That evening, we passed around Greatwurm kebabs around a great granite table.
If I didn't hate the devs so much, I would comment on the furniture's fine craftsmanship, hand-chiseled patterns, and frightening deities. Besides, they probably outsourced the art design from somewhere cheap, low GDP, and in the southern hemisphere. You guessed it: Antarctica. Damn penguins are always taking our jobs.
I mean, how could they not? They're always so resilient and professional in those damn tuxedos.
Poor Goblins, though. they were Greatwurm and even Golden-Wheel Spider snacks in those carvings. For generations, even. Among the predators, however, were four humanish things.
"No fucking way..." I whispered to myself, tracing the contours of my former friends on the table's surface. Where was the imitator if they were willing to include those morons in their history?
The others left me be until I wantonly rang my chains.
"Look, Ennui; we've been over this. You tried to run away." Sergei shook his head.
Oh no. It's flashback time.
....
"We also got an exceptional guest." Sergei had shrugged, secretly nudging me.
"Is it the boss?" I tilted my head, only to see a horde of panicking Goblins and retarded villagers streaming past at light speed. They abandoned possessions and families, trampling over each other and everything.
"The fuck is going on?... OH SHIT! IT'S AN IMITATOR ATTACK!" Sergei unsheathed a sling and ordered the other two Clownslayers into position. In the chaos, I looked for a place to hide, grabbed a woven wicker basket, and dived into the gutter.
I heard the supersonic boom before I saw the creature. When it landed, it reduced another mud house to rubble. Then, it emerged, covered in dust and blood, with that trademark laugh that could make the squeaker sound good.
"The imitator fucking sucks. Don't worry about it." The dollar store Cthulu reverberated in my head.
Something didn't add up. With the way that stats worked, the imitator should have leveled the city on the way down. I know it killed a shit many of us, but Sergei said his boss was still alive.
"Villager's art, lucky sixes!" Sergei spat and launched two dice, catching the imitator in both eyes. Sergei and his men charged from the other side of the long boulevard.
The imitator disappeared, like in Anime, then reappeared behind them. He punched Sergei's henchmen in the back of their heads, nearly decapitating both. The impact sent them flying into different houses, taking 90% of their health bars. In the dusty air, for a brief moment, the henchmen's silhouettes stood their ground as shadows, pledges even, of their masters' devotion to their one and only God, Leroy Jenkins.
"Outer God's art, Lavinia's child," I had remembered praying, too frightened to make a sound.