Sometimes a man has just.. one.. bad.. day. And he sets out on a journey. A journey to get revenge. For what, he doesn't know. Upon whom.. well, he'll see.

He starts out with a rock.


He shapes it, molds it.

Takes a knife to it. Beats his head against that wall until he finds the cracks in it. The keyholes, the secret doors, the fractures. Until that rock has E9, and at least S3 (although ideally S5), and N3+. Then he begins the research. He researches the dark art of thaumaturgy.

A lesser man would begin the forging. Put a copper arm on his rock. Give it a leeching dagger. Research Alteration, Enchantment, so it could harden itself, regenerate it's wounds. Conjuration so it could reinvigorate itself, give it an amulet of reinvigoration from Const. But no.

This man researches thaumaturgy.

Because he has only one goal, this man. One desire.

As soon as he reaches Thau 3, he casts the spell.

There is nothing to fear but the drop itself.

To land on the enemy's capital, mono-ready, mono-powerful, mono-lith. To fight off the enemy's troops with nothing but mind burn and gumption.

To lay siege to an enemy citadel with nothing but a slab of rock.

It's madness. But it's the kind of madness that chews through a concrete wall and whispers blood and tooth chips into your ear, breathless, a neverending mono rumbling.

A cautious man might wait, prepare his beloved rock - give it all the tools it needs to make it's drop successful.

We might call this man the true monodropper - a cautious, workmanlike soul who keeps his dark-eyed madness hidden from the world. He gives his rock regeneration, resistance, enough astral to resist magical duels, tempered flesh, reinvigoration, items... all the care and grooming it could desire.

A rock so adorned is powerful. But slow. The satisfaction of the sudden, inexplicable monodrop is lost.. instead there is the creeping doom of the monocrawl, the helplessness of knowing you could have prevented the monodrop but were unable - a far more sadistic fate than the gleeful early monodrop of the less cautious monodrop enthusiast.

You have to ask yourself - do you have the icy heart of the sadistic slow-dropper?

Or the burning soul of the fast-dropper?

Questions, indeed.

To have monodropped and triumphed is the bitterest and sweetest sacrament a monodropper can know.

But quickly is it overtaken by bitter certitude - what potion or trinket could overcome this longing, this need for the thrill of the hunt so swiftly past your lips?

Hands aquivering, brought to fever's peak, is this the end?

No.

Taking the domkilled fortress of your enemy. Your beloved rock will be awaiting you there. In the time of the drop you have prepared the tools to make your next drop stronger.

You will go on as before. You will not drop once, but twice. Thrice. More.

There is no end. There is no sense. There is only the Drop.