and the dice meant dicey!
More ominous than the rot wafting from that mysteriously empty sarcophagus!
Fouler e’en than the acidic reek of the murderous dungeon ooze that has stalked you for three days!
Mould on wood panelling; skunky beer from stubby bottles; teenage boy gym socks.
The whiff of certain doom.
It’s 1978 in somebody’s basement, the hatched art of the tomes of lore is nought but black and white, and they issue stark warning — if the dice don’t go your way…
The miscellany herein, is spawn of the stuff of those bygone days with my friends — and a Dungeon Master who really believed that magic was real. He knew those dice were Plato’s forms.
Rock n’ scroll.
Zardak the Dave