From a realm of epic combats between clashing clans of wizardly fellows, burly mustachioed barbs, fire-breathing dragons, immortal heroes and suicidal wall breaking and piloting skeletons called skelts comes the rise of an immortal to be forever remembered as the “Purple One.”
This is the legend of the Purple Immortal and his Clash of Clans...
Village Hermit (Hermitville) of Clan Hermit Kingdom
“Why my love? Don’t leave me. Please, Angie.”
“Where do I begin—? Your ears are too pointy, your skin is grossly green, Kyle,” Angie the healer complained.
“That’s who I am: a goblin,” Kyle protested. “Your eyes are freakishly huge and puffy—”
She drew a dramatized sharp breath in outrage. “How dare you!”
“But you don’t hear me complaining,” he stressed.
She glared daggers. “Said blackie to the kettle.”
“Blackie to the kettle...?” Kyle paraphrased, puzzled. “Are you trying to say ’look who is calling the kettle black?”
“Yes—that—whatever. Your eyes are huge and puffy as you’re portly too.”
“That is something we both have in common, which is why we should be together, my angel,” Kyle said with an impassioned note.
“No!” she pouted looking sideways. “Your sharp tongue is not going to convince me. Not again.”
Kyle flashed his tongue, adding a literal sense to the word “sharp and pointy” with a wink-wink, suggestive of pillow-talk pleasures.
“Stop it! You fart in your sleep too, and they leave those green traily fumes. Ugh, and it stinks like a steamy pile of shit soup.”
“Angie!?” he scowled from a place of wounded pride when heard someone let a rude, throaty sound of embarrassment for him. “Can we talk somewhere private?”
“Wizard, here is an incredible gorgy to the tenth power,” she said poignantly.
“Thank you my darling,” Gorgy the wizard said. “HAZZAH!” he conjured a rose for her.
“And magical.” She accepted the flower, inhaling the scent with delight.
“I have gold,” Kyle countered manifesting a gold coin.
“Bye Kyle. Gold can’t buy you true love,” Angie said hugging her new man.
“And a flimsy flower that will die by morning does?”
She sighed in resignation. “We must go before he kills the flower with his smelly farts.”
“Don’t go, Angie,” Kyle cried stepping forward.
“You heard her goblin. Disappear or I’ll make you disappear,” Gorgy threatened and he meant it.
He stepped back recognizing Gorgy’s seriousness. And there he stood, watching the love of his life disappear in the arms of another man. “What is a gorgy anyways?”
“The sweet spot between gorgeous and orgasmic,” one of his gold coin sack handlers said.
“Shut up!” I know what it means,” he lied looking away when he caught sight of an immortal. “Is that a barbarian king?”
“Not our Hermit clearly.”
“We are here,” Baron the barbarian king told his company of seven that included six barbarians and a hog rider. They were in the thicket of things, the belly of the beast, the boondocks of the hermit: Hermit village, or so he thought. The clan often referred to as the renegade nation and axis of evil—lived up to its certified name—as the sole village of clan Hermit Kingdom, but it was everything short of been tagged “boondocks” as rumor had it.
The village had the grandest of walls—translucent with flowing lava and faucet effects—the most developed, Baron had ever seen. Outside the walls proudly flew banners with ensigns, torches and weather vanes. And in the extremities as far as the eyes could see stood builder’s huts.
Floating over the army camps outside the walls were dark balloons with white skull ensigns and gray-black steel for armor hovering at ear height of the giants below—who were laughing in deep bellows—with the skelts in the balloons. The cheerfulness of the giants didn’t take away from their menacing faces with long, thick red beards—wearing brown tunics with golden breastplates underneath and black feather capes. On their arms were cuffs and knuckles of black steel. They were getting ready for a raid it seemed.
“Balloons,” Butch the hog rider said in awe.
“I’ll never get your fascination with balloons,” one of the barbs in their company said.
“What can I say? I love balloons.”
They passed through the entrance of the first wall into the village without much hindrance as the mood inside the village was festive. Baron wondered what the cheerfulness was all about.
“It’s our King’s leveling-up day!” a villager said when Baron asked.
Baron wondered about the hermit king’s level of abilities and battle prowess as did many clans and clanless villages. Not much was known about King Hermit of Hermitville since the last Frore (Clash of Clan) war that left the king sore with reclusiveness and an extensive fortification program as was evident.
As they neared the second tier wall, the defenses started coming into view. It was immaculate with impressive alternating wizard and archer towers. Mortars and cannons also. In the four corners of the village’s core behind the second tier wall were X-bows, inferno towers, air defenses and a cumbersome structure that looked like an eagle. Baron wondered what it was and what it did. There were a couple of gold and elixir storages glinting with gold and overflowing with elixir. Behind the walls ahead were more storages and resource buildings. They appeared unimpressive and at the detriment compared to the village’s fortification.
And last, but not least the town hall in the middle of the village. It was state of the art. The building was white overall with some red and the main door with three huge spikes supported by a winch system. The roof had two battlements at its front corners with a single watchtower and a crimson flag at one of the hind corners. Behind the town hall was the clan castle that flew the green banner with the hermit crab silhouette ensign of the Hermit Kingdom (clan).
The landscaping was scenic with purple cornflower and yellow sunflower beds. Nestled in the garden were statues of the Ancient Skull, PEKKA and the Mighty “Barbarian” statue brandishing a sword in the air.
“How about that one?” Butch pointed to another statue on another flower bed in the distance.
Baron squinted at the statue. He was “not sure.” It was obviously a male figure statue with the facial features of a giant, but with the purple hair of an Archer Queen. In one hand of the statue was a thick book and in the other, a long wooden staff with what looked like a crystal at the top. The statue had more purple than any other colors. He decided to call it the “purple statue.”
They summed up collectively before moving on into the town hall. The crowded town hall was even more impressive within—brightly lit with a lava system on the roof that gave the space a golden glow.
Trestle tables and benches lined the main floor of the room, and a dais had been erected at the other end of the room from the entrance where a great throne sat, occupied by their host, Hermit the barbarian king himself.
“Welcome,” a wizard said with a grin. “You must be Baron the barbarian king.”
“Yes,” we are here to see King Hermit.”
“I am Gorgy the wizard and I’ll be your official guide for the duration of your visit in village Hermit, ” the wizard stressed.
“An official guide?” Baron drew his brows. Even more strange was the name: “Gorgy.”
“Yes. Follow me,” he said leading them to vacant seats in the front row before the dais among other wizards who’s attention were transfixed on the dais. “The king will give the signal when he is ready to see you.”
At the moment, King Hermit was on his feet as he presented the Royal Cloak to his archer queen. “Do you, archer Queen M’Onnadapri solemnly swear to uphold the altar of Archer Queen, and use the invisibility and summoning power of the Royal Cloak to preserve, protect and defend the interest of this village and clan Hermit Kingdom?”
She smiled sweetly. “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the altar of archer queen to the best of my ability and preserve, protect and defend the interest of Hermitville and clan Hermit Kingdom.”
With that the king donned on her shoulders the Royal Cloak before planting a kiss on her forehead.
“Forever Hermit!” the king bellowed, his voice shaking the hall. The hall replied with a resounding cry.
Together, both king and queen stepped back hand-in-hand to their respective throne.
Baron thought Queen M’Onnadapri had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, like sapphire on ice lamping her voluptuous eminence.
“Let the ale flow,” Hermit said as he sat back on his throne.
“Ale!” the hall reverberated as tankards clanked all over.
For a quick moment, Baron locked eyes with his host, who had hard-set dark eyes. The only thing dark in his golden glamour.
Hermit was back on his feet again, bidding for silence. When the hall quieted down, he announced: “there is a fellow barbarian king in our midst today,” and looking the way of Baron, he said, “ Welcome, and introduce yourself.”
All eyes were on Baron now. He wasn’t expecting such a public spectacle of him and his business here, but he stepped forward anyways. “I am Baron the Barbarian king of village Red Baron.”
“And your clan?”
“It’s one of the reasons I am here. My village is without a clan and we seek to join Hermit Kingdom.”
There was a heart-beat of silence that suddenly broke with an uproar of laughter. Baron looked from the audience behind him to the king on the dais. He didn’t remember saying something funny.
Hermit raised his hand to stop the uproar. “Why should we accept your request?”
“You’ll be lending a hand to a fellow barb. We need high-level clan castle reinforcement troops to defend our village against recent and incessant raids. That way we can develop our facilities and resources.”
“I think I meant of what benefit to me. For future reference, start with that before whatever you just said,” Hermit said returning to his throne without a word more.
There was an uneasy moment of silence, before Baron asked, “what say you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermit said smugly. “Just for kicks, how many battle trophies do you own?”
Baron sensed the set-up for another round of laughter, but he was desperate. This wasn’t just about him. His entire village was at stake here. So he took the bait, “Just over thirteen-hundred trophies.”
Baron thought right as sniggers swept through the hall. There was mirth on the lips of his host. King Hermit was enjoying himself at his expense. The trophy count of a village was directly proportional to a village’s power and wealth. Sad to say his village was a far cry from wealth and power compared to Hermitville. The ornate reddish-brown shield with a fiery roaring skull hanging over Hermit’s throne attested to Hermitville’s—transcendence from Bronze, Silver, Gold, Crystal, Master—to “Champion” league status on the favorable spectrum of power and resources. Just shy of the Titan and Legend league. Meaning Hermit had over thirty-two-hundred battle trophies.
“You are not even in the Gold League,” Hermit laughed. “The answer is no. You are of no use to me. What are you? A five’up Barbarian King with your steel gauntlet and shoulder guard,” he concluded rhetorically.
Compared to King Hermit’s gold gauntlet and gold trimmed shoulder guard—evidence of him being somewhere around or above a twenty’up barbarian king—of which Baron was the lesser.
Swallowing his bride, Baron walked out of the hall with an abominable feeling of humiliation, but with his chin up; his company following suit.
As much as Baron wanted to rid his presence from Hermit village, he had to have a drink. He’d rid his crown from his head, but he still stood out like the rotten apple in the tavern as him and his company attracted stares like fruit flies.
He took a swig of ale, reminiscing.
His barbs were trying to comfort him, but he wasn’t listening. He’d lost all senses but feeling it seemed when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He steered to the direction of the touch. At first, he heard nothing but a muffled voice.
“There is somebody wanting to talk to you upstairs,” the voice that wasn’t one of that of his company and unknown to him said.
“Upstairs,” the voice repeated urgently, leading the way. “Just you.”
Securing his sword, he followed. He was taken up the stairs and then to a well-furnished room where a recently familiar purple figure stood. An average in girth fellow with purple facial hair vested in white and purple robes with a short cape that reminded him of the statue outside the town hall. The statue must have been modeled after him.
“Welcome King Baron,” the purple haired fellow said with a slight bow. “Your official welcome to Hermitville.”
Finally someone with some decency around these parts. “This is a strange way for a king to welcome another king. Indirectly—after being ridiculed.”
“Who said this is from King Hermit? This is me personally. Though the royal court doesn’t appreciate your visit, I welcome you.” He offered him a cup.
Baron was hesitant, the man’s wit-whip look troubled him. “Who are you?”
“Waltz The Grand Warden. Think of me as a wizard and a healer embedded in one.”
A warden...That is new, he thought as he accepted the cup but not drinking from it. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you have a kiss of destiny, my good king.”
Baron sighed wanting to take his leave at the cliché he’d heard too many times. “Your guile and wit gives me the willies. Whatever you’re selling am not buying.”
He was one step out the door when Waltz said: “sounding like the king who just ridiculed you out of his hall. I guess you all barbarian kings are alike.”
Again...the wit. However, Baron stopped in his tracks; he wasn’t another King Hermit. “What do you want?”
“No, it’s what I have to give to you.”
Baron was puzzled. “What are you giving me then?”
“How about twenty-nine trophies for starters, enough to get you into the Gold League, and the gold and elixir that comes with all that.”
He knew he had him now. “How?”
“I’ll be in touch,” Waltz said leaving Baron reeling with anticipation in the room. “Bye for now barbarian.”