Steve: They say a picture's worth a thousand words, but who even needs words when you have pictures like this?
Zack: It took two people to make this image.
Steve: If I could I would communicate with nothing but sweet, way-epic fantasy collages.
Zack: As Yngwulf travels the rough and rowdy countryside you head into the foreboding forests and see the foreboding mountains and are generally foreboden by nature. You must camp beneath the stars.
Steve: I make camp and compose a power ballad about the stars I see above. I title it a Million Bloody Cysts. I sleep and dream of wicked battles foretold in ancient rhymes.
Zack: You are awakened by the unearthly clacking of something in the forest not far away.
Steve: "Be silent, trees. I'll hear no more of your uproar!"
Zack: You are surprised when the sound turns out not to be trees at all but several skeletons animated as if by some evil magic. They are drawn to the sound of your arboreal rebuke.
Steve: Skeletons. My greatest fans. I see the acid licks of my guitar calls you forth from beyond the grave.
Zack: They are carrying weapons and wear the rusty chain mail of a minor Lord, long ago fallen and disappeared into history.
Steve: But for one night their Lord lives on, called from beyond the slippery veil of the eternal to play one last concert for his men. He and his advisers are called forth as ghosts by the majestic opening cords of Death Dirge of the Demon and they begin to play ghostly instruments.
Zack: I'll allow it.
Steve: Hello Gulluvia!
Zack: Disembodied moans answer you.
Steve: I was over in Myth Drannor and they said Gulluvia doesn't know how to rock! Do you know how to rock?
Zack: More disembodied moans answer you.
Steve: I can't hear you!
Zack: A few rusty swords are thrown into your campsite.
Steve: I unleash my level 3 fingering on every fret, winding up the crowd and bringing them to a flailing metal crescendo with the lightning licks of Call of the Spelljammer, straight into Gate of the Nalfeshenees.
Zack: They demand an encore.
Steve: I'm going to bring them down with my acoustic Age of the Obyriths, then shock their freaking wigs with party metal Rack of the Succubus, then close them out with Nightmare of a Nightmare and blow the pyros.
Zack: Your ghostly backing band fades into eternity and you are left alone with heaps of sun-baked bones and rusty chain mail.
Steve: I search the woods for some A&R people.
Zack: You don't find any label reps, but a Brownie tries to talk you into a 50/50 split on a self-publish deal.
Steve: Is he going to front the disc costs and do 4-color on the liner notes?
Zack: No, you have to pay expenses and everything is going to be made out of toadstools.
Steve: I slay him with my fury!
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
Zack Parsons, Steve "Malak" Sumner, and friends tackle bizarre role playing game products that make them wonder, "What the fuck!?" From the early days of Gygax to contemporary role playing games, none will be spared.