After a little conversation and one or two questions, I had finally become a member of a tribe. “CrazyDave” had come along to meet me and began to show me around the headquarters which stretched an impressive distance, from stockpiles to fishing areas and beyond. Finally, at the end of the tour I was told that I was free to rummage through any supplies and help myself to anything I needed. I was like a fat kid robbing a sweet shop. As soon as “CrazyDave” or CD as he was now becoming known as, had turned his back, I began rifling through the grass baskets that littered the floor.
A dozen or so minutes later and I emerged away from the storage area of the tribe. My body was a glorious rainbow of colours and materials. On my head I wore a cowboy hat, on my face a makeshift Samurai mask, and on my body a lovely leather jacket. I looked cool, and I felt cool.
After indulging in a spot of Tribe thievery, I was at a loss at what I should do next. I was told that I could erect a tent within the fortress and if I needed help, all I was to do was ask. The real question now was what task I could undertake for the necessity of help. Taking a different approach, and in the name of friendliness, I addressed the Tribe chat channel, “Hi guys, does anyone need help with anything...I’m bored” I added the last clause as a way of saying, I’m one of you normal dudes. I think it worked.
I was asked to collect scrap metal within the piles that overshadowed our tribe territory. It was a laborious task which involved running around waiting for the action bar to show a picture of scrap metal. For several, long, minutes I roamed around the scrap pile searching for metal. When I found a piece I would crouch low and pick it up, and it would appear on my back – once this task was repeated four times I would deposit my gains on a nearby pile of likewise materials. I was a functional member of a group; I was an asset to this tribe.
I could feel my attention span beginning to flag after a dozen or so minutes of scrap grinding. I looked towards the chat channel and noticed that a member of the tribe wanted to showcase a military outfit, and he wanted everyone present for the big reveal at sunrise. Looking towards the sky I noticed the slowly emerging signs of dawn. Seeing an opportunity to shirk off my metal duties, I scurried towards fortress and towards the fashion meet.
Upon arrival I noticed a dozen or so tribe members all sat around a camp fire, and one rather flamboyant male stood, striding purposefully from side-to-side. “This military outfit is durable, light-weight, and eye catching. Our enemies will recognise us, and we will recognise each other” came the military leader.
Looking up at the man stood before us, I struggled to keep my composure. The outfit that was being put forward consisted of a cowboy hat, a small waist coat, a little red sash to go along the neck, and knee-pads. The military division of our tribe looked like Old West gigolos. Dressed in this attire, I am not sure whether we would strike fear into the enemy or simply intimidate them with our modern approach to sexuality.
Looking around I searched the chat channels for responses to the outfit. “Awesome man, really awesome” came one member. I looked towards “Grassy” he remained silent as usual, I imagined his disappointment at the lack of green. Finally, “CrazyDave” spoke, “Well, I think maybe it could use pants, but sure man, it looks great”.
So it was settled, with or without the optional addition of pants, we were to go forth like stripper cowboys to conquer all, like sexy Spartans.
It seemed that military outfits were being selected for a reason, and after the big fashion show, our primary model began to explain the next plan of action Apparently, for sometime an opposing tribe had been preying on our out laying woodcutters, and this must come to a stop. Motioning toward the grass baskets placed around the campfire, we were told to equip an outfit, golf club and follow.
I had signed up to live in a peaceful community because of reasons of fearing “the reaper”. I had been attacked once by suspiciously dressed players and now here I was, sporting the non-pants military outfit and looking for trouble with the rest of my kin. I longed for my metal collecting days once more.
Our leader held point and a dozen or so members joined suit, jogging merrily behind, relishing the opportunity for battle. I simply whimpered and fell back as much as I could. Before long we reached our destination: a towering mountainside with a series of walls and fires carved into the side of it. Casually our leader spoke into the land “come out, you’re about to meet your doom”. Apparently we couldn’t lead a full scale tribe-land attack because of the exclusive permissions of not being slaughtered in your own tent.
As a tribe we stood defiant, just out of reach of tribe territory, now beginning to vocally voice our discontent with the opposing tribe. Nothing happened. Our leader, “CrazyDave” decided that he would indulge in a spot of recognisance because he had a high running skill. With many messages of “good luck” our tribe-leader set of into the distance and out of view.
A few tense minutes later, our scout had returned. “Nobody is home” said “CrazyDave”. Slightly dejected and deflated, our cowboy group of rag-tag soldiers shuffling back to their feet, turned around, and headed back home. Cowboy hat slightly tipped, red sash blowing gently in the breeze, and golf club unused.
“We will get ‘em next time guys, just wait until tomorrow” came one member of the tribe. Looking down at my military clad-self, I felt slightly embarrassed. I returned back towards my scrap pile and started stockpiling materials. I was thinking about going back on the “lam”.