood, but inscribed on the side with ancient elfin magic was a skull. both of the skull’s eyes were eight-balls.
the guards stopped in their tracks. one of them gave the sword an appraising nod and a thumbs up
“and Stabslicer the Grim,” the man continued, “and the Killblade of the Metalzillas, and the Large Fucking Hellscalpel, the last sword forged by the hands of the fire wizards of Double Lava Mountain”
“the fire wizards,” rumbled Harshsmell, “have been dead for two hundred years”
“and I’m the one who killed them”
“holy shit. fuck.”
“yeah, I know, right?”
“who are you, that could do such great things? no one man should have all that power”
“i am no man,” said the intruder, and finally pulled back his hood to reveal his face. he was three wolves. “I am Three-Wolves. I am three wolves.”
—
excerpt from The Fight Saga of Three-Wolves Book 3: The Turbo Dragons of Castle Knifedick
