The joke of it all is that there was no rare spawn nearby, no resource node within a country mile, and really, no reason at all for the bloke's sword to be sticking out of my gullet other than the sheer spitefulness and possible adolescent maladjustment of its owner.
All I can do is hurriedly click the respawn button to save my poor avatar from the tea-bagging fate that is surely worse than his latest pseudo-death. Phuxurmom, a conqueror according to my combat spam, swings his sword deftly and, in two swift strokes, my assassin lies sprawled in a pool of his own guts as they spread beneath him on the frozen tundra, his head a few feet removed from the rest of his body and his arms embarrassingly akimbo.
