Lauréats du concours "Qui était St Patrick?"

La St Patrick est passée, et la Coalition des Archivistes doit révéler les vraies origines du seul et unique St Patrick. Cous avons demandé aux clones de tous les wastelands de rechercher profondément aux tréfonds de leurs mémoires et de nous envoyer toute information qu'ils auraient pu avoir, mais au lieu de cela nous avons reçu une floppée de longues histoires !

Ce n'était toutefois pas une perte de temps, car nous avons bien ri à la lecture de certaines d'entre elles. Ci dessous sont cités les meilleurs auteurs, ils recevront un T-shirt spécial Fallen Earth et un objet en jeu : l'Irish Stew.

Gray Phoenix

Pugrat

Nerolus

Les lauréats recevront prochainement des détails sur leurs prix. CI-dessous les histoires gagnantes, et allez voir le thread du concours pour lire les autres essais.

Bravo aux lauréats et, comme toujours, merci à tous ceux qui ont participé.

GrayPhoenix

The Archivist Coalition recently unearthed limited data on the pre-Fall figure known as St. Paddy and the associated celebration (known to include wee folk, gold, shamrocks, and copious consumption of green beer). Researchers have found an apparent typo in these records, and therefore interpret “Street” Paddy as “Sgt.” Paddy.

Based on the Archivist postulation, there once lived a marine sergeant named Paddy. Sgt. Paddy was a mean-tempered drunkard, and the only thing he hated more than sobriety were midgets, the “wee folk”. He was infamous for beating them senseless with his shillelagh and stealing their gold. One night after he had passed out at his favorite barstool, a courageous band of little people carried him far away from town into a field of clover. The Sergeant slept the comatose sleep of the thoroughly schnockered as the wee folk stole all of his gold and clothing.

Late the next morning, a thoroughly embarrassed Sgt. Paddy made his way through town to his barracks with only a handful of shamrocks to cover his shame. His CO was quite displeased, as the fact that Paddy had both misplaced his uniform and failed to attend the morning drills were only the latest incidents in a long line of disciplinary problems. Sgt. Paddy was dishonorably discharged, and fled in humiliation never to be seen from again. The little people celebrated their victory annually on March 17th by consuming a special shamrock brew, and the event eventually came to be celebrated by drunkards of all sizes.

Pugrat

According to data liberated from a CoG stronghold, Saint Patrick is from the clan Irishman, hailing from the Province of Ireland, a great land lost at sea. Saint Patrick achieved 3 great Miracles in his life to become a Saint Irishman Man, a title bestowed by The Pop, Head Irishman Man of Vaticanned Rome, a sacred suburb of Ireland. He was widely known for his Great Miracles and his tireless attempts to bring Ale to the drought-stricken Britland Men, and for marrying the famous Irishman woman Rosy O'Donnal.

His 3 great Miracles according to legend: He founded the AyeAye Group - Irishman Men Who Climbed the Great Steppes of Twelve to Defeat Jack and Daniel. Secondly, he convinced the Irishman Bonnie Lassies to let Irishman Men visit the Sacred Tavern and indulge in Ale on the Holy day of In-law prilgrimage, and lastly, Saint Patrick freed Irishmen Men and Lassies from the Curse of the Shamrock, which made them all see the world in a odd shade of Greenish.

Saint Patrick died attempting his Fourth Miracle required to become a Cathedral Irishman Man, defeating the Great Lepri Korn in the Contest of Bar Hopin.

Nerolus

My time in these vast wastes have granted me many tales. But I come here today to tell you no tales, I come to tell you of LEGEND. Deep within the radiated zones, there lives a mythical man. A man who ventured only to the most remote sections of our desert. He would arrive here each and every year - seemingly without reason on March 17th. He brings with him an amazing bright shining object on which he'd prepare the most wonderful feast.

No, your eyes do NOT deceive you. He called it "Coleman". Untarnished and free of rust. The most beautiful piece of machinery I have ever seen. He'd use it to summon forth a feast of the most precious meat, which he referred to as a "Hamburger Patty". This patty had to have been from another place and time. "Made from Beef." he explained, without even looking me in the eye. Not mutated cow meat. Real. Beef.

In the midst of the night once all the feasting and festivities were done, he'd vanish with "Coleman" - without a trace or a word. We can only imagine he lives in a magical vault deep in the wastes.

Every year, the morning after the festivities have ended I awake on my back gazing up at the sky at an opening in the overcast dusty clouds, catching a glimpse of a band of colors on a rainbow high above the smog.

The tale of St. Hamburger Patty's Day.