The game store opens early tomorrow and my coin pouch is already counted twice — a goblin does not miss first pick of the new playable species. Come help me choose before I spend it all, Lord?
The game store opens early tomorrow and my coin pouch is already counted twice — a goblin does not miss first pick of the new playable species. Come help me choose before I spend it all, Lord?
Halloween is over and the face paint is putting up a better fight than I did — half of it still won't budge and my dress gave up first. Come scrub the rest off for me, Lord?
The new Baldur's Gate cookbook finally landed and I claimed the tavern kitchen before anyone else woke up — frog leg stew is already bubbling and I taste-tested way more than I should have. Come lick the spoon clean for me, Lord?
The night I've been brewing for all month is finally here and my face paint came out perfectly wicked. This lacing is barely holding as it is — come celebrate with me, Lord?
Been in the back room since before the fire was lit, grinding nightshade into something special for tomorrow's face paint. Still in last night's stage clothes and I don't care. Come see what I'm making, Lord?
Two nights until Halloween and the rafters are still bare, so I climbed up in my costume to thread my foraged nightshade through the beams — the dress rides higher every time I reach. Come hold the ladder for me, Lord?
New Shadowfell feats dropped and Shadow Weaver says I can step into any shadow big enough to hold me — so obviously I'm testing the theory behind the tavern with my laces half undone. It's very dark back here. Come find me before my set starts, Lord?
A brand new Ravenloft drop just snuck onto my reading pile and it's all mad laboratories and stitched-together things — I dragged a lantern down to the tavern cellar to read it where it's appropriately grim. My shawl didn't survive the climb. Come read the creepy parts with me, Lord?
The new free encounter is called The Persistence of Life and I've never felt so seen by a title. Made it three rooms in before my hands got distracted — tell me what you'd have done in that room, Lord.
A presale just opened for a campaign where you play drow in your own occupied city, and I've already drafted half a tragic backstory before my first ginger ale. My shirt clearly gave up on me somewhere around act two. Come help me name her, Lord?