Last night was another session of my Wild Times D&D campaign. The PCs defeated Baalnephagor the Three-Headed Devil-Dragon and his associate the dread Mr. Snugglewugglekins, some security robots (souped-up iron golems) were suitably trashed, and Robilar was rescued from imprisonment in his own dungeon. For their next adventure the players had to choose between retrieving the Crook of Rao from the Snake Pit of Doom and confiscating some silver swords from a band of renegade Githyanki. Angus the Half-Orc really wanted to go to the Snake Pit first, but the rest of the party apparently really wants to face a horde of angry Gith.
Stuart gave me an early birfday present, a copy of Races of the Dragon. Thanks, man! That's the third hardback I've managed to snag since I instituted the "you buy me a copy, it becomes legal in my campaign" rule. To be honest I was only kidding around when I said that, but I can't let the players call my bluff, can I? That would be interpreted as a sign of weakness. DM weakness is to players as blood in the water is to sharks. Or maybe that's just me. I can be hard on wishy-washy DMs.
Great Moments in Historical Sluttery
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