In which gender is discussed, mothers are remembered, and sleep is finally found.
The pair enters the wasteland. Goat cheese is eaten. Names are exchanged.
In which a slave is sold to an unpleasant customer.
When photons bounce off your subs and into my retinas, this is how my headmeats give me numerals.
So you’ve finally done it. With the best of intentions all around the table, your PCs have finally blundered into the blender like curious gerbils, and now they are hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. They are doomed, unless you unleash Secret GM Gambit #4 on them.
Imagine a tribe of nomads where all the males have the blessing of being were-stallions. The tribe would not need to have ordinary horses to move around, all mounted warriors would be female and a curious custom could be that when a couple gets married, the girl rides her chosen to the altar.