Anyway, let's resume. Oh yes, the Rogue's nude.

DM: Alright, alright, let’s bring it back in-game. So Bard, you might've covered up your, uhm, situation with that Major Image, but Rogue... you're still sitting chilly in what’s left of those fishnets.

ROGUE, groaning: Fantastic.

DM: All tavern patrons have all turned their attention to you. There’s a moment of silence... and then the hooting starts. Laughter, catcalls, thunderous applause. You and your bared assets are the center of attention in a very crowded bar.

SORCERER, grinning and leering: Just like at this table.

ROGUE: Shush. My rogue does the obvious rogue thing - run and hide. I’m taking the Dash action and heading straight for the backroom door.

DM: Alright, please roll Acrobatics to navigate the crowd and avoid the gauntlet of drunken, grasping hands.

ROGUE: > dice clatters< Thirteen. Not great, not terrible.

DM: It could be worse. Below a ten you would've gotten snapped up onto some orcish barbarian's lap. You blast away from the table, sprinting through the weaving pathway in between the table arrangement to get to door behind the counter. Hands reach out - grabbing, slapping, groping. Someone gets a lucky smack right across your ass, and another catches your arm. It sends you spinning as you twist free, but you manage to stay on your feet and keep going as the distance shrinks. However with each bound, more threads of your fishnet suit snap and tear... not that they covered much of anything even while intact, mind you. The crotchrope starts to rub uncomfortably tight and riding up your ass.

BARD: Guess you could say she’s… unraveling under pressure.

ROGUE, glaring: Don’t you start.

SORCERER, doing a David Attenborough impression: "Observe, the majestic Rogue in her natural habitat. Elusive, unclothed, and desperately seeking cover. Watch as she performs the rare ‘dash of shame,’ evading predators armed with tankards and wandering hands."

ROGUE: Don’t you start either.

DM: You shove past a pair of patrons and vault over a knocked-over chair. The jeering crowd roars behind you, as you roll across the counter and past the bemused barmaid, who shakes her head and has already pushed the back door open for you. By the time you're inside and the door closes behind you, your 'outfit' is barely hanging on. You're breathless, your skin stinging from the lattice imprinting onto your bare body.

ROGUE: Ugh, okay, I'm definitely ripping apart that damn crotchrope. Better naked than this ongoing HR-violation... And after that, I'm gonna see if I can find a tablesheet or something to make an outfit out of.