a very special holiday game.

[poleaxed]

FORM: Crystal.
SENDER: Jone of Denerim.
RECIPIENT: All y'all.
NOTES: a history of violence.

[Jone's voice comes out a bit nasal, as if one of her nostrils are blocked. The reason quickly becomes clear:] Oi! You lot! I've a contest. Which of you's the best healer? Fix this old nose of mine... and my face along with it, would you?

It's not especially bollocksed, but which of you can do it fastest, eh? I'm at the mess.

While I'm here, this lad I know, Benedictus? Little Vint. Everybody should attack him-- non-lethally-- when he's least expecting it. Which is all the time, innit? Ben, lad, it's the next step in your training.

Comments

[poleaxed]

Eh, used to be. Things've gone down lately, s'why I'm here. You've a problem with mercenaries, mate?

[muckspout]

Not at all. Just worried about [Makes incoherent noises that may or may not indicate that he's gesturing wildly to everything, to himself, and then makes a noncommittal noise.] death? I think

[poleaxed]

Don't worry. Death's afraid of me, not the other way around.

[muckspout]

You're fearsome, no doubt. [A laugh] But, death's afraid of no one.