As always, Infinity Engine games prove to be prophetic:
I have been thinking about the divinity that flows through your veins.
PST is known for the phrase "Sounds like Oblivion. Who would want that?".
Any gems like that in Icewind Dale?
Viconia: Jan. While I would be tempted to let the situation play itself out, perhaps it is best if I warn you now.
Jan: Yes, my dusky little margarita? What warning would that be?
Viconia: You have a venomous spider on your neck. A lovely creature, known to cause an agonizing, bloodcurdling death within moments of injecting its nerve poison.
Jan: You know, this reminds me of the time Uncle Scratchy laid me flat with the handle of a horseman's flail. "Look behind you!" he says. "Why? What's behind me?" I say. "A Tiberian Dung Beetle!" he cries, looking frantic. So of course I scream in terror and look behind me... and lost a bag of the most scrumptious turnips ever to come out of Scornubel. Ma Jansen was furious, and the lump was more painful than six weeks with the Calishite itch.
Viconia: Oh, look. There it goes down the back of your shirt
.
Jan: And then there was that time I took a drow at his word. "Bifflechips," says I, "you had better be telling the truth." And, of course, he swore up and down that he was. Needless to say, not four weeks later, I was stewing in the lower intestines of a giant cave wyrm without even so much as a torch or a sense of irony. I would have been a goner if gnomes weren't well known for causing severe bouts of intestinal gas.
Viconia: I wouldn't squirm about so much, you foolish jaluk. You're likely to anger it, and I have no spells that can counteract its particular poison.
Jan: Now, if I had a copper for every time— Eh, wait a second. I feel something... who's behind me? What *is* that back there?
Viconia: Did I not try to tell you? No doubt it is sinking its fangs into your gamey flesh as we speak.
Jan: What? But I—ouch! AHHHH! AHHHH, NOOOO! I'M TOO YOUNG A GNOME TO DIE! AHHHHH! HELP ME, SOMEONE! AN ANTIDOTE, AN ANTIDOTE! PAIN GIVES ME GAS! AHHHH!I DON"T WANT TO—eh? Wait a minute, that's a fly. A dead fly. You mean I ripped off my own shirt for nothing?
Viconia: Ha ha! Sometimes life has its little rewards. Even for the drow.
Jan: You're a cruel, cruel woman, Viconia. Garl help me, but I am so turned on right now.
Viconia: All right, now I'm leaving.