Bob set out with one mission: throw the greatest cross-alliance outpost party Kingdom 1507 had ever seen. He had snacks, questionable fireworks, and a banner that read "WELCOME TO THE DIPLOMATIC CHAOS FESTIVAL." Unfortunately, the alliances did not share his enthusiasm.
He started at TTK, bursting into their outpost like a confetti grenade with legs. Mystcl69 took one look at Bob dragging a keg labeled "Probably Safe" and immediately declared, "Absolutely not." Bob tried to argue that the party was "strategically beneficial," but Mystcl69 physically escorted him out before he could light anything on fire — intentionally or otherwise.
Undeterred, Bob sprinted to APX, waving glowsticks and shouting for Lady Kara. She emerged mid-meeting, armor still smoking from battle. Bob launched into a pitch involving music, snacks, and "a mild chance of explosions." Kara didn't even slow down. "Not today, Bob." She walked past, leaving him standing there with a sparkler sadly fizzing out.
Next stop: LGD. Bob strutted into their outpost like he owned the place. King Ian took one look at him, one look at the fireworks, and simply pointed at the exit. Bob tried to explain it was a "morale-boosting cultural exchange," but Ian had already summoned guards.
Bob left at high speed. He tried SOV next. Aladdin listened politely for exactly four seconds before saying, "No parties. No Bob. No exceptions." Bob attempted a dramatic monologue about unity and celebration, but Aladdin shut the door mid-speech.
Finally, Bob arrived at FAR, where Rambo was sharpening something large and unfriendly. Bob opened his mouth to invite him. Rambo just growled, "No." Bob left without further negotiation.
Rejected by all five alliances, Bob trudged home — until he brightened. If no one would host his party, he'd simply throw it himself. Somewhere. Somehow. Probably illegally. And Kingdom 1507 would never be ready.
Bob found it at dawn: an abandoned, half-collapsed outpost on the edge of nowhere, perfect for the kind of party no alliance would ever approve of. The gates hung crooked, the torches were long dead, and something inside bleated ominously. To Bob, this meant one thing — ideal venue. He dragged in crates of snacks, barrels of "experimental" drinks, and a suspiciously large speaker system he swore he "borrowed" from somewhere that definitely wasn't APX. Then he lit a flare, screamed "OPEN INVITATION," and the kingdom answered.
The Terrors arrived first, stomping in like a mobile earthquake. They immediately began head-butting the walls to "test structural integrity," which Bob declared was "part of the vibe." Moments later the Vikings stormed in, axes raised, chanting battle songs wildly off-key. Bob handed them glowsticks. They used them as weapons anyway. Then came the Beasts — massive, snarling, and somehow already wearing party hats. One of them stole the snack table. Another tried to dance. A third chased Bob in circles until he bribed it with a whole barrel of something flammable.
And then the goat arrived. No one invited the goat. No one knew where it came from. It simply appeared on a broken rampart, staring down at the chaos like a tiny, judgmental king. Bob saluted it. The goat head-butted a barrel off the wall and instantly became the party's spiritual leader.
The outpost descended into glorious, unhinged madness — Terrors drumming on shields, Vikings doing competitive yelling, Beasts wrestling each other through abandoned buildings, and Bob crowd-surfing on a door he insisted was "tradition." By sunrise, the outpost was somehow still standing. Barely. Bob declared the night a historic success, the goat bleated in agreement, and the Terrors carried Bob away chanting his name like he'd just won a tournament of pure stupidity.
Kingdom 1507 would hear rumors of this party for weeks.