It has been many a long year since I first told this story. Yet I think it’s high time Drangor was given pride of place as a proper rant. Is it time for another tale from the table? Does an otyugh’s outhouse smell like crap?

So no shit, there we were! It was in the high golden days of myth and legend, when beer flowed like wine in the halls of Dorm, and the mighty bellows of THAT GUY were heard throughout the quad. His thighs were as miracle whip, his belly like the gods’ own cream cheese, his hair like the bowl cut of the transcendent page boy. He was such a man who would boast of his deeds to the cute RA, bragging of the “many hours per day” he would practice with his mall ninja weapons. Such a man who would shout from open windows at the dirty haxxors online, cowing them with the might of his immoderate yop.

He lived on my floor. He saw us playing in the common room. We were obliged to let him join.

Said he, “I always play a ranger. He always has a wolf companion. His name is always Drangor.” And we lesser mortals cast about for signs of irony, but found only the light of certitude burning in his small pink eyes.

And with a voice made timorous by THAT GUY’s presence, our DM did say, “The sewer stretches before you, foul water knee deep receding into the gloom. As you take the first few steps forward, you feel something at your ankles. Make a Reflex save.”

And Drangor did fail his Reflex save, and lo did he face plant into filth. For there were many trip wires within the sewers, and the trip wires did enrage THAT GUY to such excess that he ran shouting throughout the waterways, falling and tripping all the while, his faithful wolf falling and tripping at his side. The thieves’ guild (for such slimy places are ever their haunts) soon heard our blunderings. And we did give battle, and for a time it was good. But soon the party came through the murk and blood to our place of meeting, there to find an holy agent of the gods beneath the palace of the King. For that evening was a gathering of nobles, and a royal ball was our destination.

“Quick,” said he, “Change into this fine raiment which I’ve brought for you. For I suspect a fiend of darkest Hell has come amongst the guests, and even now dances with our fair Princess.”

We did as the priest bid us, and soon stood in darkness decked out in finery.

“Next,” said the holy man, “You must give up such weapons as you cannot conceal, for the guards are suspicious, and will not let sharp steel near to His Majesty.”

And as we lesser folk unburdened ourselves of bow and blade, a look of fury came to Drangor’s countenance. For he would not part with the legendary sword Special Snowflake. A great battle then shook the dorms as THAT GUY gave vent to his frustrations, cries of IT’S WHAT MY CHARACTER WOULD DO and DRANGOR WILL NOT GO UNARMED buffeting our cowering DM.

And the game did end without a ball, without a fiend, and without a princess saved. For THAT GUY held fast to Drangor’s beliefs, and thus lay waste to the campaign forever.

-Book of Drangor, chapters 5 and 6



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