It’s a misty moisty morning, and cloudy is the weather. I’m fine with that, but if somebody shows up cloth-ed all in leather, there’ll be trouble.

Yesterday was another day of gaming with Twitchy the elf and the amnesiac brigade. We managed not to die or get into too much trouble, as we were just mopping up the tail end of slaughtering a child slavery ring. Unfortunately, the last hold-outs were throwing flaming flasks of oil at us, and the leader of the brigands, whom we’d knocked out, was just such a perfect size for throwing on a flask to save the rest of us, that we didn’t actually manage to keep anybody alive to interrogate. Oh, well.

Also, Orky, our hard-bitten elderly half-orc bruiser, most famed for charging into battle with a severed goblin arm in his teeth, turns out to like children. This was GM decreed as a voice from the amnesiac past, no less, so the party was somewhat hampered by having our main combat machine wandering around with a small child clinging to his ankle. “Orky!? Is that a tear?” “No! It’s…it’s…human pus! From killin’ a guy!” “Oh, sure, the old human-pus-in-my-eye excuse…”

Meanwhile, Twitchy continued his great tradition of rolling useless 20s. Couldn’t hear the enemy escaping out the back. Couldn’t hit the enemy once they came ’round the front. Couldn’t keep up with the enemy when he ran into the woods. Couldn’t spot the poisoned needle trap. Couldn’t open the chest. Oh, no. But when the five year old girl panicks and begins sobbing for her mother RIGHT NOW, and a frantic Twitchy says “We’ll have fun! We’ll camp outside and make smores!” then, of course, the natural 20s flow like wine. Which means that after weeks of combat, negotiation, threats, kidnappings, and hostage negotiations, during which Twitchy uncovered exactly no useful skills, he found that he had at least one rank of Bluff from successfully faking out a small child. Typical.

The small child was reunited with her parents, we got a fat reward, and all is, briefly, right with the world.

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