Hi Magtok diary! This Dippy, official imp scribe-servant of Magtok, Hero War Man of the Lusty Plane! The Harpoony One busy, he say. Can’t be bothered to write own diary entry. He say “You there, ugly imp, your name is Dippy now! Go scribe stuffs for me, I too busy being important and Xabrieal whore lady fangirl was hiding under writing desk and wearing strange panties last time I try to write things myself!”
Alright Dippy, got your little foreword thing out of the way? Good, from here on out you’re to write down every last word that comes out of my mouth until I give you the codeword to stop that we mentioned. Yes, good, I see you’re doing a fine job of keeping up with everything I’m saying. You’re a
much better Dippy than the Nexus one, that’s for sure. Now let me see what we’ve got so far; I stopped for a moment to imagine some goblin you’ve never met getting sideswiped by the Skyline, and just completely lost my train of thought in doing so.
Okay, right. Yeah, Xabrieal. Not the first succubus or incubus or erinyes or whatever to try to get with the big superstar hero guy, but definitely one of the more creative ones. I made the mistake of listening to advice one of the other clones got once, of agreeing to meet the pest and then standing her up, but it didn’t work out so well. Tried to take that time I was supposedly going to spend at some silly gala, and instead use it to work on my next MagJournal entry. Was getting to a good start too, when suddenly I feel hands on my hips, followed by a certain someone wiggling right out from under my desk and into my lap, dressed in an outfit even a Slaaneshi nudist colony would probably find a little distasteful. Two A’s in Slaaneshi, Dippy. Oh wait, nevermind, you already had it right.
"Hey Shiny, we’re going to be late for the gala," she said, scooting across my lap and neatly limboing her way under the harpoon. "C’mon, let’s get you out of those nasty old robes and into that sexy uniform with all the tassels and medals and badges."
I opened my mouth to protest, only for a big, fat, ugly pair of fingers to shut me right up before I could utter a word of dissent against her unseemly intentions. Equally large, fat, ugly lips whispered right in my ear, a weird mix of brimstone and strawberries scents pattering against the side of my head. "Oooor, if you’re really not in the mood for all those stuffy diplomats and cranky generals and stupid dignitaries, we can just take those robes off, and save that gala and uniform for another day?"
Anyways, to make a long story short, my quarters aren’t quite secure enough for my tastes, and I can’t afford to spend any time in a place where people might expect me, so all my writing has to be done on the go, someone else’s hand on the quill while I keep an eye out for trouble, wandering from one part of the Clockwork Fortress to the next with about as much predictability and consistency as Kirk’s love life. I know, I know, right now it seems a lot of trouble and aggravation, just to keep a log of all the nonsense I go through here, but trust me, history will vindicate me. Deep down, I know this will all be worth it someday. Gods willing, my journal will escape to the surface, even if I don’t, and future MagClones will know my name. “Harpoontok,” they’ll say, “now there was a guy who could kick some devil ass. Man, if only I was half as sexy and talented as that
genius, that
supervillain, that
god amongst men.” I can’t ruin that now by being caught up in curtain with some spray-tanned teenagers with goat horns sticking out of their head. I simply won’t let them drown out my better judgment in a fog of lust auras, bondage gear, and cheap cologne. No hero of mine ever traded his dignity away for a warm bed, and after that near-accident with Libby (followed by a completely
different kind of accident with Libby), I just can’t take any sort of chances, no matter how many weird looks and glares I get from the local floozies. Someone will
die if I give in, and with karma the way it is, it’ll probably be me next time who does.
My imaginary future fans aren’t reading this to hear about me beating away women with a stick though, right? So let’s move on, Dippy. Let’s get back to the Second Circle as a whole, instead of fiddling around with all that fine detail stuff. Remember that new swarm enemy I mentioned in the last entry? It’s getting closer. The clock is ticking, they only get bigger and bigger with each kill, and if my suspicions are correct, it’s got everyone who isn’t working on the solution going into a crazy breeding frenzy, in a dimwitted effort to enjoy what little time we have. We’re looking at something like a zombie apocalypse, from what I’ve gotten off the intel reports, but admittedly, that’s not much, and our only advantage is that they haven’t seemed to figure out flying yet, bar one or two rare exceptions. Not much info, I know. Being a Hero Champion of Lust can only get you so far, as most of that junk is on a strict need-to-know basis. Lady Morgana and her generals assure us that everything is being done to forestall that enemy, but we all know what they’re
really up to. With all that newfound power, Her Kinkiness is having the time of her life, stomping all over Malach and Biela’s forces for daring to oppose her rule.
I don’t particularly blame her, really. I mean, if I won the divine lottery and was still in the Nexus, I’d probably suffer a little tunnel-vision, too. It probably wouldn’t be as bad, of course, since there’s only so many Reinholdts and Julies and ponies in the world, but I’d definitely be wide open for a sneak attack in those first few days of celebrating, just as she is now. Man, kinda wish I could tell her all of this, maybe smack some sentence into her yes-men generals and arrogant lackeys, but I can’t. Y’know, what with the lust auras complicating things. Hers especially, what with it being turned way past eleven and all. I probably shouldn’t be telling you all of this, Dippy, it being borderline treason and all, but I know you won’t rat me out. I mean, you’re an
imp. I’m a war hero, and since it’d be your word against mine…I think even your namesake could figure out why that wouldn’t work out for you in the end. Speaking of the real Dipsnig, have you ever wondered why goblins are so dumb and ugly? I think it’s because they-
AAAAAUGH OH GODS EARTHQUAKE AIEEEEE! WE’RE FLYING IN A GIANT FORTRESS AND SOMEHOW THERE’S AN EARTHQUAKE GOING ON WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?! OH GODS, NOOOO! NO GODS, TAKE DIPPY INSTEAD, NOBODY WOULD EVER MISS HIM AND-
Hrm? What, it’s over? Wow, well
that was weird. The alarm’s still going off, though. Something about battle stations, and getting into them, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what mine was. Think we’re finally being invaded? Yeah, that’s probably what’s going on, isn’t it? Can you keep writing and following me while I go do heroic battle stuffs, Dippy? You sure? I mean, I don’t want to risk it if you’ve got a gun or something you could be shooting instead, but if you're sure...
Oh, and move on to a fresh new MagJournal entry, would you? I think we’ve covered just about enough with this one. Also, if you get shot or stabbed or exploded or eaten alive, try to shut the journal closed as fast as you can, alright? I don’t want gross imp viscera ruining my-
