Around the time of his thirteenth birthday, Forglore realised he was different. While walking to lunch with his best (and only) friend, Bethann, a vicious group of Ammarrian girls descended upon them both, harpy-like in their stoicism.
“Are you gonna have another fedora-tipping party Forglore? Can we come?” Still innocent and gullible, Forglore invited them all to his bridge for “Pizza”^3 the coming Saturday, not knowing that this would turn out to be a pivotal moment in man’s understanding of the reproductive process. Forglore succumbed to a sudden, overwhelming sensation of existential quandary, and, moments later, he lay unconscious upon the floor, limp tendrils of tagliatelle hanging from his pockets, leaking creamy sauce. Far away, a saurian cackle could be heard, and a small, rat sounding voice squeaked, “The Caldari did this”. The Sansha had claimed another.
[01:13:05] Bethann McBride > oh i c so you are one of them that just goes around blowing people up because you can got it.
"I LS swapped my miata" \xaf\\_(ツ)_/\xaf
Expert pilot.Master tactician.Supremely confident. Fear provoking. Mentally disabled.