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By Tycho from Penny Arcade:
May 29 '13 at 09:45 AM
LEAGUE JUDGMENT: MARSHFELLOW, THE SWEET PRINCE
Candidate: Marshfellow Ser Pufflin
Date: 33 March, 24 CLE
As a mount, clouds make for slow travel. A cloudling, even slower. And Cirrus was a cloudling with ADHD. You do the math.
Every minute it seemed there was a fascinating lichen, or a new plant, or a rock - a fucking rock - that necessitated intense concentration until such time as it was forgotten absolutely in search of the next wholly useless stimuli. This is how Marshfellow Ser Pufflin came to arrive at the Institute of War almost twenty years after his departure from the Moistlands.
He thought of this as he thoughtfully knotted the cloudling’s mist-reins on the mountrod.
“Stay here, Cirrus,” His Deliciousness warbled, like a penguin encased in gelatin. “Where I go, I go alone.”
Steel. And heat. And hot, white blood.
He felt himself squozen through the twin fallopias, pressure beyond measure, as his consciousness fired into the mold. It gave him eyes, to witness his making. It gave him arms, to gouge out the eyes. It gave him a mouth, to catalogue every moment of his terror.
In the midst of these horrors, a tiny cloud bobbed. The cloud was looking at nothing in particular, as hard as it could.
“Cirrus, for Fuck’s sake!” cried His Expansiveness. “I told you stay out-fucking-side!”
“You’re a marshmallow, man,” said Cirrus. “I mean, you’re a marshmallow-man.”
“That’s a machine that makes marshmallows, and it made you, and now you’re a marshmallow man. This is the least complicated, least majestic origin imaginable. You came out of a machine that makes an infinite number of dudes exactly like you. That’s what’s up.”
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