As the Fog of Sickness makes it way through our tattered camp, Tjorn the Hypercrybarian began this day's journey by going into a Tearserker fit, and thus incurring my wrath.
The Lords of Stupidia have descended upon the Slave Pit and are looking to cast their Spells of Blame. They ask the Riddles of Confusion to cause one to doubt their sanity and clarity, and to also elevate themselves to the level of a sage.
The Fog of Sickness has made my flesh weak and my head swims with it's thick poison, making my decisions difficult. Though the axe is familiar in my hand, on occasion it slips. May the Ancient One make my strokes more precise!
