7.9 Checkpoint

Well well well, look what the cat dragged in.

Oh no, my friend. It is not.

It was already gonna be awkward coming back to this in a new year, in a new decade, after an atrociously unproductive 2019 – but there’s a cruel irony in the fact that I must now return to you in a WHOLE NEW WORLD, minus the magic of Aladdin because air travel is cancelled and carpets don’t lend themselves to social distancing or germ prevention.

A world where everything sucks but at the very least gamerkind should be thriving, right?

And now the Langurds, asleep for the better part of a year, must awaken to this strange place where handshakes will never exist again but murder hornets will take over and for some reason everyone is baking bread all the time?

Siesta: ADSGFJALEFIETJPOA;JEGHW239PFOWEJSDV

Same.

6.12 Beds Are Burning

Well, here we are at last on July 12th! Happy Birthday Langurds and R.I.P. Sam’s sanity!

I can smell the light at the end of the tunnel (not a typo; caffeine does strange things to your senses) so I’m going to give it my all for these last 13.5 hours. Hopefully without having to cut things in half and without wasting the potential of these screenshots. You are all lovely and supportive and I’m sure it’s only me cracking the whip at this point, but there is no whip more terrifying than the one in my own hands. (Cripes, a few cups of coffee and I’ve turned into Omen?)

Things have been moving pretty fast. Our eldest heir candidate is a teen, our youngest a child, our heiress a middle-aged underachiever, and her ex-husband a corpse.

Only Rhapsody has yet to get a kick in the pants from Father Time. Of course she’s busking in the park when it hits.

Rhapsody: Thanks for coming to celebrate my birthday with me!

Corren: I didn’t. Where’d your guitar go?