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Poor old Flakk. Our 7th level Rogue/Sorcerer began the campaign with an unfortunate name, and it just went downhill from there...

After a few missions with our rogue/sorcerer proving himself to be a dab hand at making bad choices and worse rolls, and being completely incapable of succeeding at anything even by pure fluke, our brave heroes descended into a dark, dank dungeon, deep underground. After killing a few tieflings and orcs, we were leaving quite a trail of worthless longswords and axes behind us. Not to mention bodies. After the first four doors Flakk cheerily proclaimed to be free of traps before walking straight into a scything blade trap, the barbarian and the ranger followed the party's backtrail (the cleric busy patching up the rogue yet again) and returned with armloads of longswords. These we used to disable the following traps our rogue assured us were not there, by jamming them into crevices in the walls and holding them while the traps went off.

Down and down we went, not trusting anything Flakk told us, becoming more and more paranoid, until we reached a huge door. Cold to the touch, upon closer inspection it appeared to be rimed with frost. Puzzled, we looked up to the plaque above the door and frowned. Not one among us could read the strange writing. Shrugging, the heroic adventurers decided it probably wasn't important and opened the door.

We were faced with a room created entirely of ice. Another door stood at the opposite wall, and on the other two opposing walls were four alcoves, two pairs facing each other. We were staring in wonder, trying to figure out how to cross the slippery surface without mishap, when Flakk yelled "I have an idea!" Before anyone could stop him, he had tossed his rope and grapple at a likely-looking ice formation on the ceiling and was pulling himself across the floor on his backside, checking for traps.

We watched breathlessly, and then...a rumbling sound. What could it be? A sudden streak of blue flashed across our vision, gone as quickly as it came, coming from one alcove and passing into the one opposite. Gone, also, was our dear beloved Flakk...all that was left was his boots and large smear of blood. The remorhaz had decided he would make a tasty morsel, and devoured him. Unfortunately, his hit dice were not sufficient to survive the initial chewing followed by the fire damage taken inside the stomach.

Needless to say, we vowed to avenge our useless comrade's death...and almost provided the remorhaz with a complete meal and snack for later in the process. But we succeeded in the end, by virtue of the barbarian getting stuck half in and half out of the creature's mouth and refusing to fail the grapple rolls to avoid being swallowed, while she pounded it between the eyes with her axe.

In fond memory of our fallen friend, we kept the boots...

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