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GM Steed

Centipede, the 40-legged horse, raced up the cliff. Jones, white-knuckled, squinted into the wind. They were topside in moments. The Count raised his … Centipede’s vorpel mandibles snicker-snacked; blood and a mustachioed head arced. Jones wiped his face.

“Dammit, Centipede, I needed to talk to him!”

“Sssorry.”