Google Translate removed "Punch Nazis and Fascists" and "Tax the Oligarchs" from your message.
I get why they flagged the first one (violence), but the second?
Do rich people not need to pay taxes, according to #Google?

They escaped unseen, fragments of the Silver Song in hand, and leads pointing toward secrets hidden beneath the Victocora estate.
One of my favorite sessions of the campaign so far.

#Pathfinder1E #TTRPG #Paizo

In the cells beneath the castle, they found two political prisoners:
Naeli Virmont, widow of a tavern owner killed during the Night of Ashes;
Varnus, a former scholar who revealed the arrest of Baroness Porcia Victocora and the brief appearance of the ex-mayor Jilia Bainilus, taken by Dama Aluceda.

Each segment of the gala (dances, interlude, and the “grand” finale) acted as a timer.
I used 10/15/20 minute hourglasses to structure real-time pressure: one per infiltration phase.
The players had to coordinate movements, bluff past guards, pick locks, extract intel, and get out — all in one hour.

The show was hosted by Lady Mialari Docur and supported by Archbaroness Eldonna Aulamaxa, who closed the night with a “tragic” aria so off-key it caused physical pain.
Meanwhile, the players had three objectives:
1. Break into the restricted library,
2. Search the prison,
3. Avoid all suspicion.

But sing, yes sing, or the heart will break
if the voice of the just will fall silent.
Where the darkest night stretches far,
the purest flame still resists.

Come to Kintargo, my love,
bring with you the forgotten song.
Sing it sweetly, sing it low,
let no one know it still lives.

Come to Kintargo, my love,
bring with you the forgotten song.
Sing it sweetly, sing it low,
let no one know it still lives.

Listen to the walls that softly cry,
the doors whisper of mourning.
The father’s name, the son’s sword,
burned, buried beneath the waves.

Come to Kintargo, my love,
gather three tears of salted water,
weave them into the edge of the misted veil
and offer them to those who never returned.

And fire struck the golden manor,
ashes scattered by southern winds.
The children of Thrune marched through the streets,
as the song faded in blood and smoke.

Beneath the vaults covered in ash
a distant sound trembled in the heart.
It was not yet time to weep,
but silence was already weaving horror.

Tell me, my rose, why did you leave
when the light reddened the canals?
Ask the crows, who watch over the Yolubilis,
the name of the fallen god and the vanished age.