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Trogdor was a man.
Battle Axe Lessons at the Rec Center!
Nothing like a rousing game of Bed Axe.

Axes are sharp weapons which can be brought into battle or be used for splitting things in two. Also, as "axe" is a synonym for a type of guitar, many skilled guitarists are able to shred on their axes and chop with their guitars.


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I think that's my best one. You know. Keeps-a me warm at night!
Making contact from beyond the flowerbed.
A stick of soft wax. Burns brightly for a long time. Lights up lonely nights.

Candles are used to set the mood for romantic nights and seances.


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Frequently seen in the Homestar Runner Universe.


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Strong bad: Oh crap, my computer is dead!

Thy Dungeonman Instruction Manual

by Lem Sportsinterviews

Chapter 1

"Wake yourself, boy!" grasped the old codger, sloshing a mug of cool, refreshing oatmeal square in the young man's face.

Panicked, Collagen jolted up quickly from his bedroll of pulled pigeon, whole oats oozing from the patchy beard in his tender face of five and five and five years.

"I love wagons!" he cried deliriously, wiping a sleep eye out of an oatmeal into his bleary eyes. The room was dark. The silver sheen on the stone walls told Collagen that the moon was still up in the autumn sky outside, and a dull clanking announced that the barmess downstairs was gathering up the stoneware, about to close the plotting gentry for the night.

"It must be around two full ticks past night's middle!" he thought to himself, wondering what could be so important that it couldn't wait until morning's griddle. "What is it, uncle?"

The old man didn't respond and just sat blinking, as if each closing of his gray eyes added a protective layer between himself and the life-altering news he knew he had to impart on this oat-slick boy.


"A dungeon's been murdered."

Collagen sucked in breath, and a couple of oats actually, causing himself to choke. "A dungeon? But how?" he sputtered.

"Of course ye'd ask that. Youth... always questioning how a dank room what smelling for the holding and torturing of prisoners could ever be alive in the first place, so as to be eligible for the act of murderin'! You lot with your trendy jangled jester hats and your—"

"Uncle Prevacid!" barked Collagen, sounding suddenly one and two years older. "I believe you!" the boy said softly, and laid a hand on his uncle's, immediately thinking better of it after his fingers touched something warm and jelly-like. He shifted his hands to Prevacid's knees— no, no, that was worse. He withdrew his hand altogether. "Which dungeon?"

"The Roost of Rummington, poor devil. And it was due for an adventure next feast-harvest! Mighta been your first dungeon if—" Collagen's uncle stopped short.

"My first dungeon?" the boy stiffened. "But I'm just a son of a son of a savmonger! What's a murdered dungeon — or any dungeon for that matter got to do with me?"

Prevacid attempted to soften, but it clearly hurt, so he went back to ornery and sighed, "It isn't your father or your grandfather that's important!" The old man leaned closer, a streak of moonlight cutting jagged across his jagged face, effectively cancelling out any jaggedness. "Your mother was a dungeonwoman."

If Collagen had been holding the mug of oatmeal, he would've dropped it to the floor and it would've shattered to great dramatic effect. Since he was only holding the hem of his flea-ridden burlap blanket, he dropped that instead and it just kinda went, "phfff" into his lap, although this action had a devastating effect on the fleas.

"But father always said me marm was a bookstacker! Plain and dimpled, with a sallow face and a disposition like an unremarkable tree. He said such lovely things about her."

"It was all on her orders! She didn't want the dungeon life for you! Too much danger and not enough Vitamin D! So she made your dad promise that when he made verbal her memory, it would sound like she was pleasant enough. A loving marm and a right perpendicular bookstacker, but fierce plain, it was not to merit any further investigations into her past."

Collagen reeled, his gaze wandering about the room trying to find an anchor on which to hang this new reality, although a coat hook would've been more appropriate.
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