A week in the life of an immortal...
Monday - All Hallows' Eve
If you ask me, I'm not getting enough hallowing. As I understand it, hallowing is where other people stand in awe of me and pay me the honour and courtesy of being frightened when I snarl. They then do what I tell them. I shall muse on this sorry state of affairs and devise a suitable wickedness to rectify things...
Tuesday - Walpurgis Nacht
I have it. I shall start a Dungeon Terror Campaign. Yes! But what sort of terror shall I inflict on the dungeon world? I shall get Lissard onto it immediately. Oooh, I will do such things, I know not what but they shall be the terrors of the earth.
Wednesday - Gobsnobbin Day
Had a devil of a time finding Lissard. He'd got hold of a SHRINK spell, miniaturised his slimy little green body, filled my old Pool of Veracity with goldfish and was diving in and attacking the things. Bits of fin and scale everywhere - and the noises! Sounded like a dragon's sinuses, all bubbling and snorting and slobbering. I once overheard a dungeoneer refer to the sewer of Goth as having "grossed me out". I think I know what he meant.
Thursday - Cheese & Chiveday
Lissard is the slimy limit. I leave him clear instructions to set up a Terror Campaign throughout my Dungeon Domain. Instead (his mind no doubt concerned with where his next bit of fish finger's coming from) he disappeared for an interminable time. Deep in the caverns of Marpethne he made his arrangements and then - voila. He presented me with a row of miremen, goblins, boggarts and other dungeon flotsam dressed in dinner jackets. This motley crew all smiled at me and, at a signal from my iguana-like assistant, burst into a cacophony of classical opera. "Lissard," said I, "what is this?" "The Tenor Campaign, Your Lordness," he sprayed, sycophantically. "These are the best singers I could find..."
Friday the Thirteenth - The Feast of Lissard the Stupid
First I turned Lissard into a frog. But frogs are even slimier and more repellent than my moronic assistant himself so he enjoyed that. Then I turned him into a hanky and gave it to Sylvester Hands to blow his awesomely grotty nose into, but Sly said that even for him the fish smell was "... really 'orrible, your Fearsome-ness, an' it made me want to be sick." Although I'd love to watch Hands bury his nose in the Lissard/Hanky, I don't think I could stomach Hands being sick. Even a mighty immortal with all the power of the Dungeon Darkside at his command has to draw the line somewhere.
Oh the sheer, supreme wickedness of me. There can surely be no-one as downright cruel, unusually good looking and intelligent as myself. I turned Lissard into a vegetarian! Ha! I then heaped a plate full of fresh fish (some still flopping about) and placed it carefully in front of him. His green features crimpled, my fine features were wreathed in smiles. Oh the bliss of a good job done grossly! I'm in such a good mood that I might not destroy the next dungeoneer I find trespassing. Oh who am I kidding? I'll swat them like flies in summer...