Bard: Cast Fast Friends

BARD: Alright, new plan. I’m just gonna make this easy; I cast Fast Friends on her. Then she cal tell us who she works for, where they are and what job they have available.

DM, raising an eyebrow: Okay, just give me a second to check something > Scrolls through a pdf on his tablet < Heh, okay, I figured. Now I just got to roll the Wisdom save > rolls die behind the screen < which she fails spectacularly.

After you cast the spell the barmaid's eyes become momentarily unfocused. Her expression shifts slightly, and you feel the enchantment take hold. She blinks the haze away, then gives you a slow smile, looking you up and down. "You know what, love? You look real nice in that. Not everyone can pull off that look."

BARD, squinting: What does she mean by that?

DM: Fast Friends is a Concentration spell.

BARD: ...Aw, crap biscuits!

The Sorcerer and Rogue players laughed at her self-inflicted misfortune. If the Bard hadn't been so impulsive in using a quick fix solution, she might've had the time to realize this facet of Fast Friends. It meant that the other Concentration spell - namely the Major Image protecting her modesty - would automatically end, since a spellcaster could only concentrate on one at a time. A completely foreseeable own goal.

BARD: Dammit, I keep thinking it's just a suped-up version of Charm Person!

SORCERER: I mean, you're not really wrong there; it's just that it's Concentration, which in this case... I consider a boon.

DM: You trace the barmaid's eye-line and glance down to find your illusion has wavered, on the cusp of snapping out completely, and you're met with the sight of your exposed breasts hanging out. You're acutely aware of the collective intake of breath as the entire tavern goes utterly silent, watching your "outfit" dissolve and revealing what lies beneath: The fishnet web of black rope, already half-unraveled and fraying apart under the strain. The brittle cords leave nothing to the imagination, and there are some thirty-odd patrons who are staring in disbelief at your bare back and pert buttocks, framed and pleasingly squeezed by the braided wires.

It's quiet for a moment, as you stand frozen at the counter. One whistles low. Another bursts into uproarious laughter. Soon everybody else follows suit. You receive your fair share of lewd remarks, invitations to come sit on laps or dance on tables, and commentary favorably or unfavorably comparing the quality of your ass to that of the Rogue.

BARD: I cross my arms across my ass and lean up against the counter to protect my front from view. "I -uh- Nothing to see here!"

DM: The barmaid, your magically charmed best friend, chuckles warmly and obliviously. "Well, you certainly got everyone’s attention. Now, was there something you wanted to ask me?"