DOS

It takes only a few to reclaim the former glory of the past; renew it, distill it and carry forth the Torch of Tradition that our fore-bearers gave us to pave way for the next evolution of what they had made. To extend further into the greater unknown realms of design; lay to dust the dregs of shit the current clique of designers have seized from the fore-bearers' grasp as they tap-dance frivolously over their bones with their pink-silken ballet shoes. Fearful now, and confused, they tap-dance because they're afraid to stop, for the shadow-made dragon awaits their stillness, arriving at a moment's whim to slay thee souls and relinquish thy shit-stains from the fabric of glory, the 80-90s era where the unfathomable had arrived and locked itself away from the plebtard legions.

Let the shadow cast upon the plebs, let the wispy sounds of their silken slippers abound as they quiver in awe. We are here to reclaim the torch and pave way to the next golden era of games to come, lest we allow the plebs to take charge ever again.