Hero

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Pogo Naan Junior

level 69

We don't need no motto!

Age 11 years 4 months
Personality neutral
Guild no guild
Monsters Killed about 163 thousand
Death Count 109
Wins / Losses 28 / 31
Temple Completed at 06/03/2014
Wood for Ark 70.9%
Savings 3M, 44k (10.1%)
Pet Grounded hog Sooba 16th level

Equipment

Weapon out-of-phaser +78
Shield random innocent bystander +79
Head aye-aye cap +79
Body suspenders of disbelief +78
Arms ion fists +78
Legs stalactights +79
Talisman albatross necklace +79

Skills

  • seasickness level 48
  • steel finger level 47
  • electro-broom level 42
  • thumb beating level 40
  • explosive character level 39
  • knight's move level 36
  • mating contact level 34
  • mosquito roar level 31
  • disarming smile level 31
  • unbearable boredom level 24

Pantheons

Gratitude704
Might19924
Templehood9863

Achievements

  • Builder, 1st rank
  • Favorite, 1st rank
  • Animalist, 2nd rank
  • Martyr, 2nd rank
  • Renegade, 2nd rank
  • Saint, 2nd rank
  • Shipwright, 2nd rank
  • Careerist, 3rd rank
  • Champion, 3rd rank
  • Hunter, 3rd rank

Hero's Chronicles

Wait! What? I was promised free beer! Now I’m trapped in a box with a stack of papers entitled Pogo Naan Junior’s Chronicles, whatever that means. My god, Loogadoo, is a great god. So awesome is his power that I’m being forced to write by a thuggish looking cherub with a very sharp spear. Bizarre, eh? Ouch, okay okay I’m writing. Is that enough?

Again!? I should stop trusting men in duffel coats and trillbies who promise me free beer. At least that cherub went away. Wait what’s THIS? Oh. It’s the free beer. 5 HOURS IN THIS SHED and a six-pack of ‘evil double stregnth lager’ was under the table ALL THIS TIME! You see, the keeeee tah yappiness iz lutsand luntsov beeyeah. I well commmmmit ursan wiv ay tufe pek. Hehehehay!

No beer. Also I’ve discovered a shocking secret about my ancestry. Well, not all that shocking but you look around this shed and you get writer’s block so anything is interesting. I am 6th in a long line of completely unrelated Pogo Naans. I am good friends with my dad, Pogo Naan VII, and I know that’s sort of weird. He’s very interesting, and I think he takes after me. But he believes in some whacked out conspiracy drivel about some fake god called Loogidoo. Pah! What a load of nonsense! Loogadoo is very real.

Ouch got struck by lightning!

It rained rose petals in my shed. Loogadoo, this is getting weird.

Oh no! I was… actually I don’t know where I was, but I don’t know where I am even more! And there’s a bottle of sissy white wine.

WRITE SOMETHING.

Here I am, brain the size of a… thingy. Never mind, then. Dad tells me that the guild Guide to the Galaxy is ‘the wholly awesomest guild in the whole of the known universe’. I’m going to join this strange, but compellingly popular and excellent guild, but I’m having doubts of Dad’s sanity. He tells stories of Captain Jean Luc Hamish Picard of Spare Oom a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. And the loose with a screw. “Did I tell you about the loose with a screw?” he would say. And then he would just wander off again. Loose with a screw. What does that even mean?

Not again! Well at least there’s a couple of vodka martinis (shaken not stirred). Ooooooooo, I loik may er grud rererered herring!

Aww, just a lemon. I’m bored now…

This is undrinkable. It is a wholly UNDRINKABLE cardboard cut-out of a tankard of ale. On the other side it says “write, or you’ll never see another unit of Old Burblegrogg’s Cheap but Strong Beer again”.

I invented a new shape (it’s got 5 sides and I call it a Pogonaanjunior-agon), ate my shoes, and wrote a little poem in my boredom. Here is the poem:

/////////////////////////

Oh but a sledgey frip of a lad was I

when I spied a little orange hirruping fly

whatever it was I thought it was quite drappily

clop flop and iffispunt in it’s jengle

but why I perhaps would gurgle a moop

to discover the truth

behind that thingy

resplendant in it’s gludge

upon a round glob a glob of such flutty smutch it might,

as a sort of frothy respoog, drintly flaz in, in, into the depths of a noixious spin flagging down a winter’s whopdip

just to blow either of it’s noses.

Perhaps I shall never know.

/////////////////////////////////////

Maybe I’ve gone a bit perculiar…

WRITE SOMETHING DECENT.

Gin and tonic. Better than nothing. Worse than everything else: there’s no little umbrella. I mean, what am I supposed to to if it rains in… this… shed… I need new shoes, by the way.

It’s.

Me.

Sobriety, ah the years. I want a drink.

It says write, so I’ll write. I’ll write so much it makes you cry. Yes, YOU. Here it goes. Bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla surely bla I bla could bla do bla something bla more bla useful bla bla bla bla bla than bla this bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla OUCH! At least I got my beer, even if I will need stitches.

WRITE SOMETHING DECENT WE MEAN IT.

Oi, get your own chronicles!

As the new pope of Potatonia, I would like to thank Old Burblegrogg for his fantabulous beeeeeeeeeer and for letting me borrow his herd of pink elephants- I needed a main course at the party. Chickens weren’t enough to feed more than all 97-and-a-half mouths to feed, particularly since most of them crossed the road to get to the other side! A toast to Old Burblegrogg and his ex-pink ex-elephants! Which were very nice, if a bit overcooked.

It’s a race against time! I only have forty eight hours to do something to not get sober in forty eight hours and I only have forty eight hours!

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING

What did I say? 1: I am most certainly not joking about the chicken. It crossed to get to the other side. And 2: I said quite clearly that you should get your own chronicles. I’m telling my god on you!

Ooh, this is weird! It’s like everything’s updated! The shed is a different colour and is more sort of a bit square. And the spwllcheck. It’s all cool, so there are wigly red lines when it’s spelt wrong. Woohoo! Hey, that’s a wurd! Woohoo is a wurd, but I suppose wurd isn’t.

Once upon a time… that’s a rubish, no wait, thanks spellcheck, rubbish, begining to a story. Look, I have no beer, no means of escape, and no imagination. If half of last night actually happened, I would be pages on by now about the goats and their houses and the big bad, um, dalek. Maybe it’s subliminal. Don’t know what that means, read it off a gin bottle. An empty gin bottle. I think I’ll practise my Seasickness until I get to level 20. Not working. Still not working. I think I’m getting worse. Wait, it’s working! Joking dude. Dude. Duuuuuuuude. Good word that. By which I mean the word “dude”.

DON’T MAKE US ANGRY

You can buy your own paper at G.V.Smiths and a shed, I imagine, at TempleBase or maybe a chariot-boot sale.

I wonder if I can brew something with ink, remnants of this booze, cleaning fluid and my own urine? Mind you, I’ve drank most of the cleaning stuff. (Trust me, vanilla scented things are not like vanilla flavoured things.)

THE ANSWER IS NO

Well there! I tried to help, but oh no! Too stubborn! What do you want, literature?

YES

Oh. What a stupid request, this is Godville, you realise?

Woohoo! Seasickness level 22! Oh no, I think I’m going to be sick…

Just found the door. It was in the one place I’d never think to look. It was such a mad place to put a secret door, I must admit to having fainted. And I swear it had nothing to do with the ultra-creepy door knocker. Even though it was so ultra-creepy. Seriously, it was the scariest thing in Godville with three nails and a hinge! I hope that this poem will calm it down:

////////////////////////////

Oh knocker, door knocker,

don’t kill me!

I’m helpless and trapped as a hirruping bee!

If you leave me alone I might

write fontobluoush a poem about you-

Ok, thanks. What a shocker of a knocker!

//////////////////////////////////

And that’s all I remember before the lights went out. But I think I hit my head. But I think I hit my head. Yes, what a shocker, but the door was on the wall behind the wine rack. Wine rack? Just a second, I’ll escape in a minute…

You thought there was closure, didn’t you? As I started to escape again, a hoarde of pink elephants started to stampede right towards me screaming, “DEATH TO THE ONE WITH SILLY OLD KNEES! BURN HIM! CRUSH HIM! TOSS HIM IN THE GRINDER AND CALL HIM A NUN! DEATH TO THE NUN WITH SILLY OLD KNEES!”. Which I thought was a bit rude, especially at that hour. I fought them back until I could nail the exit shut. They banged on the door for hours and then fell silent. Once they had, I really shouldn’t have taunted them so. I said they were the real nuns here and that my knees were perfectly fine thankyou very much dear. They didn’t like that one little bit. Oh no. Now they are throwing hip flasks through the gap under the door. They said I had to drink it. Well, I had no choice, did I? Afterwards, they said drink it they actually meant pour them on my silly old knees, which I thought very immature indeed. Naturally, I blew rasperries and said that my perfectly healthy knees needed none of that tosh and to keep the tosh coming. So they did. I drank until I wheeeeeeeeeeeelalalalalalayayah… Not again! I thought they’d had enough of my writing. Also, I’ve renamed the Pogonaanjunior-agon to just Naanagon. Hmm, according to these statistics, which say I am very mighty and also that I am off my head on Old Burblegrogg’s… a week percent of the time. Wait that can’t be right I’m way more off my head that a week! I mean I can’t even see my feet. I lllllove that Burblegrogg, he’s a bloody hoopy genius. He can take just 20ml of sanfabioneutrogenoxide, 6ml of yeast, 20ml of sanfabioneutrogenoxine, 6ml of yeast, 20ml of… what does that say? …sanfabio- oh oh I’ve been reading the same line over and over and over and AAAAAARGH WHERE THE HELL ARE MY FEET?!