There's four more weeks of lockdown minimum.

It can't be less than that.

It's going to go for at least four more weeks.

Next two episodes are just...

Deg-div-div-gib-g-g-g-ditch.

Friendship is forever.

Friendship never ends.

It doesn't matter what time you're in.

You're still a dragon friend.

A fucking dragon frown

Few live to tell of the strange sights and fearful symmetries of the temple of cutthroats and bakers that lurks beneath the occupied cobblestones of new Ilanar large as it seems from the outside the complex is impossibly larger on the inside, a gift of the tortured architecture of whatever Frizo built it centuries ago.

The successive rebirths of the Frizo-Maitlako pontiffs have formed an unbroken chain back

from the arrival of Frizo I, who, as the legend said, once went to a cocktail party and was rude to everyone.

And that line, unbroken, has ended here with blood on the floor of the ziggurat and the laco pontiff murdered by one who calls himself Frizo the first.

Now, this has put the finest ecclesiastical minds of the temple into something of a

quandary that a crime has been committed is obvious, but the right sort of crime, a Frizo sort of crime?

Questions such as this are being hotly debated as the dragon friends are marched down, down,

far down, four levels down, into a cramped set of prisons below the temple. Mr. Gribbets and his guards

depart, and the four of you are locked in a cell that is already occupied by an exhausted-looking

half-ling in a natty jacket and a figure that you saw almost 3,000 non-successive years ago.

His face is serene, unchanged in slumber, his clothing style, perhaps tending slightly

more towards the academic. It is the meditating figure of Lion Shield Banknote. The halfling

...