Playing knights of the chalice again and, just.
There's so much loot. So much. I'm barely three dungeons into the game and it's taking multiple trips -- usually with my mage entirely loaded down with like two dozen suits of full plate (she does not actually walk out the dungeons. She rolls, ensconced in the center of a gigantic medieval hamster ball made of steel), to say nothing of what everyone else is carrying -- to offload just the stuff that sells for more than a couple hundred gold.
I am the swag lord, ruler of the swaginion, swagmonger of all I swagvey, the greatest swagstrosity of the swag winds, swagocolypse made swagifest. Where I step, great pillars of swag erupt and fall silent, spreading swag in my path, laying waste the world around me, burying it under mountains of magical swag, mundane swag, and all sorts of swag in between. They have named seven plagues after me, each of which turns a different vital organ into the physical manifestation of the platonic ideal of swag, for which there is no cure and whom the victims are rendered down into their component parts to fuel the furnaces of my swagtories. Seventy seven nations have fallen to me, each throwing themselves at my mercy with swagplications of the most sinuous swag, all to be rejected and brought into my inventory, to be vendor'd off in my eternal search for more swag and the sweet aurum bullion that drives it ever onward. The era that my party crushes beneath its boots would be known as the Infinite Glories of Swag, were there anything left to record its annuals. But there is not.
Look into my eyes, ye' fallen, and know that it is not your form that reflects within them, but your inventory, spread forth and winnowed into its most slot efficient division, inevitably hauled off and sold to a short hairy midget.