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.”
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