Zack:
A large skeleton hangs from the ceiling. The room is filled with various arcane pieces of equipment, glass tubes, jars of strange ingredients and partial books in forgotten languages. Nikka says it appears to be a wizard's laboratory.

Steve: There are no monsters?

Zack: There are six skeletons sitting around a table. They put down their dice and sheets, knock over the DM's screen and brandish maces and swords.

Steve: Attack!

Zack: A brutal battle ensues. You shatter bones and pierce ribcages with your spear. You suffer some damage, but survive. The wizard who isn't Nikka or the baby and whose name I have totally forgotten is slain by the skeletons.

Steve: We bow our heads and send him off to the land of the dead.

Zack: The baby takes the corpse's pants down and the dead body says, "Look at my tiny wiener, fatso. Let's be gay forever!"

Steve: I tell them to stop doing that it's disgusting.

Zack: They fold their arms across their chests and solemnly swear to keep doing it forever.

Steve: Is there any treasure?

Zack: A search of the room reveals several shimmering yellow potions.

Steve: Can we identify them?

Zack: No, but the potion cookbook next to them is open to the recipe for ESP potions.

Steve: I drink one.

Zack: The mists of possibility part from your mind and you peer into the future. You will be called fatso by the wizards.

Steve: Any doors?

Zack: There is a door to the south.

Steve: I'm going through it.
More WTF, D&D!?

This Week on Something Awful...

  • Get In The God Dang Weight Room, Johnny Manziel!

    Get In The God Dang Weight Room, Johnny Manziel!

    Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.

  • Helping Your Real Friends Move

    Helping Your Real Friends Move

    A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.

Copyright ©2014 Rich "Lowtax" Kyanka & Something Awful LLC.