"Shouldn't we be helping with the search?" Jeremiah asked."We are helping. This alcohol isn't going to drink itself, you know." To prove this, Draken took a particularly delicate sip of his glass."I just feel a little guilty, you know. Everyone else is off looking for the bride, while we're...""While we're making sure this sherry doesn't go to waste. Really, Jeremiah, you need to get your priorities straight." Draken finished his glass, reaching for the next bottle.
There was a fairly unpleasant place known as Baator. It was so unpleasant that they had to divide it up into 9 layers just so that it would be big enough to hold all that unpleasantness.Upon one of the many layers of Baator, there was a charred and twisted tree that bore only the most vile of fruit. From this fruit one could pluck small, blackened seeds, and if one knew where to plant them, they could grow into wretched things.
"Explain this to me again."It is very simple."Oh yes, very simple. Easy peezy," The baatezu with the oil-slick suit grinned. "I just waltz in to a building filled with some of the most sharp cutters around, snatch an immensely powerful artifact right under their noses, then waltz out. Like one-two-three, a-b-c."An eye squeezed out from the crack in the alley's wall. I will help you, it whispered. It always whispered.
I. Of the Narrator Sit yerself down, cutter. You’ve come far, yes, and you’ve journeyed bravely and what is more, wisely. I’m not an easy one to find. By design, I assure you, and when you’ve supped your fill you’ll be glad of it. Gold, is that? Magic, too? Precious and powerful, but no. I’ve no need of trinkets and baubles. True power has but one currency and I’m rich enough in it already: knowledge.
From a distance, Cordelia Brimsnout looked like a perfectly normal attractive young girl.Up close, she was anything but - her bronzed skin had the sleek textureof snake scales and her fingertips ended in wickedly curved claws.
Recommended Levels: Mid (8-14) If a berk ain't made, she'd better not get scragged in the lower gate-towns. Paracs ain't got truck with any peel that don't kick him a jink or three, and the Guildsmen of Ribcage are his tax collectors in that regard. Same thing from Torch to the Dwarven Mountain. You gotta pay to play, and if you don't know the secret handshake, don't be too handy. The authorities usually have a working agreement with the local working man, but they'll give the rope to out-of-towners.