You can't stop an old man from returning. You can't stop the determined, the strong, the hungry for continuance. Far in the distance, a billow of smoke, from the horses of ten thousand men, perhaps - from the army you knew was coming, the army you knew you had crossed that day when you banished the power of Turbo from the land. Yea, he is come, he is returnéd - the Turbo The Five, once more again, here from this plain. The horses grow nearer. What judgement is at hand?
Turbo was a kind man, he says, he tells you over a plate of old beans in the bottom of the ravine. Turbo was unkindly cast out, merely for the crime of not being any kind of constructive contribution to the project at hand. One day, he says, grasping his sword in his hand, he will Return, though where to he never goes into the specifics. Do you tell him that the sword is just an old piece of sausage he carries on his waistside, making little "swoosh" noises in the side of his mouth whenever he waggles it around? You do not, of course. Something about the man still intimidates you. Something about how he swings that sausage makes you feel still intimidated. Like if he stuck you it would still be able to cut. Also food poisoning is a concern.
You met him in the old market town of Wangs, short for Waniar Gelaterangs and definitely not a naughty word of any kind in this culture, the true culture that we speak of and acknowledge none other. You meet in an old bar, where wastrels gather their time and bide themselves. And also play an amusing card game wherein they complete sentences with names for genitals. It is a sophisticated culture. You are face down in an actual honest-to-goodness bowl of Bëër (goodness! how foreign! how strange! what could this drink possibiyl represent in Another World) that you have left yourself to die in, satisfied that there is no hope left in this world, when he comes in the door. The Turbo.
Turbo comes in with a string of invective so foul that your ears just about close up. Luckily they do not close up, because first of all that would be rather difficult to treat medically, but also second of all you still manage to hear the cocking of a gun behind you in time to duck from the inevitable deathfight. Look, that's a real thing a gun does. Guns may or may not have been invented yet in the timeline but maybe this guy's just real inventive, who's to say.
After everyone has gotten the death out of their system, and things have returned to normal, you sidle up to this new man in the side of the corner. You ask him what the hell his deal is. What he thinks he's doing coming in here with naught but a sausage and starting up new deathfights. Is there a scam going on. Is he part of Big Coffin.
Nay, he says. For one thing they are not called coffins here, this is Foreign World. Yea, they are called cöffinar. (The plural "ar" is to show off how Knowledgeable About Languages I am. The ö is to make it Metal.) More importantly, I am not just here to start a deathfight and piss off. I am here to start a deathfight and remain, to see the death as it curdles. I am preparing for a death of my own.
Are the Horses Going to Kill Us, or What Edit
The last plate of beans has gone dry. There was a stoat came through here, it's meat tided you over for a day or so. Tode you over? Tade? This is the first sign. A weakness in the conjugation. The days grow long. But you know not to ask your companion when you will be moving on. You know he will treat you well.