He stopped by the Champion's Hall, smiling at a familiar dwarf.
"You know what I'm here for."
The dwarf nodded. Bobaloo turned and walked out. He had cast his name away, instead using his title given to him by the trolls.
He adjusted his goggles. He knew that only a small barrier stood between him and what he wanted. He knew that, with a little more hard work, he would obtain his greatest triumph. He looked at his old greatsword. It still shone the first day he held it. Its thin, sharp blade shone in the evening light.
Soon...
He sheathed his blade, as he was pulled through the Nether.
-----------------------------------------
His armor was dented. His sword dripped with blood. His comrade, a paladin, stood away. He knew they would come again.
Whack!
He was unable to move. His armor was being assaulted by an assassin. Another cheap shot to the neck, and he was incapacitated again. His companion began to focus on the first. Bobaloo lept away.
It was time.
He charged at the first assassin, and delivered a stern cross to his jaw. It was definitely fractured. He then summoned all his might, and unleashed a flurry of blows. The rogue's armor was shedded. He wouldn't be sprinting away anytime soon. Or walking for that matter.
The other had slipped away. He readied his blade. It was only a matter of time.
A trail of blood had appeared. His eyes followed it to behind a pillar.
There you are, you sneaky little worm...
He lept over, startling the rogue. She looked weathered. She was an easy opponent.
His blade sung as it tore through the protective leathers. The match was over. He was the victor.
-----------------
He wearily walked back to the Champion's Hall. The dwarf grinned at him.
"You're just in time... We've got just what you ordered..."
Bobaloo reeled around, and in walked a courier. But that wasn't what he was looking at.
It was the blade he was carrying. More like a blademaster's polearm. Jagged spikes lined the tip. Fiery runes had been carved into it. A small counterweight was placed on the end. It obviously wasn't forged by any local blacksmiths. It looked almost Twighlit made. Jagged. Fierce.
Brutal.
He took the blade in his hands. It was top heavy. Made for chopping. It was excellent.
"Tell me... what is this thing called?"
"We don't know. Why don't you name it? It's your sword, after all."
He looked at the blade. The runes almost seemed to pulse.
"Very well then... This blade shall be called... Wrath. For my Wrath will be unstoppable. Undeterable. Unquenchable."
