Richard: On a cold winter night, there's nothing better than spooning under the pelt of a black unicorn with a 12th-level druid you picked up over half a dozen pints of honeymead. You can drift off to sleep, cozy and warm, secure in the knowledge that, although he has an abundance of spells at his fingertips (literally), his order prohibits him from carrying certain weapons, so it's highly unlikely your new-found wood-worshipper will leave you kidney-less in a bathtub full of ice, a vorpal blade poking out of your lower back.
This room wants to promise that kind of magical one-night-stand, but sadly, it doesn't deliver. Don't get us wrong: we can forgive clutter. We can forgive a new-fangled photograph of a favored horseless carriage (i.e. pickup truck) mixed in with the dragonalia. After a flagon or two, we can even forgive a wall sconce that's missing its shade, exposing a bleak CFL instead of the slightly more period-appropriate faux-flame bulb. (They still make them, you know. Check Home Depot.)
What we CANNOT under any circumstances forgive is sharing our fuckfantasy with Aunt Penelope, who has colonized the right side of this lair. Even now, we can smell the violet pastilles wafting from her rose-covered comforter, and while the 1980something drapes remind us of Dorothy, Blanche, and happier times, they most certainly do NOT represent the adventure-loving, butt-pirating action hero we are today. And what in the name of Tiamat is hanging up on that wall? Some LightBrite/MS Paint/neon string art bullshit? What ringwraith's castle did Aunt P. purloin that from?
You know what? This isn't working out. We'll call you later.