The Lady of Pain had taken time out from her busy schedule of floating around Sigil's endlessly looped streets to chill in her crib. Now, she was lounging on a divan in her "Let me slip into something more comfortable" attire: - a very feminine peignoir composed entirely of cleavers and boning knives. In one slender, steel-colored hand she gently swirled the contents of a crystal snifter: a potent cocktail of magnesium and distilled sibling rivalry, 80% proof. After all, tonight was quite a special occasion.
She watched as tonight's 'guests' goggled horrified at each other, from the farthest reaches of her canopied bed. A modron and a slaad. Here on the Outer Planes, where beliefs shaped reality, it was the ultimate crack pairing…
The Square Root of 8 to the 10th computed the findings from its sense-data 2000x per sec. Still, the various algorithms kept coming back with the incomprehensible result of "not-Primus-derived." Which was clearly an error. Though the Square Root of 8 to the 10th was a modron, a race of pure Law, it was NOT infallible. Only Primus, the One and the Prime, was all-knowing and error-free. So what hope did a lowly quadrone have when confront with the stinking, green, "not-Primus-derived" …suchness hovering on the other side of the bed?
Fork fine rage bag! Curdled! Shelved! Belledly liberationized. Shunk harpoons. Nipple! Font! Anti-ripple-cloud-dungheave