[WP] It is modern day America, but everyone speaks in Shakespearean English. You are a gamer raging out during an online multiplayer match.

[WP] It is modern day America, but everyone speaks in Shakespearean English. You are a gamer raging out during an online multiplayer match.

"Be damned! Hast thou no honour?

Thou campest by thy shadows,

A slumbering combatant of cowardice!

Speak! I charge thee speak! For thy family's honour!"

I strafed right, flanking the back of the home on Nuketown before heading towards the road. I was sprinting;

"Horatio charges! A white knight in flight,

nay, a human spirit, armour clad in fright!

I opened fire on mine enemy, no doubt seeding him multiple shots to his hulking torso. He returned fire, a fatal blow. Twas but a scratch to me!

"Twas not possible! I had thy's fate sealed in scope,

For he was just a man, like me,

With buttoned joys, victory his hope,

Poorly go'er into this game, poorly yee shall be."

I changed arms to thy shotgun, seeking the spirit of close-quartered, honourable battle.

"Have ye no man ready for a duel? -

A campest sniper head-shotted me cleanly from the second floor.

"Nay! It is clear, scoundrels yonder, I'm thy fool!"

I respawned abruptly, inside the dining quarters, approaching a poor fellow from behind and meleeing him dishonourably on the nape of his neck. A second lurked further in front, near the front door, crouched. I weighed up my options to shoot, or melee....

"To press B, or not to B, that is the question!

I approached, ready to unload a mighty blow on thy's soon to be carcass.

Bang! I was knifed from behind!

"Thy dagger's edge hast pierced my armour,

and with this, thy's will, for this is a world of scoundrels!

I threw down my arms in rage, quitting my chambers for the dining area. Twas a terrible night for thee.

By fate critical hits art fair and balanced!


I bite my thumb at you, deplorable fiend!

Nay! I say! To thine plague upon mine senses,

Thou shalt return to the bridge your toll dispenses.

For what thou art, is not only one who bundles sticks, But a fiendish troll, who likes the taste of others' joysticks.

"Select your hero," the voice summoned, upon this motley band of adventurers gold.

Faces flashed upon the screen; content was I, with all but one, if truth be told.

"Hanzo, wouldst thou switch to Soldier, pray tell, that victory might be more easily ours?"

"Infect thyself, thou low-apt swine," responds the bowman; the air quickly sours.

Voices erupt from all around, amongst nary a fond word for Hanzo might be found.

For naught, our efforts, in the end: for arrows, not bullets, this man resolved to send.

The gates were opened, we six did go, descending upon the quiet King's Row.

His arrows struck true, first one, then two; a field of blood the archer did sow.

He found his marks, but relent, we could not. "Change to Soldier, foul demon, or in our graves we will rot!"

"Ha!" Defied he, as one by one our foes fell. "Rot we will, then, and thou shalt see me in hell!"

The slaughter drove on. Endless, eternal, as any man sees. Yet our enemies fell, taking arrows to knees.

Victory! came the final voice. Wreathed in gold medals, only Hanzo rejoiced.

"Above and beyond, to platinum I go," declared the archer.

"Trust in thy team, or stay confined to gold and below."

"To B, or not to B, that is the question"

That was so beautiful!


I love your take but early modern english (what Shakespeare wrote in) grammar nazi here. The English of Shakespeare's day had a few more specific rules for verb conjugations in the second and third person, and for pronouns like thou.

"Hath thee" should be "hast thou". Thee is the objective form like I vs me.

"Thou camps" should be "thou campest" (or campst).

"I had thee's fate" should be "I had thy/thine fate"

"Thy dagger's edge hast" --> "Thy/thine dagger's edge hath"

And for "thy's will" thy is already possessive so it would be thy will or perhaps thine will.

one who bundles sticks

Ahaha this is awesome.

This has to be one of the funniest comments I've read.

Good job sir!

You basically just called someone a dick sucking faggot using old english. I applaud.


The Impulsivity of Sir Leeroy Jenkins, and his Motley Crew of Men

(the , in case you're wondering)

My friends and fellow men of arms, these eggs Have given us due trouble in the past. But first, let us prepare our stores. Who here Has need of anything from off this churl Beside me now, or shouldst our fair campaign commence aright?

..........................Methinks our bravest Leeroy Who, at this moment squirms beside us now, Has need of an accoutrement. ...............................................Nay, nay. What need of pauldrons has he? Has he not Committed himself to an holy cause And calls himself a paladin 'mongst men?

'Tis true, but with that vestment round his neck He'll suffer less from loss of any health And reap a new found source with which to cast.

'Zounds men! Then let us meet our heads at once And with collected thoughts conspire a plan T'address these awful eggs that plague us now. First, I, built like a tank, shall charge the host Of winged ministers that congregate By their foul brood, and with this trusted arm Take up as many eggs as I can hold. Mind you your ears, for know that I will shout A banshee call t'intimidate the fiends In hopes that our mean party can deflect The brunt of all their numbers. But my song Should not unechoed be. Dear Anthony, Please counterpoint my melody in full, For we must scatter them. We are too few... Yea, Basacorse, we know thou art equipped With chords to join our oratorio. Sing thou as well. And for our mages here, We will employ the power of the gods And ask that they, with intervening strength, Protect them in their castings of AE, For who among us can with too proud heart Proclaim our numbers are sufficiént— Though we most noble are. What say you men? Think'st there no better stratagem for us? You there, Abdul, with thy computing brain Tell us our chances.

............................K, gimme a sec. Without a doubt, it seems that out of 3 Our chances number 1.

.................................What wretched rates! But still, 'tis better than our usual—

Ho men! "Thumbs up! Let's do this. It is I, Sir Leeroy Jenkins, most impetuous!" (Leeroy Jenkins runs in) Oh wounds! What haste! Did Leeroy just run in?

My lord, 'tis true...

..........................What? What? Then save him men! The fool! Now more than ever, use the plan And falter not, lest we give up our flesh For whelps to sup upon and to digest. The plan, the plan! My kingdom for a plan! Where art the gods?! Where art the casting lot?!

My lord, I cannot move. ..................................Oh misery!

Leeroy! Thou rogue! Thou awful, impulsed man!

(the campaign exits, followed by a bear) ..................................

Villain, I have done thy mother.

Tactical button layout ftw

All its missing is someone saying to "get thy mother to a nunnery".

"The fuck?!" 2


...and thine birthgiver is but a harlet with which I have practiced my filthy buggery lust

This was superb! What prose!

"Blast! Lag hath once more claimed my life!" I bellowed, my voice a cacophony of emotions swirling in the maelstrom of self pity.

"But thine ping is but three-and-twenty milliseconds!" Came a call through my headphones. An obvious lie to my ears. These fools knew not the struggles of lag spikes which had tormented me so, at times most inopportune.

"The lag is indeed a culprit!" I retorted. Surely these imbeciles would never understand my suffering, my anguish at the tendrils of this digital demon.

"Perhaps thou should uninstall thine game." Came another verbal blow through my headset.

My blood was boiling. Never in all my time playing World of Battle: Call of Field: Modern CraftWar had I ever endured such an affront to my online honor.

These plebs. These...filthy plebs would know defeat by my hands this day.

"Steel thyself! For I shall mark your name as my nemesis, and thou shalt know fear and shame 'fore thine end!" I cackled with glee and newfound adrenaline fueled in part by my favorite citrus soft drink.

My righteous anger flew forth in a flurry of left clicks. One, two, three, four fell by my hand. A hurricane of death surrounded me with myself nestled safely in it's eye. All who opposed me fell...except one. For a split second, all seemed as it should be. However then, with a mounting horror building, the screen just froze. Trapped in time. I checked my ping. More than thirty-five over four hundred. The digital demon had seen fit to once again torment me.

Then, the demon released me from it's vile clutches after several excruciating seconds. The screen showed the movement of life once more. And there I lay, with blood pooling around me as a crimson shade enveloped my screen.

"Ha! Thine fury is ill-equipped for one such as me! Tell me, oh Lagging one, what is thine excuse this time? I see it is only but seven-and-twenty." His voice was a deafening shriek of cynical glee.

"Place your belief in me once more, I say! Lag is again my enemy! For if thou could have witnessed my pain, thine voice would not be of such an edge!" I stammered back, defeated. Adding "You shall see! My voice rings with truth!"

My ears were filled with laughter from the crowd. A mocking of me. Of my skill. My anger had reached it's crescendo! But before my lips could sound a cry of complaint, the message I dreaded flashed across my screen...

"Thine connection hath timed out"


What in God's name hath thee just say about me, thy little wench? I must have thee knoweth that I have graduated in the top of my class in the prestigious Navy SEALS, and I have taketh part in numerous raids on the heathen group, Al-Qaeda, and thou shall knoweth that I have slain ov'r 300 heathens. I am in the prestigious ranks of gorilla warfare, and I am the finest sniper thine armed forces has laid eyes on. Thou art nothin' but another heathen. I shall wipe thee heathen face off of God's earth with precision which hath not been witnessed by human eyes, mark mine fucking words. Thou shall think that thee can escape after the maketh of such henious remarks to me? Thou shall think again, wench. As I layeth my words upon thee, a secretive collection of spies across the mighty hands of the former British colony and has been notified of my disdain towards thee, and your IP address is traceth at this moment, so thou must prepareth for an almighty storm, heathen. This storm that shall rid this planet of the pathetic thing that shall be begrudgingly called thy life. Thou art fucking dead, child. I shall be showing myself in anywhere, at anytime, and shall the need arises, I shall slay thee in over one hundred possibilities, with mine hands alone. Not only I am prestigious in the art of unarmed combat, thou shall see that I haveth access to the entire battery of weapons that even our God would fear, and I shall maketh full use of it to rid of your miserable face on this mighty continent, wench. Oh what thou could've learneth of mine unholy retributions thine small "comment" was ready to bring down upon thee, maybe thee would have grasped thine toungue and held a secrecy. Unfortunately for thou, thine toungue has not been held, and now the price for which thee must pay is immense, swine. I shall eject mine shit of fury so large, thou shalt drown in thine brown liquid. Thou art fucking perished, kiddo.

Straight outta Degrootkeep

A pox to this story I tell thee dear reader, a pox to its virtues, a pox to its name! A weary and morose tale, one of dastards and deviants and miscreants of all kinds!

I sat at my home, comfort in the hearth, feeling a delight akin to that of my childhood. The mead I had was cool to the tongue, my stomach and blood woozy on its sustain, when I loaded into a match.

"Rexxar vs Uther!"

"Let the hunt begin!" remarked Rexxar, as savage as any beast.

"I will fight with honor!" replied Uther, as noble as a human as he is. Our hands quickly flooded with cards, both of us dispatching a few like simple curs. I play my first, a simple bat of flame. I wait patiently, fire burning in my soul for what should happen next.

"Well Met!" says Uther, my heart lighting up. Polite, this duel, and I reply in manner.

"Greetings, traveler." Rexxar says, his words echoing mine like beauty. That high brightness in my heart soon dimmed, the moon of sadness eclipsing its once greatness, as Uther buffs all his cards in his hand.

"Damned!" I mutter to myself, as I strike him. Rexxar moves an arrow to the most heinous positions in his bow and; without heed or warning, delivers damage.

"Well Met!" says Uther, his words dipped with wretched smug. He plays another card, this one placing a fiendish goblin into play, aswell as buffing his hand once more!

"Oh I bite my thumb at thee," I say to myself, "you fiend of the night." Without thought, I strike Uther once more; and Rexxar repeats. Uther was beginning to suffer, and so, my delight grew. But I smiled.

"Well Met!" A warrior of holy faith descends onto the field, now stronger then any God it once knew could have imagined, upon a horse righteous of heart, protected by a shield of light itself. It ran the bat threw, without taking a scratch, declaring; "The cavalry is here!". Sweat beaded down my back. With hands of trepidation, I played another card, praying for a boar or a bear to visit me. Shadows clutched me. the wrong companion came to stay as Leokk, guardian of the sky looked at me, its strength not here, and mine, nearly all but gone.

"Well Met!" Clutched in Uther's hands was a sword most divine. It cleaved through Leokk; leaves in winter wind, and healed his wounds at the same time.

"I loathe this game!" harked my voice, "I loathe it and I do not need it!"

"Well fought, I concede," Rexxar spoke.

"Well Met!"

And now the modern translation!

You ever played Dark Souls? Because I'm now insanely curious how grammatically correct the early modern english they use in those games is.

A bundle of sticks can be referred to as a fag

Yeah, and I seem to remember a few off conjugations (like thou liveth instead of thou livest or something) but mostly I think it wasn't bad.

It's not like its a big deal; it is a version of English that hasn't been spoken for four or five centuries. But if you want to write in it you might as well take the 5 minutes to get your thous right.

Thy fate, thy will.

Thy is the possessive adjective before consonants. Thine is the possessive pronoun and the possessive adjective before vowels.

oh god the only thing missing was an insult to someone's mother


"RB or map to B, that is the question"

Humbug. What the fucketh

Thank you! My iambic pentameter needs work, but it was a fun one to write nonetheless, haha

To be honest I thought it'd lead to a reddit that was full of those ragers that the name means... I don't even know subreddits a whole lot, I just slap a /r/ in front.

Technically, it's Early Modern English. The Old English would be something like "thu bist pintel gesoc galmann". "Thu" is you, "bist" is are (technically "be-est", since Old English didn't use "are" for the second-person form of be), "pintel" is penis, "gesoc" is sucking, and "galmann" is a compound of "gal", which is the origin of our modern word gay, which in Old English meant happy or pleasant, but also had connotations of wickedness and licentiousness, and "mann", which of course means man. I used that since Old English didn't have a term to refer specifically to homosexuality as far as I know, and compound words like that are an ancient Germanic tradition. I'm hardly a scholar of Old English though, just an enthusiast, so I'm probably off on some of that.


Come now, thou lily-livered hog's behind! Come forth, and face thine punishment! Thou cheating coward! May no MOBA let Thee play forevermore! Be cursed to rot Upon the sidelines, lover-boy of whores! And may your mother lay abed with all the rotten, scurvied, men of ill-repute!

"Moor! A moor art thee! Thy deviances are fey!" I cried, before hastening to my chamber to reflect upon my strategy over a feast of plump, crisped poultry cutlets.

^ What you say after being killed by a second critical

Two posts and four years old. Yep.

"Thou who art Undead, art chosen... In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords... When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know..."

I really like that one, even though it's probably wrong on some accounts.

Modern Translation = "Stupid camping bitch! Your mom's a whore! Come at me bro! Fuck this game, you're all noobs. I'm gonna go eat because that game made me upset that I was losing. I've been told all my life that I was a winner, and I've got all these trophies... the ones that say 'participation award' are my favorites. That means I'm the best!".

"What? Dost thou act in jest? Seriously?! Thou campest in a single given place, Participating much newcomer-like! Lo! I will smite thee with no telescope, And seize all your credentials yet to boast! ...Wait—who is this whom thou regardest as A bundle of small sticks? What's thine age, twelve?! I have thee in my crosshairs currently, And will proceed to mute thee once I've gauged Thy poor reaction and upsottenness!"

Yeah that is the rule as I know it, but the language was in flux at the time and both were occasionally used. Shakespeare used thine in front of consonants occasionally, though more often thy. Sometimes he used both with the same word. You are correct though, in those cases it would probably be thy rather than thine.

I hath lay down and slept by thine mother's side last night.

Rare is a team that wins with Hanzo :P. Great writing.

a sniper head-shotted me cleanly from the second floor.

Woe to thee, a man recipient of calamitous intent apungst thine locks of golden mane. We doth Pity thine foolishness.


Thee's? I think you mean "thy."

Do you bite your thumb at me!?

Yes I bite my thumb at you, sir!

A good Hanzo can be better than a mediocre hit scan, but if the other team was fielding a good Pharah they would have lost regardless.

taking arrows to knees

Goddamn it! To Oblivion with you Skyrim memes! :)

I never even made that connection. I should read more Shakespeare.

Should be ringest instead of ringeth but everything else looks fine.

There are a number of books on the subject of the history of the English language. Also, many universities have a course on the history of English in their English or Linguistics departments. There's also this website: http://www.thehistoryofenglish.com.

A few extra notes: Language is constantly changing, and the Early Modern period was a time of pretty rapid change to some of the (now) more stable elements of our grammar, so even in Shakespeare's own writing, there are alternating uses of various grammatical elements. AND it may be hard to understand Early Modern English grammar without also learning some Middle English and possibly even Old English and the development of changes over time from those forms.

I wish to see link

For your knowledge is needed


Brilliant! And the only one in proper meter too!

I hath killed thee once again. i wilt now giveth thee a leonard

I didn't really get this line... ELI5 please.

Or the always classy "thine."

A faggot is a bundle of sticks