To your horror, you find out it is a mimic. It proceeds to beat you to a bloody pulp. As you retreat to the nearby corner and huddle in fear for the inevitable, the mimic does just that ... it spends several hours reciting Goblin and Troll poetry. You lie in anguish from both the physical injuries and the mental trauma of trying to visualize the nonsense of the Bandosian odes. In time, the mimic stops and returns to its form as a crate.
You search the crate ...
23-Jan-2021 17:41:45
- Last edited on
23-Jan-2021 17:42:01
by
Deltaslug