Primus Sinister

The Death of Lord Rexcelcior

You Can't Make an Omelet...

I like to think of it as trading up, but then again I’m partial to burgers.

After we’d busted up the ritual (at least partway), we chilled out for a bit, and then decided to wreak more havoc in this Velsharoonie den. The variety of creatures lurking in that fuckin’ place makes it hard to remember exactly what all we dispatched, but one thing I remember for sure was nest room filled with dragon eggs. It seemed like a Very Bad Thing for a cult dedicated to raising undead to have such a room, and so we threw down with the wet nurses.

Godsdamned things were tough!

I was leaning up against one of the oversized lizard eggs catching my breath when someone decided it would be a good idea to take the eggs for food rather than just smashing them all. Seemed hilarious, so I agreed, but Rexcelcior thought that we meant “right away” and started smashing away at the ones we weren’t gonna take.

And then the undead started crawling out of holes on the ceiling and down the bleeding walls.

I’m not gonna lie. We were boned. No two ways about it. I sounded the retreat and then followed my own advice, hoping that my thick-headed allies were at least smart enough to run with me. Rex and Grughuge fought over being the one to hold the damned things off for a moment before the half-orc got smart and bailed. The goliath stayed a few moments too long and got torn to pieces for his effort.

We ran. There was nothing else we could really do. On our way up and away, we passed a freakin’ minotaur, who looked kind of lost. We told him what was chasing us and he started running with us. Not sure how it happened exactly, but the portable barbecue entree became part of this motley group. His name: Rumplekillskin.

We went back down the next day to recover Rexcelcior’s stuff and though it was rough, put his killers back into the grave for good.

Then we collected our dragon eggs and made breakfast.

Take that, bitches.

-The Bae’qeshel



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