Campaign Prompt: You bat away sticky drippings dangling from the ceiling as you duck into a new passage. A moist haze keeps your torchlight from revealing much, so you don’t see the downward slope ahead of you until your hoof slips on the mucky floor. You are suddenly speeding down a slick, gooey slide into darkness, gaining momentum as the dungeon whips past you.

Event Prompt: One word is on the lips of every spirit, two-legged or Courser, man or elf: Galatea. Galatea. Galatea. The Harvester is silent if queried on the matter. What do you make of this?

Submitted By MagosOpossum ・ View Favorites
Submitted: 1 month ago ・ Last Updated: 1 month ago