Rolling over the worked metal in my hands, I couldn't help but grin once again. The piece of metal was expertly crafted, its shined polish reflecting my face. A streak of orange tinted in the reflection, showing a special technique to achieve an even greater effect. I ran my hands slowly over the faceplate, feeling the grooves with awe. Quickly pulling up my reference model, I compared it to the item I now held. With each glance, my grin grew wider, giddier. The replica was perfect - the final piece of my suit, paid for with hard-earned cash, was an exact copy of the original.
Setting the helmet down, I rushed to my room, where the rest of the set awaited - a genuine suit of chain mail, a grooved chestplate with a decorated, tattered cloth hanging over it, a pair of worn yet beautiful gauntlets, and masterfully crafted steel greaves. Seeing the metal footwear, I laughed - remembering my first time trying them on, and the motivation that led to my current, fit frame. I quickly slipped into the chainmail, sliding the fitting suit on in a practiced motion before fitting on the chestplate, following with the greaves, and struggling slightly with the straps of his gauntlets.
Turning to leave my personal space, I paused at a mirror, giving a grin that I couldn't help but laugh at. But I had every right - I had paid top dollar for each and every one of these pieces, and it was so painstakingly close to complete. Just one more piece, and I would be ready for Comicon. Jogging into my living room, I snatched up the helmet and caressed it, feeling the perfect form of the metal, my hands lingering on the flame-like "crown" atop the helm. Calmed, I released a content sigh and pulled it on. The fit, just like the detail, was perfect, and the giddiness returned with a vengeance. Walking back to his room, I looked myself over in the mirror once again. It took several moments to sink in. . . the armor was complete. Letting out a whoop, I pranced about the room, slashing and stabbing at imaginary foes. Nothing could ruin this feeling.
Then I punched my mirror. The sound of breaking glass shocked me out of my fantasy, and I stood transfixed as glass dropped to the carpet.
Almost nothing.
"God dammit!"
"God DAMMIT!"
Sweat beading my brow, I slashed furiously and aggressively, breaking my attack only to desperately roll to the side. Delivering a swing, I saw my enemy slip around the blow, circling. Always circling. I spun and threw a wild thrust - but my foe disappeared, and I let out a roar of frustration as a sword blasted through my chest.
Cursing violently, I hurled my controller aside as the expected death text appeared on-screen over my enemy's taunting character. Letting out a groan, I muttered "Stupid goddamn lag bullshit." Exhausted, I tapped the console's power button, resigned to retrieving my souls later. Sitting at my computer, I pulled up Youtube and laid back, fantasizing about glorious adventures in the Souls universe as I listened to a song based on the very same series, Forever Flame. With a calming sigh, I smiled, imagining, in my journey, encountering my last opponent and engaging in a dazzling display of swordplay before emerging the victor.
A chiming sound broke me from my fantasy, and I stood with a groan, stretching my cramping back before walking to my door. I pulled the portal open, regarding the postman as the he stared at the unusual attire I wore. Clearing my throat, I raised an eyebrow questioningly. With a start, the postman apologized.
...
Five minutes later, I was furiously ripping into a long package, eyes fevered with excitement. This was it - I knew it. This was the day I'd be complete. Once the cardboard was torn through, I paused, took a deep breath, and reverently unrolled the wrapping that encased my latest prize. When the item was revealed, I couldn't help but let out a moan of awe. The was no need for a model to tell. . . the Firelink Greatsword, encased in its sheath, was perfect. Hesitantly, my hands reached out and lifted the weapon. This thing. . . this couldn't really be mine. . . yet, it was. Letting out a light laugh of amazement, I strapped the scabbard to my hip and reached for the hilt. . . only to pause.
The moment needed to be perfect.
In my room, I carefully polished my helmet, clearing the admittedly cumbersome item of any residue that may so much as taint its surface. Solemnly, I lifted the steel armor piece, placing it onto my head like a badge of honor. Taking a deep breath, I walked to the center of the room. It was time, and I was ready. My right hand lifted, falling to my left hip in a slow, dramatic fashion. My hand slowly wrapped around the twisted handle before tensing and ripping it free with a powerful swing of my arm. Then, as my eyes followed the whistling blade, they widened in shock as it seemed to split the very fabric of reality!
Then. . . I fell from the world.
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