[Tarvek has not had Maine Lobster, but by GOD the boy has had Parisian homard, and he knows dinner when it comes creeping through town. Giant crabs, giant lobsters... he even thinks he sees a few giant clams. (Clams got legs!) Seeing them, he knows just what to do
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Pfffffff.
[Clambers around amongst the wreckage, pulling at one leg after another.]
Messy, messy, messy, and not even worth eating. Liebchen, what is wrong with this place? If it's going to be Valhalla, it should have great food, lots of booze, and hot sexy women every time you turn around. And the monsters would be something to brag about! Here it's hamburger casserole, milk you can't drink, beer any Sturmhalten tavern keeper would be ashamed to serve, and the rules in Mayfield mean that the sexy women all have to sneak around to have any fun at all.
As for the monsters?
[He shakes a foam crab leg at her, and it bounces merrily, clearly never a proper exoskeleton for anything, much less anything six stories high.]
I tell you, Ilsa, Mayfield just keeps failing the basic barbarian paradise test.
And how did they get this thing to work? At the least there should be a little puppet master inside the puppet.
[Mutters, very quietly, that someone in Mayfield is failing to maintain the illusions properly. But he's very quiet indeed. He's beginning to suspect that Mayfield's tyrant is faltering, and there's nothing more deadly than a faltering tyrant.]
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It's not supposed to be paradise, 'bibi.
[ Watching another giant mantis lurch along the net street over. ]
I'm not so sure this is anything but a pressure valve, though the thing with the pods was...
[ She shudders. ]
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I'd almost say this week was written by a hack on a bender.
[ Then Ilsa is grabbed by another opportunistic giant monster. ]
Oh, now really!
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