Rule number one: always keep the curtains drawn.
Rule number two: only open the door, if you hear my secret knock.
Rule number two: only open the door, if you hear my secret knock.
The key fits in the lock, and even turns (albeit reluctantly), but the door still doesn't open. It's jammed, it seems, though through decay or time or magic or unlucky dice we may never know. It does seem to have some give, though, so maybe that's a good sign.
Pim's fearless attack once more sends the demogorgon reeling, though not before it takes a good swipe at the little dragon, slashing into the little thing's side and leaving a sparkling trail of pretty pink scales that fall dramatically to the floor, awash with the red of his blood. Ow! Is this it for the group, cornered and trapped against an unbudging door?
But no - Phoebe's piety is indeed great, enough to transcend worlds. Even the things that live here can feel her devotion to goodness, and though her calls for Frey only seem to antagonize the monster more, there are others listening. One, especially, seems to have taken an interest, and with a pop as loud as a firecracker it appears in a plume of purple smoke, causing both Phoebe and the demogorgon to begin coughing uncontrollably.
And when the smoke clears, what is there? A satyr. A very fat, very drunk satyr, naked as the day is long, eyeing Phoebe lecherously as it wobbles toward her on unsteady goat legs. "Pretty pretty thing... pretty thing. Earl will help you, don't you fear, all you need to do is - hic! - ask." With one incredibly sweaty hand it reaches out to caress the midwife's cheek, ignoring Wessex entirely for now.
The demogorgon seems utterly taken aback by this development, and has retreated about 10 feet away.
What will you do?
Pim's fearless attack once more sends the demogorgon reeling, though not before it takes a good swipe at the little dragon, slashing into the little thing's side and leaving a sparkling trail of pretty pink scales that fall dramatically to the floor, awash with the red of his blood. Ow! Is this it for the group, cornered and trapped against an unbudging door?
But no - Phoebe's piety is indeed great, enough to transcend worlds. Even the things that live here can feel her devotion to goodness, and though her calls for Frey only seem to antagonize the monster more, there are others listening. One, especially, seems to have taken an interest, and with a pop as loud as a firecracker it appears in a plume of purple smoke, causing both Phoebe and the demogorgon to begin coughing uncontrollably.
And when the smoke clears, what is there? A satyr. A very fat, very drunk satyr, naked as the day is long, eyeing Phoebe lecherously as it wobbles toward her on unsteady goat legs. "Pretty pretty thing... pretty thing. Earl will help you, don't you fear, all you need to do is - hic! - ask." With one incredibly sweaty hand it reaches out to caress the midwife's cheek, ignoring Wessex entirely for now.
The demogorgon seems utterly taken aback by this development, and has retreated about 10 feet away.
What will you do?
Rule number three: Don’t ever go out alone… especially not in the daylight.
