-This crappy experiment in curing writer's block was brought to you boredom-

The wind blew snow towards the north-east. The temperatures had fallen to below 4'C at this point.

But the lone warrior did not stop walking. His clothing provided him with vital protection from this fatal cold. Each hand held a semi-automatic pistol. His feet were shielded by boots that had no tread at all.

He had come here for a reason, and he wasn't going to let anything stop him.

10 minutes had passed. The temperatures had dropped further. But the lone warrior had not been deterred. Through all this snow, his eyes could make out the silhoutte of a structure that reached up higher into the sky than any tower built by any man. It had no real name, but everyone referred to it as the Sacred Mountain. If any one person could stay here as the ruler of this mountain for 3 months, then whatever wish that person had would be granted.

Countless battles had been fought here. The lone warrior had now reached the point where evidence of said battles lay. Swords, spears, guns, crossbows, rifles, and many other weapons littered the snow covered ground. The carcasses of various other warriors lay not far from them, the blood that once flowed through their veins now exposed and dry.

The lone warrior continued to walk forwards. It would be a lie to say that he was not afraid. But nothing would deter him from his goal.

In front of him, there was now a ramp that corkscrewed around the mountain. But the ascent had never been a problem for anyone who had come here. As he continued his climb, the diamater of the corkscrewed ramp grew shorter and shorter.

The sound of exploding gunpowder could now be heard by his ears. He had reached the peak to find two warriors in battle. Both figures were running around at a quick pace, struggling to land a fatal shot to the enemy. But the lone warrior had no time for this. He simply took out each of his own guns and fired. One fell down to the ground as blood flowed out from the left side of his chest. The other had the misfortune of stepping on snow that hanged over the edge in an attempt to escape the gunfire, and fell down.

He briefly studied the carcass that remained on the peak. Giving it a swift kick, he exclaimed 'KING ME! YES?'

3 seconds later, his vision went black.


Standing next to the fallen figure was the same person that had recently fell of the cliff.
'It wasn't very nice to interrupt us like that' She stated as she emptied her gun onto the already dead body.


The lone warrior respawned on the outskirts of the area. His postcount had now risen by one number, but he was not happy with his defeat.

He would be the king of the mountain. And nothing would stop him! It didn't matter if he died once or a hundred times!

The peak would be his! And his alone!

-This crappy experiment in curing writer's block was also brought to you by a certain forum game-