Bob never intended to become royalty.
Especially not their royalty.
The Terrors — a faction built like walking siege engines — arrived at Bob's outpost party already vibrating with chaotic energy. They didn't dance so much as controlled-demolition themselves across the courtyard, and by the third hour of the party, something had shifted. The Terrors had started following Bob's every instruction with unnerving devotion — not because he commanded respect, but because he kept accidentally handing out things that looked suspiciously like royal decrees.
It started small. Bob, dripping snacks and holding a barrel lid like a shield, declared, "ALL WHO ENTER MUST BRING SNACKS OR FACE THE GOAT'S JUDGMENT." The Terrors, delighted by the concept of a law with actual consequences, began enforcing it violently and joyfully.
Then someone — no one remembers who — placed an upturned bucket on Bob's head "for the bit." The Terrors erupted. They began chanting something that started as a joke and rapidly calcified into tradition. By the time the sun was rising, three of them had fashioned a throne out of stacked crates and a suspiciously ornate lawn chair, hoisted Bob onto it, and began parading him around the ruined outpost like a conquering hero.
"ALL HAIL THE OUTPOST KING," one of them bellowed, and the rest took up the cry with the terrifying sincerity of people who do not do things halfway.
Bob, still holding a barrel lid, absorbed this development with the calm of a man who had long ago stopped questioning his own life. "I accept this honor," he announced, "and my first decree is more snacks."
The Terrors roared their approval and immediately went to go find more snacks by force.
And Bob — dripping in snacks, flammable beverages, and misplaced confidence — became the first person in Kingdom 1507 to be crowned by a faction entirely by accident.