A sleepy spell has been cast amongst my party. The minions lounge like rocks on the road, and I find it hard to move. Mindless tasks await us, draining our enthusiasm and motivation. Depression presses down from above, like fog over a river. The armor is scattered about like fall leaves on a heavy wind. I must find it in myself to gather the articles and prep them for battle. We venture forth to the forge, a hot and steamy place, filled with other reluctant adventurers. A constant hum of fans and clank of metal on metal pound into my ears. The acid scent of chemicals and burning etch into my nose until my sense of smell is eradicated.
The smallest minion is restless, eager to explore and the older one insists on confronting every foe. Tension builds as the slow process continues. I only hope we survive this, for next, we battle through the river of smog to reach the valley of small sticky things, so the minions may mingle with others of their kind.
The smallest minion is restless, eager to explore and the older one insists on confronting every foe. Tension builds as the slow process continues. I only hope we survive this, for next, we battle through the river of smog to reach the valley of small sticky things, so the minions may mingle with others of their kind.