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sirowsky · 4 years ago

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The Flowers Always Know

Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language + severe triggerwarning for victims of domestic abuse.

Link to Masterlist

Comment: House-hunting, mole-hunting and Anita-hunting (sort of). And this chapter is like 95% conversation.

Chapter 32

“Are you serious?”

“What?”

“That is way too big… What would we even do with all that?”

“Hermosa, we fill the space we have. That’s not a euphemism, just a fact. If we have four rooms, we’ll fill those, and if we have twelve, we’ll fill those too.”

“Who the fuck needs twelve rooms?”

“It only has eight rooms.”

“And there are only four of us.”

“So, that’s it? No room to grow further?”

“Honey, just how much are you anticipating this little family to grow? That’s a totally serious question, by the way. How many kids would you actually like to have?”

“If your weird-ass body permits – like… four.”

“Hey, who are you calling w…… did you just say four?”

“Yup.”

“What… including Missy, or… an additional four?”

“I’m not picky. If we end up with just the two little miracles we have, I’ll still be the happiest man alive, but I wouldn’t mind having a bunch. Five, six, however many our love can create, I’ll be more than happy to nurture and raise and love all of them unconditionally, even when they inevitably pee on me.”

You had no idea how to answer that, so you just stared at him. But he knew how ambivalent you were about all things concerning family, so he didn’t pose the question back to you, and instead just smiled while he watched the cogs in your mind struggle to fit together.

“S-six… you’d be okay with another… six kids?”

“Mhm.”

“Fuck, Marcus, I’m struggling to even get it into my head that we’re gonna be joined by a tiny fragile infant in about 7 months, how are you already contemplating another five?!”

“Relax, preciosa, I’m not actively contemplating it, I’m just answering a question. Saying I wouldn’t mind something, doesn’t mean I’m aiming for it.”

“But you’re looking at houses with eight rooms…”

“Like I said: we fill the space we have. Rooms have endless usages, it’s not like we have to make all of them bedrooms. We can have home-offices, a separate play-room, a separate dining room.”

“Yeah, I get all that, it just seems excessive.”

“Sweetheart, all I’m saying is, we’re looking for a home for life. If our family grows more, I don’t want to have to move again. I want the place we pick to be one that can take anything we weirdo’s throw at it.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll look at the big-ass house.”

“Thank you.”

He handed you the phone and you scrolled through the different images, seeing things you liked and things you didn’t. But when you got to the master bedroom, your eyebrows shot up. The room looked ordinary at first glance, but when you took a closer look, you noticed that it had some special features.

“Marcus… is this why you’re so interested in this house?”

“It’s not the only reason…”

“Who the fuck owns this place - Stormy Daniels?”

“No, just some accountant.”

“The bedroom is soundproofed.”

“Which is convenient and useful for all kinds of people, but especially parents.”

“Hard pass.”

“We could just go and look at it before you dismiss it completely.”

“Nope. Not happening. Move on.”

“Why? Seriously, what’s so bad about it? Missy wouldn’t have to wear headphones every other night, and we wouldn’t have to worry about her overhearing stuff.”

“Yes, those are good points. But: what if something happens to one of us, and the other needs to shout for help? What if something happens to Missy, and she tries to shout for help and we can’t hear her? What if someone breaks into the house, and we don’t hear it? I mean, I’m pretty sure you have super-hearing, but I don’t, and you’re not home every second of every day. I want to live in a house that speaks to me. You know, the way our house used to creak in the mornings when the sun warmed it, and settle again in the evenings, when it cooled. And if we are gonna have a bunch of kids, I sure as shit wanna be able to hear every little thing they get up to.”

He looked ridiculously pleased at how you’d thought that through.

“Got it, hard pass on all soundproofing. But can I ask you another serious question? One you might not have such a clear answer for?”

“Sure.”

“Our house… why did you send the whole thing over there? Why not just Prince and his machines?”

“There wasn’t any thought involved with that, just instinct, and at the time, the house didn’t feel safe. I walked in and it was like entering a tomb. And I honestly don’t know if I could’ve ever walked in to that house again without having that feeling.”

“I can understand that, mi amor. And I hope you know that I’m not asking because I’m in any way upset with you. I saw the look in your eyes in those moments, and I know how scared you were. To be able to utilise your abilities with that kind of precision and delicacy right then, was down-right miraculous.”

“Let’s just hope I never have to try and repeat that miracle. Now, what’s next on your list?”

He tapped away on his phone, blinking a few times at the wetness in his eyes, before handing it back to you.

“Wow… this is even bigger.”

“Same number of rooms, just a bigger kitchen and more garage-space.”

“Oh, I like the yard.”

“Check out the backyard.”

“Holy… that’s huge! And a pool. We’d need guardrails around that, or I’d be perpetually terrified for the baby to fall in. Are those trees on the property as well?”

“Yes. That whole little patch of woods is.”

“Really? I mean, a pair of swings in those trees…”

You were so engrossed in the phone that you didn’t see Marcus smile wider as he watched you fall in love with the place.

“Oh, I love the kitchen. And there’s a fireplace! Those are beautiful floors. Holy shit – I could swim in that bathtub…”

“Sooo…… you like it?”

“I do.”

“Enough to go have a look?”

“Definitely. But Missy has to come too.”

He beamed. You’d had a few long conversations about the house-hunting before you actually started, and after a meeting at the bank, you’d found out that your credit was basically more than big enough for anything you might want, which was an odd thing to try and get your head around. Not that you wanted a life of luxury, but it was sort of strange to realise that you actually could have practically any kind of life you chose, in terms of housing. The two of you had settled on a firmly planted roof of expense that you were willing to extend to the purchase. And even though this house was huge and renovated to the nines with modern upgrades, that still managed to float seamlessly into the older stem and feel of the house, it wasn’t really particularly near that roof.

“I’ll call the realtor and see if they can fit us in later this week.”

“It’s a nice area. A little out of the way, but a good neighbourhood, and Missy wouldn’t have to change schools. Our commute to work would be a bit longer, but on quieter roads. And there’s a fence around the property. We could get a dog, or two. Or even a frickin’ pony with the size of that backyard.”

Marcus just stared at you with that giddy smile firmly planted in his whole frame, while you rambled on, completely lost in your own thoughts, until his silence eventually made you snap out of it and look at him.

“Oh, crap. I’m already moving in, aren’t I…?”

He just laughed and hugged you.

“I’m definitely on board with the dogs. But I’m gonna need my phone back if I’m gonna be able to call the realtor.”

You quickly handed it back to him, just as there was a careful knock on the door. You were in Marcus’s office, sitting in one of the sofas, perfectly naturally just sitting next to each other, for once. It had only been a week since you were released from medical, and he was still a little worried about getting you worked up, so you hadn’t been together yet, and it was creating something of a space between you. Not a wall, nothing that exclusive, just a little void that was a bit hard to reach across. He called for the person to enter, and Will stepped in, immediately shooting an apologetic glance at Marcus. He still hadn’t quite recovered from seeing Cujo that time, even though Marcus had apologized for scaring him.

“Hi, sorry, I was told I could find you here.”

You smiled warmly at him to ease his discomfort.

“What’s up, Will?”

“Uh, Miss. Timmons is looking for you, she needs your help.”

Oh, for fucks sake…

“Let me guess; she screwed up her paperwork, again?”

“Looks like it.”

“Damned it, Izzy. Wait, why’d she send you to get me, you’re not an errand-boy, she couldn’t have picked up the phone?”

“She did go looking for you in your office, but when you weren’t there, she got a little… desperate. She knows that she’s messed up too many times already, and I think she’s genuinely scared that you’re gonna fire her. She started crying outside your office and I was just passing by, so I offered to go find you for her.”

“If I had the authority to fire her, I would’ve already done it.”

You sighed and got up to leave, but Marcus caught your elbow.

“You’re not gonna go back to work, right? We talked about that.”

“If I know Izzy, this won’t be solved by correcting a few clerical errors.”

“So, let someone else do it.”

“No one else can, honey. That’s why I still have my job despite the number of sick-days I have.”

“Preciosa… it’s dangerous. Prince’s people are in this building, and if he was obsessed with you, or us, then so are they. None of us can afford to be distracted right now.”

“I know, but we still have to live. We’re still the same people, and neither one of us are the type of person that’s just gonna stand by when someone needs help. If the team needs you, I expect you to go and help them, not just because that’s your job, but because that’s who you are.”

“Just don’t let yourself get too engrossed. Stay alert at all times. We have no idea who’s a friend and who isn’t.”

“I’ll check in with you every hour, okay?”

“Every half-hour. And just until you’ve sorted this mess out, then you come back and find me, you don’t start on another three problems you discover along the way.”

“Are you giving me orders now, Team Leader?”

He grabbed your hips and pulled you in close, so that your bodies were only millimetres apart and his nose was brushing against yours. It was more than enough to heat you up after six weeks of inactivity, but the tremble of emotion in his voice when he spoke next, pushed the desire aside, to make way for compassion.

“I can’t lose you again. I’ll do anything…”

You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his. How many times had you lost each other already? Your ability made it so easy for you to feel like it was your job to save others, like it was what you were put in this world to do, and especially where your family was concerned. So, you had to start reminding yourself that while you would probably always be able to absorb anything bad that happened to them – you’d also always hurt them by doing that. Your ability came with a terrible price, and you were only lucky to have survived everything you’d been through thus far. Marcus was right, you had to be more careful. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and nestled your nose into his neck. His arms closed around your waist and held you to him, strong and sure, and you felt like you could just stand there for the rest of the day.

“I promise I’ll be careful, and not take any risks. I love you.”

“Te amo, querida.”

Will had moved to stand outside the door after Marcus started talking to you, but he fell in behind you when you walked past him.

“So, where is she, and what has she done?”

It felt really good to get back into something familiar and achievable again. To do something that generated an immediate response and result, and within fifteen minutes you suddenly understood why Marcus had been so worried. You got lost in the task in no time at all. You sent him a text while you waited for a lawyer to call you back.

[You’re right, I’m already cheating.]

[How bad?]

[Two other issues already solved, while I’m waiting to work out Izzy’s.]

[Why are you waiting?]

[Because lawyers always have something better to do.]

[Fine. But as soon as it’s dealt with, you come back to me. I’ll be at the control centre.]

[Promise. What’s going on?]

[Just two small countries deciding to go to war over the quality of their chocolate.]

[Well… I suppose there are worse things.]

[They’re hurling missiles at each other over fucking candy…]

[Wow… Where’s Máma when you need her?]

[Don’t you worry, she’s right here, so this should be sorted out by the time you get here.]

[Oh, in that case, I am so calling her Chocoreno from now on.]

[Please don’t…]

[Only if she doesn’t solve it.]

[*sigh*]

After another eight phone calls and a lot of grovelling to people you really didn’t like, you finally managed to set things straight, and went to find Izzy to give her a piece of your mind - again. But when you got to her office, she was on the phone and turned away from the door, so she didn’t see you come in, and you accidentally overheard the end of her conversation.

“No, of course not, I’ll be straight home from work. Why would I make any stops? --- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you… --- No, baby, don’t… I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. --- Anything you want, name it. --- Yeah, that sounds.. nice. I’ll be home soon.”

Shit.

She turned around, looking absolutely terrified, and then she saw you by the door and quickly tried to adapt a neutral expression. She was good at it too, within half a second there was no trace of fear in her face. You only got that good at hiding your feelings if you knew that showing them meant terrible pain.

“So, everything’s taken care of, no harm done.”

“Really? Oh, thank you. I’m so sorry, I swear I don’t mean to mess up the papers, it just gets to be too much sometimes.”

“Izzy, if I ask you a personal question, will you answer me honestly?”

A trace of fear re-emerged in her features, but she nodded carefully.

“Is it work that gets to be too much… or is it home?”

You could see the internal struggle. The need to be free of the fear and the pain, and that same fear making it almost impossible. All the irritation and frustration fell away from you with the realisation that she wasn’t incompetent at all. She was being smothered. How many times had you added to her stress and general feeling of inadequacy, by barking at her for constantly missing or screwing up doing things? Why hadn’t you seen the signs sooner, you knew every single one of them?

“I’ve been where you are, Izzy. I should have seen this. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, honestly, I’m fine.”

“Show me your arms and your stomach. If they aren’t bruised, I might believe you.”

She squirmed where she stood, and her head dropped in defeat.

“When was the last time you didn’t have an injury somewhere? When was the last time you could move without feeling pain somewhere?”

She just kept staring at the floor, shaking her head, trying to will it not to be true, so you walked up to her, pushed your energy around her, and healed her. The amount of energy that it drained from you, told you everything you needed to know about how injured she was, and you quickly reached into your back pocket to retrieve a pill from the small box you kept with you at all times these days. Izzy stared wide-eyed at you, while you fumbled with a paper-cup at her water-cooler, hands shaking with the sudden loss of strength. Then she suddenly sprung to life and came to help you fill the cup and down the pill.

“Jesus Christ, girl, how were you even standing with all that damage?”

“I… got used to it over time. He didn’t… start out that bad.”

“They never do.”

“Thank you. So much.”

“Thank me by letting me beat the living hell out of that guy.”

“You’d better not. But… maybe… you could ask one of the guys on the team to… talk to him?”

“Are you serious? You wanna stay with him? No, honey, no amount of talking is gonna fix him.”

“No, I meant like… talk him into not killing me for leaving him.”

“Oh… Yeah. That I could probably do. Just give me his name and address.”

You downed another pill, and started feeling better, while Izzy scribbled on a note for you. You took it and read it, and stuffed it down your other back pocket.

“You should stay here tonight, just in case he decides to try anything. And call me if you need anything, Marcus and I are still living here, so we’re close, okay?”

She seemed to hesitate about something.

“What is it?”

“Um… do you know Jack Daven?”

“Who?”

“He’s a kid who interns at the science division.”

“Oh, Jackie. Yeah, unfortunately I do know who he is.”

He was the kid you threw head-first into a wall.

“I just… I think he might have something to do with your mole situation.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“A while back, he came to me saying that science had sent him with some paperwork that needed to be signed, but when I looked at it, I realised that it was actually for research, and I told him that. And he laughed it off saying that he’d just made a mistake, but that didn’t seem very likely, because the forms he had were for release of testing materials. They wouldn’t send an errand-boy to retrieve those, they’re too dangerous. At the time I figured that maybe he’d been sent with an escort, for learning purposes, and that I just never saw them. But, now with the investigation, I think there might have been more to it than that. I was just too scared to... I didn’t know who to trust with it.”

“You can always trust me. Thank you, Izzy, I’m so sorry that I ever thought of you as incompetent.”

“Forgive me and I’ll forgive you.”

“Done.”

You ran full speed back to Ops, and almost collided with the automatic door to the control centre. Marcus was working at a station to the left, and smiled without looking up as he heard you. Anita was at the centre console, with her back to you.

“Damned it, why do all automatic doors move so fucking slowly?”

“Ah, I hear my future daughter-in-law has entered the premises.”

“Shut it, Chocoreno.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Choco-reno, the clue’s in the name, máma.”

“Ay, loco, today’s not a good day to test me.”

“Why, does máma need a hug?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Fine. How about some nice chocolate instead? I hear there might be some steep discounts on a couple of brands.”

“Mujer… did you burst in here for a reason? Because if not, I’ll burst you right back out.”

“Hah, I’d like to see you try.”

She huffed.

“As you wish.”

You caught a glimpse of Marcus’ expression as it shifted from bemused to genuinely worried, when Anita turned and came towards you.

“Mooom…”

She ignored him and tried to grab you, but your ghost hands caught hers before she could make contact, and they were much stronger than your physical hands. She definitely had super-strength, that much was obvious right away, and she wasn’t holding back. You could feel your strength begin to drain, so you changed tactics. You flooded the room with energy, and then drew it back to compact it all around yourself, creating that same kind of barrier that the Inventor hadn’t been able to break through, despite his genius belt-modification. And then you just stood there, perfectly still to conserve energy, while she tried in vain to push you out of the room.

“Mom, stop it, right now!”

As her focus momentarily shifted towards Marcus, you saw the smile that played in her features. She was just having fun, testing your strength and flexing her own, whilst getting some frustration out of her system, knowing full well that you could take it. Feeling certain she wouldn’t kill you for it, you grabbed the opportunity. You let the wall of energy disappear as she was leaning against it with all her might, and as the barrier fell, so did Anita – right into your arms. It was a bit like trying to catch a running bull, and the impact was certainly painful, but you ignored it and just hugged her to you. She scrambled out of your grip, but you just smiled at her, because you knew she enjoyed every moment of it.

“I have to say, I’ve never had to fight my way into a hug before.”

“That wasn’t a hug, loco.”

“Yes, it was, and you know it. Do you feel better now, or do you need another?”

She was actually contemplating another round, which prompted Marcus to step in between you.

“Do I have to remind both of you that you’re pregnant, hermosa? Playful or not, you’re not fighting each other again, now, tell me why you were moving so fast that the doors were too slow for you?”

Oh, for fucks sake, why where you so easily distracted?

“Right… We should probably talk in private. Considering the fact that it’s only been two hours since we sat in your office looking at houses – a hell of a lot’s happened.”

He led the way towards the door, and you shot a look at Anita, over your shoulder.

“Raincheck on that hug?”

“I’ll boogie with you anytime, loco.”

“That’s how you boogie? And you call me ‘loco’.”

“Oh, yes. You’ve earned that one, many times over.”

Authors’ Note: I love criticism, don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.

@blueeyesatnight @farfromjustordinary @allmyspideys @hrk-fic-recs @strawberryperegrine @lucrezia-thoughts @computeringturtle @sarahjkl82-blog

#marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno fic #we can be heroes #we can be heroes fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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itsbenedict · 3 years ago

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Two-Faced Jewel: Session 10

Connections

A half-elf conwoman (and the moth tasked with keeping her out of trouble) travel the Jewel in search of, uh, whatever a fashionable accessory is pointing them at. [Campaign log]

Last time, the party arrived in Cauterdale, the heavily-fortified port city at war with nature. They arrived in search of members of the Deathseekers' Guild- the organization of professional adventurers and monster-hunters that likes to be very up-front about its mortality rate- to handle a dragon problem that they're personally a little underleveled for.

While Looseleaf had a fateful encounter with the Plot at the Temple of Andra, Saelhen and Oyobi were headed to the barracks of the city guard, to speak to "Mags", the guard on duty when the local Deathseekers were last seen leaving town. And there...

You remember Medd Cutter, right? Highly-memorable Medd Cutter, the NPC who got oneshot by a T-rex and whose life the party saved? Well, to spite Rex... whatever his last name was, the pro-patria-mori asshole guard captain guy, Saelhen has decided that she's going to start spreading the word of Medd's heroism.

Oyobi, unfortunately, is bent on spreading the word of her own extremely ill-advised heroism, and so the two are having some sort of hype-off as they make their way into the barracks and effortlessly charm their way past the guards to where their quarry is posted.

These two are manning some sort of huge brass contraption, bristling with lenses and dials. One of them is a yuan-ti pureblood- which there are an unusual number of in the city guard, compared to the general population. Weird. Saelhen politely introduces herself, and Verity Truescale refers them to Magnaranth aka Mags, the loxodon who last saw the Deathseekers leave town.

Mags doesn't have a huge amount to tell them- the Deathseekers, evidently, were going hunting, out east somewhere. They brought a lot of torches, so apparently they were headed somewhere dark? Underground, maybe? They were pretty cagey about what exactly they were going out to do. Still, Mags can provide the names and addresses of the Deathseekers in question.

...And Verity, checking the instruments, notices that something is wrong with the tides- apparently something large is disturbing the waters, but they can't quite pinpoint what- it's not any of the usual suspects, which include things by the name of "Darkie" or "Unnessie". Ominous!

After that, the party meets up at the local Temple of Iska, their designated rendezvous point. They catch each other up on their gains, and decide... well, the Deathseekers are going to be back within a couple days, so they'll just wait for them in town and get going with them, to make sure things in Barley and Wheat go smoothly.

Of course, the question then is "where do we stay?"

Options aren't great- Cauterdale is crowded, and the B&B market is incredibly shitty. The best lodging is on Eman's Knee, the island just off the coast of Cauterdale, but getting the ferry over there is expensive, and resort lodging on a tropical island is also expensive.

That- you can't just- I mean, just because- I'm- I'm allowed to be predictable, okay???

(And anyway, it's Corolos where I ended up doing a murder mystery.)

So, Looseleaf gets a 24 investigating the town's B&B market, and finds a pretty good place! It's a weapons shop Saelhen noticed earlier, which is renting out rooms. The place has a huge fence topped with spikes, so they probably won't even get robbed!

Aria of War, as it happens, is run by an elderly yet ripped-as-hell tabaxi man, who Saelhen... vaguely recognizes.

Benedict I. (GM): So, this shopkeeper's coat is familiar to you. It's definitely not the same person, but you once knew a girl in Timber Towers named Toothbrush, with almost the exact same coat. Could be a relative! Saelhen du Fishercrown: Yeah, tabaxi have a lot of coat variation; it's not a safe bet that they're related, but Saelhen is willing to go out on a limb with him. "Good evening, sir, and I'm sorry to bother you, but I felt I had to ask..." Fish Especially: "No discounts." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Do you have any relation to a..." Was Toothbrush her real name? Benedict I. (GM): As far as you know! Tabaxi have weird names. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Toothbrush?" Fish Especially: He looks surprised. "Hold on, you know Toothbrush?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...I knew I knew that speckle pattern." Saelhen smiles widely and without guile. "I met her in Timber Towers a while back. She played the violin." "More specifically, she couldn't play the violin, but she always failed very effectively." Fish Especially: "I'll be! Her theatre troupe doing all right for itself, then?" "Even with the noise of that awful thing?" "I never know what to think when she writes those letters..." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Last I saw of them, they were doing pretty well for themselves! To be honest, I did a stint with them for a bit, they wanted advice on a traditional elven piece..." Saelhen leans in on her elbows. "Oh, she mangled it, but she compensated with charm and that one face. Her confident face, you know the one, where you think she's so confident that maybe it's supposed to sound like that?" Fish Especially: He laughs. "You do know my girl!" "She hasn't written in- I think a year, now. How's she been?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Oh, it's been so long, I'm barely an authority by now -- but I remember she was talking about taking classes in -- what was it..." "...oh, where are my manners -- I'm Saelhen du Fishercrown, it's a pleasure." Saelhen reaches out for a very unelven handshake.

That she says this is notable for one big reason: this is the first time she's used her real name, and not "Lady Noeru de la Surplus". Nobody else in the party has heard this before!

It's also notable because according to Fish Especially, Toothbrush thought Saelhen was dead- and he's going to let her know otherwise.

Anyway, the deal for rooms goes through without incident, and the night also goes without incident! As is entirely normal, they hear Vayen in the halls making some sort of attempt to sneak into Saelhen's room in the night... and this time, sighing and going "never mind" without even attempting to pick the lock for some reason.

In the morning... Looseleaf grills Saelhen on the name thing, and she confesses the truth of the matter to the whole party- who take it fairly well.

After team bonding, the party heads to the Temple of Andra to check in and see if the Deathseekers have showed up. And by the stablehand's account, they have- or at least, a bunch of weird old people showed up to meet with Gabbro.

Gabbro seems surprised to see them- he was under the impression that they'd leave the matter to them. The further involvement of the party should be unnecessary, right...?

Looseleaf: "Oh, yeah, I was going to let you know we were staying in town and ask for you to let us know when the deathseekers showed up, but, uh, judging by that meeting we interrupted, they're already back and right here." Gabbro: "That is correct," he says, as the stablehand leaves. "I was just briefing them on the mission, you see." "The situation is well in hand, so you needn't concern yourselves with it any longer." "That pesky dragon shouldn't be an issue." Looseleaf: "W-well, uh. I was, uh, we were, kiiiinda hoping to travel with you back to the dragon's tower." "I mean, it's our quest, so, it'd be nice to, for us to see it happening so we can be sure of it, y'know?" Gabbro: He looks somewhat taken aback. "That... seems... risky, don't you think?" "To bring along... certain... people?" Looseleaf: "We're going to stay very very far away from the action! We're not that dumb!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...I assure you that we have no intention of fighting the dragon ourselves, sir." Gabbro: "Ah, yes, of course not..." "However..." He gives Looseleaf a pleading look. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "And there are... certain persons in the nearby town, whose safety I would like to check up on. Personally." Looseleaf: He doesn't seem to want people witnessing the fight? It could be explicable through just, him being worried we'll get hurt. But it could also be, 'their deathseekers fight with methods that Orluthe in particular should not be allowed to witness.' Gabbro: "Ah, well, if that's the case... if you don't mean to get involved with the Deathseekers and their work..." Looseleaf: "We're not going to- we don't want any claim to the loot in the tower either, if that's a problem! Everything in the tower is you and your group's prerogative to deal with however we like."

Gabbro seems... put slightly more at ease, and decides to introduce the group to the ones who'll be their traveling companions shortly- the Cauterdale Deathseekers.

In order:

Doon Softbreeze, half-halfling rogue and all-around Grunkle Stan-type, friendliest with the party.

Kevin Softbreeze, Doon's soft-spoken herbalist husband and that's it, probably, just a gardener.

John Human, an extremely decrepit extremely human man who seems to make weird buzzing sounds when he speaks, as if with mouthparts instead of human lips.

Ryuusatsu Takuma, totally silent elf (not present at this meeting with Gabbro) who probably just doesn't like talking, is all.

Lady Fidelia Greatholder, heavily-armored and heavily-everything human noblewoman (also not present at this meeting), who- well, she shows up next session.

Gabbro makes a point of making clear to those present that Orluthe, who they'll be traveling with, is a cleric of Diamode- apparently they need to know this for some reason!

Doon's pretty friendly with the party, and offers to take on their job pro-bono- on the basis that, c'mon, if they could actually afford them, they wouldn't be knocking on their door for help. So it looks like they've enlisted some highly-capable dragonslayers with no ulterior motives! Fantastic.

Next time: The road back to Barley, and the tying up of a few loose ends in town. Saelhen needs to get her kimono back!

#tfj log #twofaced jewel

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anothercolourmagines · 6 years ago

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As D&D Classes and Races

This is pretty much the result of me binge-watching outsidexbox’s D&D sessions which if you haven’t yet checked out, do it immediately. Trust me you won’t regret it. :)

The context here is that the Reader is the DM, with the characters picking their classes and races and forming several groups. This was quite enjoyable to write so I might add more information in future, if you guys find it interesting as well.

Allen Jones: Barbarian, Half-Orc. His method of picking a character is rather simple: find the biggest, strongest and most intimidating combination he can play as and pick that. The choice is quite a good one and he has a lot of fun with the rage feature as well, but it often ends up with him employing a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ sort of tactic which puts him at odds with Oliver and Matt. Definitely the type to ask for preferential treatement, but doesn’t do much except whine when he is categorically denied.

Matt Williams: Ranger, Half-Elf. He didn’t really understand the concept at first and initially wanted to play a Half-Orc Barbarian as well until Allen called him an uncreative asshole. After having the classes and races explained to him again he decides to go with Ranger, and at Oliver’s suggestion be a Half-Elf. Allen makes fun of him for picking it at first until he finds out the Ranger can have beast companions at higher levels.

Oliver Kirkland: Druid, Halfling. Since he’s always eager to have everyone together and getting along he jumps at the idea of playing a tabletop rpg (despite not being entirely sure what the term implies). Since he’s rather taken with gardening he decides on his character rather easily and picks the race relatively easy as well thinking it sounds fun. He is often the one that suggests the party look for the most peaceful solution and, just like in real life, often has to mediate Allen’s and Matt’s arguments.

Louis Bonnefoy: Warlock, Tiefling. Originally, he had no interest at all in trying the game but after Oliver convinced him (with the promise of booze) he decided to give it a go. He claims that he doesn’t care what class he plays so at Oliver’s suggestion he goes for the warlock, but picks the race on his own. He generally goes along with whoever proposes the easiest solution to the problem they face, regardless of whether it is moral or immoral.

Viktor Braginsky: Wizard, Human. Much like Louis, he also had to be dragged into doing this by someone else. In this case it was Anya who suggested it would be a great way for the siblings to spent time together and do something fun as well. He generally prefers talking out the problem with their foes, which often clashes with Katya’s playing style leading to some very chaotic sessions.

Zao Wang: Rogue, Elf. He insists on playing a cool and suave character, akin to the roguish elven assassin of Dragon Age: Origins and is quite dedicated to playing his role well. Unfortunately, he is liberal with his stats which causes him to have horrible Dexterity but fantastic Charisma and Constitution. He also wanted to implement the Beilschimdts’ idea of in-game relatives and asked Kuro to have his character related to his but was dissatisfied by the result.

Luciano Vargas: Paladin, Human. He finds the whole concept childish and informs everyone else at the table of his opinions, but still goes through with it. It is mostly because Kuro implied he was so bad at it that even Lutz could beat him at it. He does not seem to understand that the game doesn’t employ a tranditional competitive system of one winner and insists on having the ‘best’ class in the game. He finds the description of Paladin attractive, but falls short on acting the role as the embodiment of justice and righteousness that the class is usually associated with as he prefers to use cunning and deception.

Lutz Beilschmidt: Fighter, Dragonborn. Truth be told, he doesn’t really understand everything that’s going on but is just enthusiastic to be there and play. He is not really interested in the flashy classes that use magic or ones that use stealth since he feels that would be too much of a hassle. However, he is absolutely adamant on having a dragonborn character since he thinks it would be awesome. He also insists on him and Klaus being brothers in game.

Kuro Honda: Rogue, Gnome. He was originally planning on making a tiefling or dragonborn character, but after hearing Zao’s suggestion at having their characters be related he decided to indluge him. Unfortunately for Zao, that meant that his character was now basically a gnome-sized Kuro who excelled in stealth and was very good at predicting plot points and twists. However, he does not inform the others of theories and often manages to exploit them for his own amusement.

Flavio Vargas: Sorcerer, Half-Elf. The large number of classes made it hard for him to pick just one, but he ultimately settled on something magic orientated since he thought it would be cool to play a flashy class. He also wanted to be an elf originally but found it would be too reduntive since Roland already picked one (also it would be too annoying since Roland would insist on the two roleplaying their characters correctly). He definitely tries to charm his way out of conflicts, but is dismayed by his bad luck as his attempts almost never end up being successful. Another one who also tries to ask for preferential treatement and acts quite shocked when he doesn’t receive it.

Klaus Beilschmidt: Wizard, Dragonborn. He had originally planned on being either a gnome or halfling, but Lutz insisted on the two of them roleplaying characters who are brothers so he decided to change races to accomodate him. It does lead to some amusing moments due to the contrast between Klaus’s naturally timid personality and the rather intimidating appearance of a dragonborn.

Roland Edelstein: Bard, Elf. His character is basically a self-insert no matter how you look at it as he decided from the get-go that it had to be an artist and extremely handsome as well. He does get into roleplaying rather quickly though, but many feel that he’s having too much fun playing a haughty elf. He also probably chooses a character name that is pretty much just a variation of his real name (ex. Rolan, Lorand or Orlando).

Julia Héderváry: Monk, Dwarf. Her picks are something of a surprise to both Flavio and Roland, who expected her to go for a Bard or something akin to this. She does prove to be rather adept at playing a monk and takes full advantage of her feats and features as well. She ends up being the unofficial leader of the party, as though Roland insists that he is the boss, it’s quite clear to everyone else that she’s in fact the one that has the most authority in the group.

Katya Braginskya: Warlock, Tiefling. Another one who had no interest in D&D prior to Anya asking her to join in, mentioning that she could find it fun. She did not really care to look through the classes and races to make her choice and just picks at random from the choices presented to her. She does end up quite invested in her character especially when she learns that she can blast her opponents with magic.

Anastasia Arlovskaya: Cleric, Halfling. Definitely the most excited out of her siblings to play the game and does a lot of meticulous reading on classes and races. She finds Cleric to resonate the most with her and is quite happy with playing the group’s healer, though she can be sometimes overzealous in making sure everyone is healed. She was rather taken to the idea of having Viktor’s, Katya’s and her character be siblings in the game as well and was quite shocked to see that they picked different races, despite her outright stating what her race would be. She is appeased somewhat by Katya pointing out that they could be half-siblings or adopted, just like in real life.

#2p hetalia #2p america #2p canada #2p england #2p france #2p russia #2p china #2p north italy #2p germany #2p south italy #2p prussia #2p austria #2p hungary #2p ukraine #2p belarus #2p japan #headcanon

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kellanswritingblog · 5 years ago

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Masquerade, a Zolf/Hamid fake dating AU

Chapter 6: A New Engagement

Both the festivities and the attack have concluded. In the aftermath, a lot of important conversations are had by all.

I really enjoyed writing this fic and I’m sad that’s it done! But thank you to everyone who has read it!!!

The final chapter is below, or head on over to AO3!

The local authorities and temples soon arrived on the scene and provided more aid than a shouty goblin, hidden human, injured halfling, and distraught dwarf could. With a few more bouts of healing from some other clerics, Hamid was back on his feet without aid, even if he still held his ribs and grimaced a little when he thought no one was looking. As the official head of their mercenary organization, Zolf wound up dealing with paperwork and demanding officials, leaving Hamid on his own. Hamid tried to get people where they needed to be, sending the injured to a non-overwhelmed cleric or helping someone separated from their loved ones find them, but there was only so much he could do.

“Hey.”

He turned to see Liliana come and stand beside him, out of the flow of traffic and doing her best to keep her eyes on the ground. A bit of blood had dried in the corner of her mouth, but other than that she seemed unharmed.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Hamid admitted sincerely. “That was… intense.”

“Do we know what they were after yet?”

“Best we could get out of their leader, they just wanted to take out a bunch of influential people. Create chaos and thrive in the mayhem, that sort of thing. Is Gideon alright?”

Liliana nodded, arms hugged tightly around herself.

“Listen,” she said after a long pause which bordered on significantly awkward, “It’s good to see you’re doing well for yourself. If you and your group hadn’t been here… It’s just, you’re doing good. And I’m glad.”

She leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to Hamid’s cheek and then darted away before either of them could examine the gesture further. Despite his schemes to prove himself doing better without her, he was grateful they could part on at least somewhat amicable terms. And, truthfully, he wished the best for her and Gideon.

Hamid’s eyes fell on Zolf across the way. He was doing well for himself, more at home in the heat of battle and in the arms of a grumpy dwarf than he ever was while pretending to be someone else at university.

Finally free from bureaucracy, Zolf fled the last of the injured stragglers and those attempting to clean up the mess created in the catastrophe. He stepped out onto a balcony and stood beside Hamid as they looked over the city, sparkling lights oblivious to the events that had just taken place.

“How are you doing?”

“Oh! I’m alright. The clerics said I should feel better in the morning.”

“Good. That’s not entirely what I meant, though.”

Hamid sighed and leaned a little more against the railing. “I suppose it’s back to normal after this, huh?”

Zolf couldn’t help but chuckle. “What exactly is normal? Trudging through sewers and saving the world?”

Hamid laughed too, then bit his lip. “I meant… for you and me.”

“Hm?”

“I really liked these past few days with you,” Hamid confessed. “I really liked… being close with you. Underneath all that gruffness, you’re… even more incredible than I thought.”

Zolf looked over at Hamid, still staring at the city, jaw agape with so many words on his tongue.

“Hamid, I…”

“I’m sorry. I know you were just playing a role, a role I asked you to play. I shouldn’t have gotten so invested.”

“I wasn’t, though,” Zolf replied. He reached over and took one of Hamid’s hands, forcing him to look at him. “Nothing I felt was fake. And… well, I’m not sure we should jump straight to fiancé, but you and me? What we had here… I think that could be our normal.”

Hamid smiled, eyes glimmering. “Really?”

In response, Zolf pulled Hamid into his arms and kissed him, this time with no prying eyes and no interruptions. Just the two of them, falling into place with each other after so much time dancing around it, letting every trepidation fade away in the movement of their lips. It was only the second time they’d kissed, but it felt normal; and after facing down certain death on a nearly daily basis, it was a normal they both needed.

“Can we get a move on?” Grizzop asked, tapping his foot, arms crossed. “Our job here is done.”

Sasha pulled the door closed as quietly as possible to leave Hamid and Zolf alone. It was about damn time they realized how madly in love they were.

“They’re just finishing something up.”

“What could they possibly be finishing up? I’m going to-”

Before Grizzop could reach the door and burst through, Sasha grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around.

“I think one of the food tables didn’t get completely destroyed when the explosion happened,” Sasha suggested and bodily led Grizzop away. “What do you say we go check that out?”

“I don’t understand…”

“Grizzop, listen: I know you hate waiting, but if the two of them waited any longer to figure themselves out, I would have lost my mind. We’re going to let them have a couple moments to themselves. I think they’ve earned it.”

Realization dawned in Grizzop’s eyes. “Ohh! They’re…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “They’re kissing?”

“Yes, Grizzop. It’s not a bad word. You can say kissing.”

Grizzop shrugged and began walking of his own accord to the remaining snack table. “Alright, alright. But the two of them being all lovey-dovey better not slow us down. I’m still on a pretty strict time scale!”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Eat some food. You’ll be less crabby when you’re not so hungry.”

“Crabby? Crabby!?” Grizzop grabbed a few small, ornate cookies, and tossed them at Sasha, giggling maniacally.

In the aftermath of a near-death experience, everybody dealt with trauma their own way. For some, it involved a confession of love and a promise of togetherness; for others, it meant a food fight.

#rqg #rusty quill gaming #rqgaming #zolf smith #hamid saleh haroun al tahan #zamid #riverbank #I really enjoyed writing this one #I'm sad it's done #I'm just going to have to come up with some other elaborate fake dating au for them lol

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dailybestiary · 6 years ago

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Patch Has Issues: Dungeon #2

Issue: Dungeon #2

Date: November/December 1986 (Pretty sure my Christmas haul that year was full of dope toys from The Transformers movie/show.)

The Cover:

(Use of cover for review purposes only and should not be taken as a challenge to status. Credit and copyright remain with their respective holders.)

Ah, Clyde Caldwell. He, Larry Elmore, Jeff Easley, and last issue’s Keith Parkinson were the mainstays of TSR’s amazing stable of artists. I have a soft spot for Caldwell. He did the covers for the D&D Gazetteer series, which means his work emblazoned some of my absolute favorite books from my middle school years. (At the time I had the whole series except the two island books, GAZ 4 & GAZ 9 (which I’ve since collected), plus the Dawn of the Emperors box set. My favorites, for the record, were GAZ 3, 5, 10, and 13. I...may like elves...a little too much.) And even as I sit here, other covers demand to be named. The very first Dragonlance adventure, the iconic Dragons of Despair? The Finder’s Stone trilogy? The first Ravenloft box? Dragon #147? Yep, he did those covers too. He was amazing.

But hoo-boy, we also have to talk about the not-amazing parts. Once Caldwell settled on a way of doing things, that’s how he did them. Points for consistency, but man, he had tropes. Even his tropes had tropes. He had a way of painting dragon’s wings. He had a way of painting swords and boots. He had a way of painting jewelry, and belts and coins—ovals upon ovals upon ovals.

And his way of painting women was with as few clothes as possible. Everything I said about Parkinson last entry? Yeah, that goes double for Caldwell. He never paints pants when a thong will do. His take on the reserved and regal Goldmoon—thighs as long as a dwarf and bronzed buttcheeks exposed—reportedly left Margaret Weis in tears. Magic-users (God, I hate that term) famously couldn’t use armor in D&D and AD&D, but Caldwell’s sorceresses pretty much stick to gauze just to be safe. And the Finder’s Stone trilogy I mentioned above? Yeah, the authors of Azure Bonds took one look at Caldwell’s cover art and literally had to come up with in-text reasons why the heroine Alias—one of the most surly woman sellswords in existence—would wear armor with a Caldwell boob hole.

Don’t get me wrong, I love cheesecake as much as the next dude. (Actually that’s not true; I came up in the grunge ’90s—our version of cheesecake was an Olympia brunette in three layers of thrift store sweaters reading Sandman while eating a cheesecake. Hell, that’s still my jam.) But context matters. The sorceress from “White Magic,” Dragon #147’s cover, may barely be wearing a negligee, but she’s also in the seat of her power and probably magically warded to the hilt—she can wear whatever she damn wants; it’s her tower. So no complaints there. But this cover’s pirate queen Porky Piggin’ it seems like an unwise choice. (The friction burns alone from clambering around the rigging…)

It’s clear from reading The Art of the Dragonlance Saga that TSR was trying to turn the ship around when it came to portrayals of women in fantasy, however slowly. And in Caldwell’s defense and to his credit, he definitely delivered women with agency—in nearly every image, they are nearly always doing something active and essential. They just tend to be doing it half-dressed.

Which is all a way of saying I dig this cover—the explosion, the churning sea (even if it does more look like snow drifts than waves), the sailors all running to the rail to look—but yeah, that pirate captain needs to put on some damn pants.

The Adventures: Before we get started, I have to note that though we’re only an issue in, already the magazine feels more noticeably like the work of editor Roger Moore. This is 100% a guess, but it really feels to me like Dungeon #1 was made of adventures that the Dragon office already had laying around, whereas Dungeon #2 was composed of adventures that Roger Moore and the new Dungeon team had more of a hand in sifting through. (He also has an assistant editor this time in Robin Jenkins, which had to have helped.) Even the cartography looks better. Again, I have zero confirmation of this, but the feeling is strong.

“The Titan’s Dream” by W. Todo Todorsky, AD&D, Levels 5–9

PCs visiting an oracle accidentally walk right into a titan’s dream and must solve some conundrums to escape. What an awesome concept this is! (Spoilers for “Best Concept” section below.) It’s a shame I don’t like this more.

First of all, dreamworld adventures are really hard to do well. And for them to work, there usually need to be real stakes—and not just “If you die in the dream, you die in real life!”—and/or a real connection to the PCs in your campaign. The latter, especially, is really hard to pull off in a published adventure; typically it’s only achieved through tactics that critics deride as railroading. (For instance, @wesschneider’s excellent In Search of Sanity does a great job of connecting the characters to their dream adventures...but it does that by a) forging the connection at 1st level, and b) pretty strongly dictating how the adventure begins and how the characters are affiliated. It works, but that’s high-wire-act adventure writing.)

Being a magazine adventure, “The Titan’s Dream” doesn’t have that luxury—it’s got to be for a general audience and work for most campaigns. That unfortunately means the default “Why” of the adventure—a lord with a child, a wedding, and an alliance at stake hires the PCs to chat with a wise titan—is little more than that: a default.

On top of that...I cannot get excited about anything Greek mythology-related. To me, just the fact I’m seeing it is a red flag.

Look, Greek mythology is why I got into this hobby. Hell, it’s why I got into fiction, period. (For some reason I somehow decided I had no use for fiction books targeted to my age, with the exception of Beverly Cleary. Then in 4th(?) grade, I got a copy of Alice Low’s Greek Gods and Heroes, and the rest is history.) But Greek mythology is often the only mythology anyone knows. When people think polytheism, that’s where most people’s minds go. Which is why, if you ever played D&D in the ’80s, I pretty much guarantee your first deity was from that pantheon. (In my first game, my first-level cleric pretty much met Ares and got bitch-slapped by him, because that’s what 4th-grade DMs do.)

So to me, putting Greek deities or titans in your adventure is the equivalent of putting dudes riding sandworms into your desert adventures—you can do it, but you better blow me away, because that is ground so well trod it’s mud. And this one doesn’t do the job.

The format is three dreams, each with five scenes. Parties will move randomly—a mechanic meant to represent dream logic (or lack thereof)—through these scenes, until all the scenes from one dream have been resolved. This is actually kind of fascinating, and I wonder how it would play at the table—I have a feeling observant players will dig it, but others may find the mechanism’s charm wears off quickly, especially if they have difficulty solving the scenes or get frustrated with the achronicity of events. I also like that every scene has a number of possible resolutions, so the PCs aren’t locked into achieving a single specific objective like they were stuck in a computer game.

But...I can’t shake the feeling of weak planning and execution (or even laziness?) that stayed with me throughout the adventure. Like, okay, the first adventure is a cyclops encounter out of the Odyssey. Cool! But then...why does the Titan follow it up with pseudo-Norse/Arthurian encounter? Did the Odyssey not hold the author’s attention? (Nor the Iliad, the Aeneid, or Metamorphosis? Really?) And then why is the third dream “drawn from the realm of pure fairy tale”? Like, were you out of pantheons? Horus didn’t return your calls? Or be more specific—why not German fairy tales, or Danish, or French Court, or Elizabethan? It feels like a class project where one group was on point, one group got the assignment a little wrong, and one didn’t even try.

Again, it’s not even that this adventure is bad—I honestly can’t tell if it is or not; I’m sure a lot of its success is determined at the table. And I could totally see throwing this at a party if I was out of inspiration that week or we needed a low-stakes breather before our next big arc. But the instant I think about it for more than a second, it all falls apart for me.

Have any of you tried this one? Let me know what you thought. And for a similar exploration into dream logic/fairy tale scenarios, I recommend Crystal Frasier’s The Harrowing for Pathfinder.

“In The Dwarven King’s Court” by Willie Walsh, AD&D, Levels 3–5

Willie Walsh is a name we’re going to see a lot more in issues to come—he’s a legendarily prolific Dungeon contributor, delivering quality, typically low-level, and often light-hearted or humorous adventurers issue after issue after issue. His first entry is a mystery with a time limit: A dwarf king is supposed to make a gift of a ceremonial sword to seal a treaty, but the sword has vanished. Brought to the king’s court courtesy of a dream, adventurers must find the sword and the surprising identity of the culprit before the rival power’s delegation arrives.

At first I was going to ding this adventure for its “What, even more dreams this issue?” hook...but here’s the thing with Walsh—never judge his modules until you reach the final page. Nearly every time I’m tempted to dismiss one of his sillier or more random adventure elements, it turns out that it makes sense and works just fine. In this case, the cause of the dream is haunt connected to the mystery, and I feel dumb for being all judgy.

So anyway, the PCs are given leave to search for the stolen object and the thief, but of course it turns out there is a whole lot of light-fingeredness going around. As Bryce (see below) puts it, “It’s like a Poirot mystery: everyone has something to hide.” This castle has as much upstairs-downstairs drama as any British farce, with nearly every NPC having either a fun personality and/or a fun secret (and with the major players illustrated by some equally fun portraits) that should make them memorable friends and foils for PCs to interact with. Not to mention the actual culprit is definitely a twist that will be hard explaining to the king...

GMs should be ready to adjust on the fly, though—a) it’s a lot of characters to juggle, and b) since the PCs are 3rd–5th level, the right spells or some lucky secret door searches could prematurely end the adventure as written. You may want to have some last-minute showdowns, betrayals, or other political intrigue outlined and in your back pocket if what’s on the page resolves too quickly.

Overall though, I’m a big fan of this adventure, and look forward to the rest of Walsh’s output. Also, given the dwarven focus and the geography of the land, this adventure could be a very nice sequel to last issue’s “Assault on Eddistone Point.”

“Caermor” by Nigel D. Findley, AD&D, Levels 2–4

Look at this author’s list of writing credits! Findley was amazingly prolific, and his work was pretty high-quality across the board, as far as I know. I particularly loved the original Draconomicon, one of the first and only 2e AD&D books I ever bought as a kid. I also loved his “Ecology of the Gibbering Mouther” from the excellent Dragon #160, and some of his Spelljammer supplements are currently sitting upstairs in my to-read pile, recently purchased but as yet shamefully untouched.

Now look at his age at the time of his death. Life is not always fair or kind.

(Speaking of unkind, man is the bio in this issue unfortunate in retrospect: “[H]e write for DRAGON® Magazine, enjoys windsurfing, plays in a jazz band, and manages a computer software company in the little time he has left.” As Archer would say, “Phrasing!”)

Anyway, this adventure is simple: An otherworldly force has been murdering the locals. The locals have pinned the blame on a handsome bard from out of town, and their own prejudices and general obstinacy are sure to get in the way of the investigation—that is, if the true culprits, some devil-worshipping culprits and and an abishai devil, don’t get in the way first.

All in all, this is a tight, well-written adventure, so I don’t have much to say about it, other than that if you like the idea of sending your party to help out some young lovers and save some faux-Scots/Yorkshiremen too stubborn to save themselves (and maybe slip in a valuable lesson about prejudice and xenophobia as well), this is the adventure for you.

One thing that does jump out to a contemporary reader, though, is the comically overpowered nature of the baddie pulling the strings in this adventure: Baalphegor, Princess of Hell (emphasis mine). Overpowered, you-won’t-really-fight-this-NPC happens with a lot of low-level adventures, when the writers want a story more epic than characters at the table can handle or are trying to plot the seeds for future evils. But still, any princess of Hell would already be a bit much...but an 18-Hit Dice, “supra-genius”, the Princess of Hell? Like, what the f—er, I mean, Hell?

If you use the adventure as written, the only way to have Baalphegor’s presence make sense is to eventually reveal that the area is an epicenter of some major badness. (Maybe that explains the lost nation of evil dwarves in the adventure background.) For a good model on how to seed early adventures in this matter, Dungeon’s Age of Worms Adventure Path and Pathfinder Adventure Path’s Rise of the Runelords AP, both from Paizo, are exemplars of small-town disturbances that eventually have world-shaking implications.

It’s also fascinating in retrospect to note Ed Greenwood’s massive impact in the hobby. Any article that appears in Dragon has the sheen of being at least semi-official, but it’s clear that Greenwood’s content was a cut above even that. In this case, an NPC from a three-year-old article of his is not just treated as canon, but also supplies the mastermind behind the adventure! It’s no surprise that in the following year his home campaign, the Forgotten Realms, would soon become AD&D’s newest and then its default setting.

Two final thoughts: 1) There’s some fascinating anti-dwarf prejudice in this article. Nearly every mention of dwarves paints them as exceptionally greedy and/or villains. And 2) how did one even begin to balance adventures in those days? This adventure is for “4–8 characters of 2nd–4th level.” There are a lot of difference at the extreme ends of those power scales…

“The Keep at Koralgesh,” by Robert Giacomozzi & Jonathan Simmons, D&D, Levels 1–3

One of the problems of BECMI D&D being known as “basic D&D” is that writers often assumed the players to be basic (that is, younger/new) as well. Which probably accounts for some of the early suggestions to the DM we get at the beginning of this adventure—like some pretty patronizing advice along the lines of not immediately announcing to PCs what the pluses are on their magical swords.

Fortunately, after that the article settles down and gives us Dungeon’s first real D&D adventure. In fact, not just real, but massive: 20 full pages of content—nearly half the issue! It’s a fully fledged dungeon crawl that has the PCs taking advantage of the summer solstice to open a shrine door that will lead them inside a long-ruined keep said to hold great treasure.

Now, I imagine in the coming installments it’s going to seem to many of you like I’m grading D&D adventures on a curve, because of my love for the system and the Known World/Mystara. That’s a fair accusation, but a better way to consider it is that I’m reviewing D&D adventures for what they are—adventures from a separate system, with a more limited rules system and palette of options than AD&D. You don’t go to a performance of Balinese shadow puppetry and compare it against Andrew Lloyd Webber; you look at it for what it achieves in its own medium. Since they appear side-by-side in the same magazine, comparison is going to be inevitable, but that’s with the understanding that AD&D was the kid coloring with the 64-crayon box of Crayola, while D&D was getting by with just eight.

On its own terms then, “The Keep of Korgalesh” is a decent, if not superlative, success. I love that it’s practically module-length and that we get three complete levels—a far cry from the previous issue’s side-trek-at-best, “The Elven Home.” We also get two new monsters, which absolutely fills my inner BECMI D&D player with glee. And I like that what starts as a dungeon crawl/fetch quest evolves into a ��kill the big bad thing” and “find out what really happened to this city.”

There are issues, though. If the whole city was destroyed, getting to see some of it besides the keep would have been nice. Some of the ecology for the dungeon inhabitants is questionable. There pretty much wasn’t a single pool or fountain in this era of D&D adventure design that wasn’t magical, and this adventure was no exception. One of the new monster’s names makes no sense except that “tyranna” and “abyss” are cool words (I mean, I guess you could read that as “tyrant of the depths,” but still…) And there are painfully obvious borrowings from other works, especially Tolkien—a door that only opens at solstice, a lake monster, an orc with a split personality that is clearly a Gollum homage, etc.

What this adventure really needs is stakes—just something to give it a bit more oomph beyond the dungeon crawl. (Finding a blacksmith’s lost hammer is the hook offered in the adventure but it’s pretty flimsy.) Perhaps the PCs are some of Kor’s last worshippers, and clearing out the dangers here and resanctifying his temple is one of their first steps toward returning him to prominence. Maybe the PCs’ grandparents were involved in the city’s demise and restoring Koralgesh will restore the families’ honor. Or you could keep it simple and have a band of pirates or a rival adventuring group also trying to clean out the keep, turning it into a race (with the tyrannabyss causing the scales of fate to wobble at appropriately cinematic moments).

So the final analysis is this is a decent dungeon crawl upon which you can build a good adventure. The real reward of this module isn’t treasure; it’s finding out just what happened to Koralgesh. But for that to matter, it needs to tie into the PCs’ pasts, futures, or both.

BONUS CONTENT FOR KNOWN WORLD/MYSTARA NERDS: Kor is almost certainly a local name for the sun god Ixion. The chaotic deity Tram is probably a local version of Alphaks, though Atzanteotl is another strong candidate, especially since deceit was key to the pirates’ success. Koralgesh could be located somewhere on the Isle of Dawn, the northern coast of Davania, or an Ierendi/Minrothad Isle that those nations haven’t made it a priority to rebuild.

Best Read: “Caermor.” Nigel D. Findley was a pro.

Best Adventure I Could Actually Run with Minimal Prep: “The Keep at Koralgesh,” as a well-written, straight-ahead dungeon crawl. Every other adventure here relies on a pretty strong handle of very mobile NPCs and their motivations, or a Titan’s dream mechanics.

Best Concept: “The Titan’s Dream,” as noted above. It’s a great idea very worth exploring, even if I wasn’t about the execution we got in this case.

Best Monster: This was actually a monster-light issue. Despite some awesome art for the tyrannabyss, I have to go with the epadrazzil, a scaly ape from a two-dimensional plane of existence that has to be summoned via a painting. All of those details are just so wonderfully and weirdly specific it has to win. (Extra points for anyone who noticed the thoul—a classic D&D monster (though it did make its way into AD&D’s Mystara setting) born from a typo.)

Best NPC: Since this is a role-playing-heavy issue, there are a bunch of contenders, and the final verdict will go to whoever your party sparks to at the table. Obviously King Baradon the Wise should get the nod for [spoiler-y reasons], but I also really like the opportunity the executioner Tarfa offers, thanks to his incriminating goblet and how it might bring the PCs to the attention of a far-off assassin’s guild at just the right level.

Best Map: All together the maps from “The Keep at Koralgesh” form an extremely appealing whole. But for best single map I have to go for the palace of Mount Diadem—that is a bangin’ dwarven demesne.

Best Thing Worth Stealing: Jim Holloway’s illustrations of dwarves. Good dwarf, gnome, and halfling art is hard to find, and even the good stuff often leans stereotypical. While Holloway’s art is often humorous—I have a feeling he and Roger Moore jibed really well, though that’s totally a guess based purely on what assignments he got handed—his dwarves, especially in this issue, are fresh, specific, and unique. You could identify them by their silhouettes alone—always the sign of good character art. If you need an image of a dwarf NPC to show the players, “In the Dwarven King’s Court” is a great first stop.

Worst Aged: Female thong pirates on magazine covers. Also using the actual names of actual mental illnesses in game materials.

What Bryce Thinks: “This seems to be a stronger issue than #1, although half of the adventures are … unusual.”

Bryce actually almost likes “The Titan’s Dream,” confirming my loathing of it. He in turn loathes “In the Court of the Dwarven King.” Like me, though, he is pro-”Caermor” and sees potential in “The Keep at Koralgesh.” (Also credit where it’s due: I might have missed the condescension at the start if he hadn’t called it out.)

So, Is It Worth It?: If you’re a Clyde Caldwell fan, this issue might be worth searching out in print. So much of Caldwell’s work from this era was dictated by product needs, cropped and boxed up in ads, or shrunk down to fit on a paperback cover. So to get this cover in full magazine size, with only the masthead tucked up top to get in the way—that could be well worth a few bucks to you.

Also, if you’re BECMI/Rules Cyclopedia-era D&D fan (or know someone who is), again, this one might be worth having in print. “The Keep at Koralgesh” is a legit, proper BECMI D&D adventure, spanning 20 whole pages and with two new monsters to boot. I would have practically have cried if someone had given 7th-grade me this.

Beyond that you can probably just rely on the PDF. But both “Caermor” and “In the Dwarven King’s Court” have strong bones worth putting some modern muscle and skin on.

Random Thoughts:

The Caldwell cover painting was also used for the Blackmoor module DA4 The Duchy of Ten. PS: I’m not trying to tell you what to do or anything, but if you do happen to run across a physical copy of The Duchy of Ten or and of the DA modules, holla at ya boy over here.

Since this is our second issue, we now have a “Letters” column. Turns out Dungeon had been announced in Dragon #111 with a really detailed set of writer’s guidelines; most of the correspondence is questions re: those. In the process of answering, we get some surprisingly frank talk about payment. The $900 for a cover seemed low until I converted it to 2018 dollars, and ~$2,000 does seem right to my ignorant eye. I then made the mistake of converting my current salary to 1986 dollars and felt a lot worse about myself and what I’ve achieved.

Apologies this took so long to post. I had the issue read by early October and most of this review written with the next week or two after...but then I got involved in dealing with a 4.5 week hospitalization and aftermath...and then a second still-ongoing hospitalization...and even though I only had about four paragraphs left I just couldn’t find time to put a bow on it.

Notable Ads: The gold Immortals Rules box for D&D. (I also still don’t have that one yet, and Christmas is coming. Just saying, guys, if you happen to find one in your attic.) ;-) Also an ad for subscribing to Dungeon itself, starring “my war dinosaur, Boo-Boo.” No, really.

Over in Dragon: Beneath a glorious cover, Roger Moore is the new editor of Dragon #115, three authors (including Vince Garcia, who I like a lot) share credit on a massive six articles about fantasy thieves, a famous article proposing that clerics get the weapons of their deity (people were still talking about it in the “Forum” column when I was buying my first issues two years later), and a look at harps from the Forgotten Realms (notable because behind the scenes Ed Greenwood’s home setting was being developed for the AD&D game for launch in 1987.) A photographic cover and a 3-D sailing ship are served up in Dragon #116, along with maritime adventures, more Ed Greenwood (rogue stones), and articles for ELFQUEST, Marvel Super Heroes (Crossfire’s gang), and FASA’s Dr. Who game (looking at all six(!) doctors). (Incidentally, I had an Irish babysitter around this time who first mentioned Dr. Who to me—I wish I’d explored more but I was too young to understand what I’d been offered.)

PS: Yes, I’ve heard about the upcoming Tumblr ban. It is a terrible idea that will affect way too many of my readers. It shouldn’t affect me much (and I have all my monster entries backed up at the original site), but I will keep you posted as I learn more, particularly if I find you, my readers, packing up and going elsewhere.

#daily bestiary #patch has issues #pathfinder #paizo #3.5 #dungeons & dragons #dungeons and dragons #d&d #dnd #ad&d #becmi #dungeon #dungeon magazine

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magneticmage · 3 years ago

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Oh my gosh. Sorry to hijack the post BUT.....

This reminds me so much of Granny (her full name is Miriam Wolfe but everyone just....calls her Granny). She is a Life Cleric Folk Hero who had a very...eventful youth. She had a great many lovers (among them a mindflayer, a dragon, an orc, a goblin, and a human) and is like 90 years old now. Her stats are all 12s and 13s (I haven't leveled her beyond level 5 yet I think) with one stat, her wisedom, at like 16? She's a hoot with her current party.

To whit, she has;

-Gotten pretty much everyone (whose players were interested, of course) in the group laid by introducing them to some "nice lads/ladies" and organizing an impromptu orgy (the matchmaking got out of hand)

-Stopped a bandit ambush by calling out to her great-grandson (a half-orc) and lecturing him while pulling on his ear.

-Got a PC (a half-orc paladin) married to a lovely human woman named Gwen (who it turns out is basically the daughter of a mafia empire boss, not that anyone knew that at the time or has found out yet.) They have two adopted goblin squires (cough sons cough) who follow them around

-When the party was sent to deal with a bandit camp, she went in with the party Goliath (introduced as her "grandson" and to help her carry things). They got past the guards by giving them cookies. She explained she was there to make them all tea and cookies. Upon being brought to the kitchen, the DM asked if she was going to poison the meal, and I said no, Granny was going to do what she said she was going to do; make them tea, cookies, and a home-cooked meal. That is exactly what she did while gently making them question their life choices.

-She got them all (save one who was the bandit boss, though he heavily considered it) to agree to start a kind of medieval cruise line focused on reforming criminals to a more honest line of work upon them deciding their current line of work wasn't working out and they wanted to do better.

-Upon the authorities showing up, all the bandits declared they would protect Granny from harm and drew their weapons. She told them to sit down and asked the guards to join them. They politely refused, clearly bewildered by this old lady surrounded among thieves and killers, and arrested the group.

-She then left the party to go advocate to the freaking QUEEN of the kingdom on their behalf ("They are good kids who were led astray by difficult circumstances and influences. I'm sure if you show them some leniency and put them on a probation, they will be more than willing to turn things around and go back to being regular law-abiding citizens.")

-She hasn't had to draw a weapon once since we started and hasn't taken literally any damage either

-She can be "forgetful" and does her own thing while making off-hand remarks that leave more questions than answers (upon hearing screaming from some party members being attacked in their rooms, she fondly reminisced about her second wedding night)

-Made hand-knitted clothing for the group (among them the half-orc, Goliath, the goblins, a smattering of humans and half-elves, a pair of elven twins, and a newly hatched baby dragon who is extremely fond of the party druid)

-Her various high and low rolls have been explained away by her age (failed a knowledge roll because her memory is going, failed a perception roll because of bad eyesight. Failed an althetics roll due to arthritis. Made that craft check? She knits in her down time. Made that persuasion check to talk the bartender into giving them free rooms for the night? He pitied the exhausted old lady traveling with a bunch of ruffians)

-Made the DM swear at me when she succeeded at YET ANOTHER roll to see if someone was related to Granny (so far, that includes two party members-a human and a half-elf- and three NPCs-A half-orc, a goblin, and a full orc- they have encountered). The DM has now made a joke rule that he's going to roll to see if someone is related to Granny (no matter how implausible it may be).

So, yeah, she's a time and a half and I look forward to the chaos upon getting to play her again soon.

Horny bard is cancelled. We’re bringing the dad bard to the table.

Bardic Inspiration? Because I believe in you, champ!

Vicious Mockery? It’s all dad jokes.

Seducing NPCs? Nope, we’re using Persuasion to get them to give you information you need, because “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed.”

Jack of All Trades? Yeah, yer old dad knows a little bit about everything.

Song of Rest? It’s called “tucking you in and giving you a bedtime story.”

Be the one to split up party treasure and tell them that this is their allowance.

Mix up your game. Put your bard in a polo shirt and cargo shorts. Hit that party with some Big Dad Energy.

#my dnd character #Granny

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gascon-en-exil · 6 years ago

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Octopath Traveler Liveblogging

Chapter 2 for Primrose, Therion, and Tressa. As everyone except Olberic is slightly underleveled I’m doing these in order of recommended levels.

Also note that since this deals with story content past the opening chapters there will be spoilers.

Primrose

...Are all of her stories going to involve prostitution in some way? Not that I think that’s necessarily a bad thing since sex work is rarely addressed in gaming - and by this point they’re not even playing coy by trying to pass them off as dancers - but it would be kind of funny if her remaining two chapters found a way to work that in somehow too.

Stillsnow is pretty and chilly and not really the sort of place one would associate with brothel work, but I guess that might be the point. We can only assume Primrose found something thicker to wear off-screen like she said she would, lest this be a rehash of Silvia in Silesse in FE4. At least resident prostitute Arianna is dressed for the weather. The church of the Holy Flame also has a presence in the town, though that largely manifests in a bizarre interlude between the chapter boss and a priest who lost his daughter (gah, pseudo-Catholic priests with legitimate children again!) to suicide and is given one of the boss’s girls as a...replacement? That’s got to be some kind of milestone for weird and tangential incest subtext.

The theme of this chapter seems to be steering Primrose’s story toward a contemplation of revenge and the satisfaction it may or may not bring, but as far as JRPG philosophizing goes it works well in context.

As for the boss fight, it was long but not very difficult. I was grateful to have everyone with their secondary classes if only for the added damage variety, and my overleveled cleric!Olberic was indeed incredibly useful for both tanking and healing. I wished I’d brought someone who could cure status, because the boss has an annoying move that stuns characters for several turns.

Party banter highlights: Cyrus likes the idea of dancing but is bad at it, Tressa is the party’s designated little kid (even though the wiki says she’s 18 so she’s not that young), and Alfyn gets a no homo moment that’s probably more about showcasing how unworldly he is. The broader discussion of House Azelhart’s motto gets commented upon not by Ophilia but by Olberic, likely because it’s referencing faith in oneself and one’s convictions instead of any religious faith. H’annit has mementos of her deceased parents, which is notable as it indicates that she doesn’t see her master as a father figure. Fathers already feature fairly prominently in the stories of all three other female characters, so that’s good for variety.

Therion

Meanwhile the overarching theme of Therion’s chapters will be convenient eavesdropping. Also propositioning random people in taverns for information, in what we must assume is a totally heterosexual way.

I don’t recall it ever being mentioned what exactly Orlock was researching the dragonstone for, although reading spoilers online suggests that it has to do with blood magic or something like that. It doesn’t come across at all in his boss fight apart from perhaps his ability to summon a golem after his lackeys have been killed. He’s got an interesting mechanic where said lackeys can guard his weaknesses, meaning he can take damage but can’t be broken.

Oh, and Orlick and his former colleague were totally gay for each other, and all the “like a brother to me” denials in the world isn’t going to clean up that subtext. Interesting how we seem to be building up to Darius betraying Therion at some point in the past - another tale of jilted gay lovers?

Party banter highlights: First of all I have to point out that getting these conversations is an utter pain in the ass, and constantly switching out your party at every plot marker to check for one drags down the pace of the pre-dungeon segments of the chapters. Even doing that I managed to miss H’annit’s, and it doesn’t seem like there’s a way to go back and see them apart from YouTube...which I naturally did because there was no way I was redoing that long boss fight.

Anyway, most of the banter for this chapter centers around Therion’s profession and how the other characters react to that. Tressa doesn’t like that he chases rumors, H’annit doesn’t like that he steals, and Primrose would like him to add some more flair but he won’t because no homo (probably). Olberic surprises Therion by revealing that he actually has a mind for tactics and isn’t the dumb meatshield he first appears to be. Therion flirts with Ophilia either genuinely or to fluster her - I’m going with the second one - and on the other hand Alfyn wants to take the guy out for drinks. Given something I read recently on a sidequest involving Zeph, this is less homewrecking than it sounds; I think the overall intention is to clear the playable cast of their NPC connections and leave them free to be shipped with each other in whatever arrangement one prefers.

Tressa

This doesn’t really feel like it’s shaping up to be Tressa’s story, to be honest. Between the unidentified author of the journal she’s following and new rival merchant Ali it’s a little hard to see where Tressa herself fits in not counting her role as obligatory player surrogate. Ali is interesting, sure, but the problem is that he’s too interesting and too directly involved in the conflict of this chapter, both in how he introduces Tressa to her latest money-making scheme and then one-ups her and later in his attempted opposition to Morlock. Meh, from the sound of it he won’t be making a reappearance until her last chapter, but then there’s still the journal author hanging over her otherwise aimless travels in the name of doggedly ethical mercantilism. As to how this chapter works as a treatise on fair business practices, it...sort of does? Obviously monopolies and price gouging are bad and get personified in the form of an obese rich guy who won’t fight his own battles (like Oliver from FE9 only less delusional), but then we’re also supposed to be questioning the smooth-talking sales pitches of Ali and his father because it’s sort of lying? I have no idea, and at this point I’m more confused than anything by Tressa’s personal moral code.

Oh, and this is the third dungeon to be somebody’s house. H’annit’s first dungeon is a forest, can there maybe be another of those? Or anything else? I have nothing to say about the Omar fight, and overall I’m still finding these bosses to be fairly easy even when they hit hard. Having an overleveled tank who can also do group heals and revives is OP.

Party banter highlights: Not much this time. I know I’m biased since I don’t find Tressa all that engaging on her own, but the other characters don’t contribute all that much here either. Primrose gets a motivational speech, Ophilia might have a crush on Ali, Tressa and Therion continue to not get along (and not really in a UST way), and H’annit disapproves of Tressa’s love of money which is amusing from a gameplay mechanic perspective: a Rogue path character doesn’t care for the motives of a Noble path character. Alfyn gives her some advice on friendships re: Ali that will sound a lot gayer in hindsight if the game decides to start shipping Tressa/Ali

#Octopath Traveler #Octopath spoilers #Primrose #Therion #Tressa

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blah-blah-stranger-things · 7 years ago

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The Monk (Chapter 2/2)

Chapter 1

ao3 (featuring slightly better formatting)

“A Monk. One of those quiet-types with robes and fancy handwriting?” Hopper looks at Wheeler skeptically.

“It’s not like - no, not a medieval monk. They’re like...”

“Monks believe in perfecting themselves, physically and spiritually, in pursuit of enlightenment,” Dustin advises sagely, balancing potato chips on four of his fingertips.

“And that sounds like me to you, huh?”

“Um - yeah, of course it does,” Wheeler responds cheerily. Hopper’s going to pretend he doesn’t notice the glance at his stomach, because otherwise one thing will lead to another, and at the end of the day he understands that it’s never ok to beat up a child.

“They also believe in punching people real hard in the face,” Lucas adds dryly.

Hopper tilts his head. Alright, he’ll give them that one. “And this role, or whatever - that determines what I can do?”

“Your class. And yeah, kind of,” Wheeler replies, turning one of those massive rulebooks toward him. “They determine your hit dice, and your ability set, and how much experience you need for certain effects, and what - ”

“Whoa, whoa, ok. Slow down. You promised me I wouldn’t have to look at any charts.”

Wheeler looks disappointed for a moment, but then shrugs as if to say ‘your loss.’

“So. Monk,” Hopper resumes. “That’s the closest thing this game has to a cop?”

Nobody responds for a couple of seconds. Dustin becomes very interested in his hat, Lucas starts idly tapping Max’s jeans with his pencil’s eraser (she grimaces affectionately; Hopper hadn’t known that was something a person could do), and Will concentrates intently on a doodle he’s been sketching in the corner of his character sheet. “Sure,” Mike says eventually.

Hopper glances at El, who shrugs shyly without making eye contact. “Do me a favor, kids,” he says after a moment. “Don’t ever commit a crime that requires you to lie to the police. It’s not your strong suit.”

El has the decency to look embarrassed, but Wheeler just scratches the back of his head. “Well - ok, maybe technically there’s another class that’s more like a police officer. But it’s taken.”

“You can’t have more than one of each?”

“Well you could, I guess, but... we don’t.”

Of course they don’t. “Ok. So which one is it. I assume it’s not maestro over there - ” Dustin waggles his eyebrows helpfully. “ - or red’s made-up speed demon, or El’s witch.”

“Mage,” El corrects gravely.

“Right. So that leaves the clerk, or - ”

“Cleric,” Will says, crossing his arms. Jesus, kid can glare as good as his mother when he wants to.

“ - or bandana over there.”

“Lucas is a Ranger. And no, it’s not any of those.”

“Well,” Hopper concludes patiently, “I may not be a math whiz, but I’m pretty sure that’s all five of you. There some invisible player here I don’t know about? Bad manners not to introduce a guest to the host, kid.”

“Um, hello?” Wheeler says. “There’s six of us here.”

Hopper frowns. “I thought you were the, uh. The Dungeon Master.”

“Right now, sure. We trade off sometimes, though.”

“Yeah but Mike’s the best at it,” Will notes matter-of-factly. In response Wheeler does his best not to look cocky, which isn’t saying much.

Dustin gives a half-shrug. “Eh, for stories. Lucas still kills it when it comes to running tactical scenarios.”

“And yet he couldn’t stalk for shit,” Max laments teasingly, flicking Lucas’s temple, who flinches and grins. (Hopper decides he doesn’t want to know.)

“Anyway - I’m a Paladin, which is probably the closest thing to law enforcement. But I mean that’s just based on specs and general outline. Really backstory is more important, and Monks have to be Lawful, which fits the police, right?”

Hopper smells bullshit - exhibit A, there’s no goddamn Paladin in the group at the moment, and since he doesn’t expect he’ll be investing in a set of mutated dice anytime soon why the hell does it matter if he plays one - but whatever. He’s doing this for El. Stop arguing and get it over with, Jim. “Fine. But let me state for the record, you’re missing out on a real bonding opportunity, Wheeler. Don’t you think El’d love it if her two favorite men had matching classes?”

El smiles widely and Wheeler looks embarrassed, so as far as Hopper’s concerned he’s 2 for 0.

“Alright, so I’m physically disciplined, I punch people, I’m law-abiding. That enough to get started here or what?”

“Lawful. Different from law-abiding,” Dustin amends in what Hopper supposes is meant to be a professorial tone.

“How you figure.”

“It’s part of your alignment. I mean yeah, Lawful people usually are law-abiding, but it’s more than that.”

Hopper rubs his temples preemptively. “Alignment.”

“Mhm. Everyone has an alignment. It’s a system on two axes; on the one side you’ve got your Lawful, Neutral, Chaotic, on the other it’s Good, Neutral, and - ”

“I know you’re not showing me a chart but now I’m picturing one in my head, which I’ve decided counts. Why don’t you just... tell me what you all are and I can be that too.”

Will’s gone back to doodling - the kid’s intimidatingly good, even if he puts the timid in intimidating; Hopper feels mildly unsettled when draws dries, sometimes, half-convinced that one day he’ll look over Will’s shoulder and see more of those damn vines spilling out onto the page. Anyway he’s doodling, and doesn’t look up when he replies. “We’re different. Mike and I are Lawful Good, Dustin and Max are Chaotic Good, and El and Lucas are Neutral - ”

“ - Good, yeah, I get it, you’re the good guys. Fine. So I’m Lawful Good?”

“If you want to be. You could try Lawful Neutral if you’re feeling edgy. The law applies to good and evil alike! That kind of thing. Like Judge Dredd, or... man, is there anyone in Star Wars who’d be Lawful Neutral?” Wheeler asks, looking mildly distressed.

“It’d be lost on me anyway, kid,” Hopper reassures.

“Inspector Javert’s Lawful Neutral,” Dustin provides.

Hopper grunts; he took Sara to see that show, once, when she was too little to understand much of what was happening. “You never struck me as one for musicals.”

“What? I have a soft spot for Les Mis. My mom likes it. Besides, I am a Bard. I dreaaaamed a dreaaaaam in time gone byyyyyyy - ”

“Just - god - please. Don’t,” Hopper pleads quietly.

God spurns him. Will joins in without looking up from his doodling, forehead creasing with due melodrama. “When hoooope was hiiiiiigh and liiiiiife worth liviiiiing. I dreaaaaamed that loooove would never dii - ow!” the boys say simultaneously as Max and Lucas, perfectly choreographed, smack them upside the head. At least El’s laughing.

“So can we get started or - ” Hopper and Mike both say, overtop each other.

El laughs harder.

Yes, though, it turns out, they can.

“Unbeknownst to the party - unbeknownst even to Ariybar himself - there’s another witness to the dark proceedings underway in the ritual chamber. A tall man with a hard gaze lurks just outside the secret doorway, having followed the brave adventurers here at the behest of the Order of the Golden Shield. The Order, a band of warriors dedicated to seeking justice across the land, sent their top operative - known only as Chief - to ensure the safe return of the princess, given - um - some... creative solutions, that this particular group has been known to employ on occasion.”

“Look,” Dustin interjects, “if that goat hadn’t looked at me funny I never would have had to - ”

“Would you shut it about the goat already,” Lucas hisses. “Besides, he’s probably talking about the time El first discovered her powers and almost burnt down the entire Enchanted Forest.”

El makes a face at him. “Better than Doomstoll.”

“Yeah, Lucas. I don’t remember El spending half an hour flirting with a young maiden who turned out to be a kobold in disguise,” Will teases.

Max raises an eyebrow.

“In my defense,” Lucas says, holding up his hands, “Mike said she was hot.”

“Yeah? What’d she look like?”

“Oh you know. Dark hair, petite. Dainty. Just how I like ‘em,” he says with a grin. Max shoves him.

“Yeah except actually she looked like if a wet rat had sex with a lizard,” Dustin notes. “Not sure what that says about you Max.”

“Doesn’t say anything about me. Just shows how pitifully desperate this nerd used to be.”

“Guys can we focus here? - So, Chief, you’re listening in and have just heard Ariybar explain his plan. It’s clear from the way the runes along the wall are reacting that his ritual is about to begin. What do you do?”

Hopper finds himself feeling surprisingly nervous all the sudden, and it doesn’t help that they’re all staring at him expectantly. “Do I get choices, or something?”

Wheeler shakes his head. “You can do anything you want. As long as it doesn’t go against the rules.”

He grunts. “So the Dungeon Master is Lawful, is what you’re saying.”

Wheeler smiles. “What do you do?” he repeats.

Hopper glances at El, who nods encouragingly. “I, uh... do I have a gun?”

“What do you think,” Wheeler responds, looking unimpressed.

“Ok, fine. A weapon?”

The Dungeon Master taps his fingertips against the cover of a rulebook, mouth twisted in thought, before he picks up a die and rolls it. “Yeah, ok. Traditionally Monks don’t rely on weapons and armor, but we’ll say you’ve got a knife with you. You’ll do more damage with your fists, though, if you decide to attack.”

“Does he have Quivering Palm?” Dustin asks excitedly.

“What? No. That’s level 13 and above.”

“Yeah, but he’s older. More experienced.”

“Age doesn’t matter when it comes to level.”

“Yeah, I know, but...”

“No. Overruled. He’s the same level as the rest of you.” Kid takes to authority a little too well, Hopper thinks with a frown. And judging by the impish smile his daughter’s sending Wheeler’s way, she likes it.

“So where’s everyone standing, relative to me,” he interrupts, before his mind can start going all sorts of bad places.

“Ok - the party is about 15 feet into the room. Ariybar is hovering a foot or so off the ground about 10 feet in front of them. Here,” he says, pulling a board of sorts out into the center of the floor space, “we probably should’ve set this up earlier. Each square is 5 feet by 5 feet. With your speed you can move 30 feet per combat round - but we’re not in combat yet, so, ignore that for now. Uhh so this one’s Ariybar,” he says, picking up a statuette of a gnarled little creature and placing it on the board. “And here’s Will, El, Max, Lucas, Dustin... and this one’s you.”

The figurine he chooses is a ripped old bald guy with a big stick. Kind of like if Gandhi had decided to skip the hunger strikes and spent all his afternoons at the gym instead. “And he doesn’t know I’m here yet.”

“Right.”

Hopper scratches his neck, realizes he missed a spot shaving. Eh, it’s the weekend. “How long until this ritual thing is complete?”

“You don’t know. You’re not a caster.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You don’t need to be a caster to know about spells,” Dustin contests.

“Yeah, but this is a unique ritual.”

Lucas makes a face. “That’s weak. He didn’t get to pick his backstory or skills, how do we know he doesn’t have a knowledge concentration or something?”

“Because he doesn’t!”

“Weak.”

“Well - Ariybar’s an illusionist. So an arcane caster,” Will notes. “A Monk might know about divine magic, but probably not arcane.”

“Thank you,” Wheeler says, as Dustin and Lucas both appear to reluctantly concede, leaning back.

“Wise,” Will reminds with a shy smile, tapping his forehead.

“So are you going to do something, or...” Max prods.

“Yeah,” Hopper grunts, clearing his throat. “Just a couple more questions first.”

Mike toys with something behind his little Dungeon Master wall/board/whatever. “The runes flair dramatically; you get the sense you don’t have much time left. I’ll give you one more question.”

“Just one?”

“Yeah.”

Hopper grunts again, and finds he isn’t above waiting a few extra breaths as the group stares at him expectantly. Dramatic tension, or some shit. He slouches in his chair to get closer to eye level with the group seated on the floor. Also because it’s a Saturday and he’s lazy. “What’s he wearing.”

Wheeler frowns, and Dustin and Lucas glance at each other. Max looks ready to be offended and/or disgusted; El just looks confused.

“ - sorry?” Wheeler replies eventually.

“I said, what’s he wearing.”

“You mean like what equipment he has, or - ”

“Is that how you take it when someone asks you what you’re wearing to the school dance? They want to know if you’re bringing a sword? I mean exactly what I said.”

After a few more skeptical seconds, Wheeler shrugs. “Ok - um, he’s got a somewhat dirty white tunic covered by lightweight leather armor. Brown pants. A cloth belt and muddy boots, and a red robe, undecorated but definitely the best-maintained part of his outfit. There’s a pendant around his neck, a blue stone on a gold chain.”

“And that’s it?”

Wheeler looks uncomfortable for what might be the first time since Hopper got dragged into this mess, and it takes a little effort to keep from smirking. “I mean... that you can see. Yeah.”

Hopper nods. “Alright. Here goes nothing,” he mutters. “I step out into the room.”

“Do you sneak?”

He shakes his head. “Looks to me like someone needs to interrupt him. So I interrupt him.”

Wheeler nods. “Ok. What do you say?”

Hopper rubs at the patch of stubble on his neck. “Uh - so I just say it to you?”

“Yeah. Pretend I’m Ariybar.”

Hopper’s not going to do that, because a teenage supervillain in an argyle sweater isn’t something he’s sure he can take seriously. So he focuses on preparing his response instead. “Stop right there,” he says with as much authority as he’s willing to muster.

“Ariybar’s sinister smirk is interrupted by a confused frown as he looks toward you, and the runes dim slightly. ‘What’s this? Another hapless soul for my master to consume?’”

Hopper’s eyebrow twitches. The kid has a flair for the theatrical, no doubt, but his voices could use some work. “I’m here to stop you,” he says with something like heroism, reevaluating all the choices in his life that have led him to this moment.

“Who the hell are you?” Dustin asks emphatically.

“...what do you mean, who the hell am I.”

“No - my character says that.”

“Wheeler just told you who I was. A Monk from the League of the Gold Medalists or whatever.”

“Order of the Golden Shield,” Mike says impatiently. “Like a police badge?”

“I know he said that,” Dustin resumes, his professor voice on display again. “But you’re not supposed to metagame. ‘What is metagaming,’ you’re no doubt asking yourself. Well, that’s an excellent question, Chief Hopper’s hypothetical internal monologue. Metagaming means acting on knowledge you have as a player but that your character wouldn’t know. It’s like cheating.”

“So in addition to knowing all the stuff in those books you also have to not know things to play this game.”

“Pretty much. So like I said - ‘Who the hell are you?’”

Hopper closes his eyes, rubs the corner of one with his thumb. “I’m from the Order of the, uh...”

“Golden Shield.”

“ - Golden Shield, I was about to say that. I followed you twerps here to make sure you actually got the job done.”

“Are you kidding me? The king doesn’t trust us? After everything we’ve done for him?” Dustin exclaims, affronted.

“I mean, to be fair...” Max says, waving her hand in a circle.

“...ok, so I admit this isn’t our finest moment. But still. I thought we had a bond.”

“‘Fool. All you’ve accomplished is ensuring you’ll share your friends’ fate!’ Ariybar turns his attention to you and begins to cast a spell.”

“Not my friends,” Hopper mutters.

“Everyone’s piling it on today,” Dustin grumbles.

It takes Hopper a moment before he realizes that Will’s holding out a die pinched between two fingers in front of him. “You’ll need this,” the boy says, nodding at Wheeler, who’s flipping rapidly through pages in his rulebook.

Hopper holds out a hand for it, and Will drops it in. Well, he thinks, staring down at the lump of plastic resting on his palm, there’s no going back now. He’s about to lose his nerdginity.

“Roll a Reflex save. - Uh, just, roll that,” Mike corrects when he looks up, before Hopper can ask for clarification.

Here goes nothing.

The die cracks its knuckles against the floor and comes to rest next to an abandoned pretzel stick. “17.”

“Nice. A bright, crackling beam of energy aimed at your chest slices through the air, but as though on instinct you angle your body out of the way in the fraction of a second it takes for the spell to leave his fingertips. The wall behind you sparks and sizzles, burnt at the point of impact.”

“Holy shit, did he just dodge a bolt of lightning?” Max remarks.

“Monks get Evasion as a class ability.”

“Badass,” El says. Oh good. She’s picked up another one.

Granted, it was kind of badass.

“Punch him in the face,” Lucas suggests enthusiastically, but Hopper raises a hand to shush him.

“Wheeler said I wouldn’t know anything about the ritual. What about the rest of you? You can still talk, right?”

Will nods. “El should be able to roll a Knowledge check for it.”

“Good luck,” Lucas mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hopper says, defensively on El’s behalf.

“It just means her character’s, uh... you know, more of an emotionally-driven Mage. Not really the... bookish type.”

El sticks her tongue out at him as she picks a die to roll.

“Ariybar grimaces. ‘Dodge all you want. There’s nothing you do to stop me! In a few moments, it’ll all be over! My master will - ’”

“Yeah, listen, I heard the whole villain rant from the doorway there, so we can skip it, thanks. El?”

“One-two. Plus two. So, one-four. Fourteen,” she corrects when he gives her a look, rolling her eyes. They’ve had several disagreements where she’s made the case that her numbering system makes more sense in the end, an argument he’s found frustratingly difficult to refute - but if she’s going to be out in the world soon, she needs to learn to blend in, and that’s not how one-four-year-olds speak.

“Ok,” Wheeler says, “so you don’t know anything about this specific ritual, but you know an invocation spell like this one usually requires a focus component, and takes about a minute of concentration to cast.”

“So... the focus component is the pendant. Duh,” Max supplies.

Hopper craves a smoke, but the pack is back over on the table, which means not only would he have to unslouch to reach it, he’d have to stand. Meh. “Before your little plot twist back there I’d have made a comment about how stupid this guy is to wear an important part of his plan around his neck, out in the open like that. But I figure it must be rigged or something. That’s a thing, right? Magic booby traps or whatever?”

“It’s possible,” Dustin agrees.

“Ok. Then I pull out that knife you said I have.”

“Ariybar smirks. ‘You expect to take me down with that?’”

Hopper rubs his nose. “No. But I think it’s going to get me that little bauble around your neck.”

“‘Ha! Do your worst, hireling! This chain can’t be cut by any blade, let alone a common - ’”

“I circle round to Red and put the knife against her neck.”

“Whoa, what the hell,” Max exclaims, wide-eyed, and the rest of the group’s comments blend into the kind of cacophony Hopper usually associates with interruptions to bingo night down at the church on Thursday nights, whenever he’s called into to stop two octogenarians from tearing each other’s hair out.

“‘What are you - what are you doing?’ Ariybar demands.”

“Well,” he says, crossing his arms, “as I understand it your plan hinges on taking control of the, uh, Zoomer here. Seems like all our problems go away once she’s out of the picture.”

“Dad!” El hisses; there’s no affection in the word this time. He ignores her.

“‘You... you wouldn’t dare take an innocent life!’”

“Hey,” he shrugs, “they’re the Good guys. I’m the Neutral guy.”

“Ariybar stops levitating, feet touching the ground as he approaches you, hands raised. ‘Let’s - let’s be reasonable. Surely we can come to some arrangement. One where you don’t need to kill an innocent girl.’”

“Uh, my character’s a woman, thank you very much.”

“God Mayfield that’s not the point,” Wheeler says, either as himself or as Ariybar, Hopper can’t decide.

“Like I said,” Hopper interrupts, “this knife’s gonna get me that stone. Hand it over, and I’ll let her live.”

“Ariybar hesitates. After a moment, he reaches behind his neck and unfastens the chain, and then slips the pendant off. He plays with it a moment before slowly approaching and extending a hand to give it to you.”

“I keep my knife to her throat as I reach out to take it. Uh, I say, ‘Any funny business and she’s a goner.’” Jesus, he sounds like a 40s movie gangster. “‘You saw how fast I moved back there; don’t think my hand is any slower.’ - That’s, uh, true, right?” he asks as an aside. Dustin gives him a thumbs-up.

“Ariybar scowls and drops the stone into your hand.”

“Good. Now back off.”

“He does.”

“Woo-hoo!” Lucas cheers. “Nice thinking, Chief.”

Hopper twists his mouth and studies Wheeler, who’s managing a decent poker face. “Gave it up too easily,” he mutters in reply, and then, experiencing a sudden burst of energy, sits up nearly an entire half an inch. “Is there a way to be sure this thing isn’t another illusion?”

“You can roll to disbelieve it.”

He does, using the same bulky die as before when directed. “19.”

Lucas makes a noise. “Damn, man. Talk about beginner’s luck.”

“You can’t be 100% positive your attempt worked, but you feel confident that the stone you’re holding is real. It pulses with an otherworldly heat; magic is definitely flowing through it.”

“If I have quick hands, does that mean I have quick fingers? You know, uh, like...”

“Sleight-of-hand skills?” Wheeler asks. Hopper nods. “Sure. I think that’s reasonable.”

“Alright. Then I’m going to lower my knife and walk around behind the rest of the group. Will, do you still have that sack you were carrying around earlier?”

Will is wide-eyed and more animated than Hopper’s ever seen him; he’s been that way all day, not included play breaks, every time Hopper’s looked up to check in on the story. Uh - on the players, he means. Anyway, it’s kind of adorable. “My satchel? Yeah. It’s pretty full, though.”

“That’s fine. I’m gonna sneak the stone into the top of the bag as I pass by.”

“Ok. Give me another d20 roll.”

“11.”

Half the party groans, and for a second Hopper assumes he’s failed the roll or something. He reevaluates when El, smiling widely, leans forward to give the slightly pinkening Wheeler a peck on the lips.

“Every. Single. Eleven,” Dustin complains.

Hopper grimaces. “Maybe cut the PDA while I’m playing,” he suggests firmly. He tries his best not to get too overbearing-father-figure with El these days, especially when it comes to Wheeler - part of him does feel guilty for keeping them separated for a year, and an even deeper part of him has internalized the sting of El’s recitation of numbered days, the terrible realization that, at least on some occasions, she saw him as a warden more than a protector - but that doesn’t mean he won’t enforce boundaries where appropriate.

El shakes her head at him, though, still looking giddy. “Tradition,” she states plainly, and directs her smile at him.

It’s not fair that she can melt his heart with a look like that. His heart is supposed to be a big, hairy, manly heart, a heart like weathered concrete, and, you know, a whole bunch of other clumsily mixed metaphors. (His physician has other adjectives for it, but that’s neither here nor there.) He mutters something unintelligible and turns his attention back to the game. “So...”

Mike unflusters himself. “Yeah. The stone goes in without incident.” He makes a roll behind his wall/shield/screen.

“Good,” Hopper says. “Now all that’s left is for you to release these... adventurers, and point me in the direction of the princess.”

“You said you crossed the room?” Wheeler confirms.

“Uh... yeah, I guess I’d have to, right? If I went behind Will?” He moves Buff Gandhi to a new position on the board.

“Then Ariybar mutters an incantation and the runes flash white. Give me another d20 roll.”

“...4.” Beginner’s luck, huh.

“The light fades and you find yourself in the same state as the others, frozen in place.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dustin sighs.

“ - I mean, is anyone surprised?” Lucas asks with frustration. “What exactly was your plan, here? You basically gave up your hostage, which was the only thing stopping him from...” He trails off as Hopper fixes him with a death glare.

Ariybar picks up for him, though. “‘You arrogant fool!’ Ariybar exclaims, approaching you.” Wheeler has a cocksure smile on his face, and Hopper has another urge to exercise his Monkly proclivities for introducing smug looks to closed fists. “‘Assuming I’d just let you leave, even after you abandoned your advantage? After I’d given you my pendant?’ He cackles and crosses to Will.”

“I bare my teeth at him,” Will says, demonstrating with feeling.

“He reaches into your pack. ‘And this - this was supposed to fool me? This stone is bound to me; I would know its precise whereabouts even had you carried it halfway around the world!’ He pulls out the stone and backs away.”

Max shakes her head. “Damnit. I really thought we had him there, for a minute.” She kicks the side of the couch. “Well. Nice knowing you, everybody.”

“Still think you made it too damn hard,” Dustin mutters at Wheeler.

“Well the last three sessions you said everything was too easy! What was I supposed to - ”

“Come on, guys,” Will says, with the weary determination of a boy who has seen things. The thought occurs to Hopper as something humorous, at first, until he remembers that of course Will has seen things, felt things, lived through things, beyond anything he can really understand. “The Chief did a great job giving us a second chance. There must be something...” he says, though it’s more of a plea than anything else.

“No one’s saying he didn’t,” Lucas assures. “But we’re all paralyzed, now. Unless another one of our parents has been secretly listening in outside and decides to join in, I’m pretty sure we’re well and truly screwed.”

“The runes turn green again as Ariybar lifts off the ground; judging by the intensity of the light, he’s picking up where he left off.”

El looks at Wheeler pleadingly, who looks pained for a moment before he bites his lip and shifts his divider to block her gaze. By the time she turns that gaze to Hopper, it’s only gotten more intense. “We have to do something!”

He keeps his focus on Wheeler, stone-faced.

The kid glances around the faces of the others - apologetically? To check for last-minute strokes of genius, maybe - before he takes a deep breath and announces, “The green of the runes becomes absolutely toxic and pulses once, twice, three times, then fades to lifeless black. ‘IT IS DONE!’ Ariybar announces, cackling wildly as he settles to the floor. Max, that sinister energy you felt earlier consumes you entirely - hundreds of souls enslaved to your will, and beyond them a looming darkness in the back of your mind: your father, the Tyrant, ready to receive them, to be - ”

Hopper clears his throat. “I can talk, right?”

Mike frowns. There’s silence for a second or two as everyone pulls themselves out of the moment. “...I mean... yeah. I guess. Everybody else could, so...”

“Good. Zoomer, do me a favor, would you, tell this guy to shut the hell up?”

Max frowns. Everybody frowns. “...I don’t...” She glances uncertainly at Lucas, then at Wheeler, then at Hopper. “What do you...”

Hopper sits up so that he can lean forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlacing his fingers. “Will, remind us what the last item you put in your bag was?”

Will creases his brow, looks decidedly confused. “Um...”

“I’ll help jog your memory. Unless I’m mistaken, it was right after you all found that scrap from the princess’s dress.”

Will blinks. “In the back of the amulet shop. Yeah, that’s right. I picked up one of the amulets so that we could test...” His eyes widen.

“That’s right. You did. To test its effects, or something. And I seem to recall that this - what was it he called me? Arrogant fool? - that this arrogant fool said anyone who’s touched one of these amulets would be under the Zoomer’s control as soon as his ritual finished. Your pack was pretty full, and that amulet you picked up would’ve been on top. Poor guy should’ve worn gloves. But we know he didn’t. Wheeler said he’d described everything Ariybar was wearing.” Hopper lets the smirk he’s been sitting on creep out onto his face.

Max blinks. “Stop talking!” she shouts suddenly.

Hopper blinks back, until he realizes she’s addressing Ariybar, following Hopper’s advice. Wheeler realizes it too, after a minute, and then it’s his turn to blink. “Uhh - um...” He lets out a single, breathy, kind of dumbstruck laugh. “Yeah. - Yeah, ok.

“I guess Ariybar shuts the hell up.”

Afterwards there’s laughter and high-fives and a surplus of dessert waffles, in-jokes and anecdotes and way too many sci-fi references. At one point (and, admittedly, with the help of a couple of beers) Hopper finds himself getting a little too involved watching what’s gradually turned into a dramatic reenactment of the group’s last adventure, to the extent that when they slay the big bad he actually lets out the kind of whoop he usually reserves for hometown football games.

Wheeler’s the last to leave, as usual. And, as usual, Hopper can’t help eavesdropping on the extended goodbye.

“That was fun.”

“Yeah - yeah, it was. Sorry if it was weird, bringing Hopper in like that.”

“Mm-mm. It was good. He had fun.”

“I guess so. - You know he was actually pretty good.”

“He’s the best. Like you.”

A break in the dialogue. No mystery as to the cause.

“I’ll radio you tomorrow?”

“Tonight.”

“Deal.” Hopper can hear the smile in Wheeler’s voice.

“Not promise?” He can hear the teasing in hers.

“Can’t hurt to shake things up now and then.”

“Fine.” Another pause. “Deal.”

And then he’s off.

End of day the following Monday Flo stops him in the hall as he’s pulling on his jacket. “Chief,” she says, frowning down through her glasses at a piece of paper in her hand.

“What can I do for you, Florence?” he says pleasantly.

She glances up at him skeptically. “You’re chipper.”

“That’s because I’m leaving.”

She makes an unamused noise, which he likes to think means she’s amused. “I was just going over the office supplies requests. Tell me, what do we need - ” she adjusts her bifocals - “‘polyhedral dice’ for, exactly?”

Hopper glances around the office - no one else around to overhear, thank god - and scratches his chin. “Training exercises,” he answers after a moment, as he pushes past her and out the door, a small smile playing at his lips.

#mileven #stranger things #jim hopper #mike wheeler #el hopper #eleven #dustin henderson #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #will byers #fanfiction #st fanfiction #lumax #dungeons and dragons #jane hopper

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years ago

Text

The Minister's Black Veil

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1832)

THE SEXTON stood in the porch of Milford meetinghouse, pulling busily at the bell rope. The old people of the village came stooping along the street. Children, with bright faces, tripped merrily beside their parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on weekdays. When the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper's door. The first glimpse of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons.

"But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?" cried the sexton in astonishment.

All within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly his meditative way toward the meetinghouse. With one accord they started, expressing more wonder than if some strange minister were coming to dust the cushions of Mr. Hooper's pulpit.

"Are you sure it is our parson?" inquired Goodman Gray of the sexton.

"Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper," replied the sexton. "He was to have exchanged pulpits with Parson Shute, of Westbury; but Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral sermon."

The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper gentlemanly person, of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched his band, and brushed the weekly dust from his Sunday's garb. There was but one thing remarkable in his appearance. Swathed about his forehead, and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken by his breath Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of crepe, which entirely concealed his features, except the mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight, further than to give a darkened aspect to all living and inanimate things. With this gloomy shade before him, good Mr. Hooper walked onward, at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and looking on the ground, as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on the meetinghouse steps. But so wonderstruck were they that his greeting hardly met with a return.

"I can't really feel as if good Mr. Hooper's face was behind that piece of crape," said the sexton.

"I don't like it," muttered an old woman, as she hobbled into the meetinghouse. "He has changed himself into something awful, only by hiding his face."

"Our parson has gone mad!" cried Goodman Gray, following him across the threshold.

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into the meetinghouse, and set all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from twisting their heads toward the door; many stood upright, and turned directly about while several little boys clambered upon the seats, and came down again with a terrible racket. There was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling of the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should attend the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of his people. He entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a whitehaired great-grandsire, who occupied an armchair in the center of the aisle. It was strange to observe how slowly this venerable man became conscious of something singular in the appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing wonder, till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face with his congregation, except for the black veil. That mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath, as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity between him and the holy page, as he read the Scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom he was addressing?

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crepe, that more than one woman of delicate nerves was forced to leave the meetinghouse. Yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the minister, as his black veil to them.

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one; he strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive influences, rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the Word. The sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his pulpit oratory. But there was something, either in the sentiment of the discourse itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, which made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their pastor's lips. It was tinged, rather more darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's temperament. The subject had reference to secret sit, and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and dearest and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was breathed into his words. Each member of the congregation, the most innocent girl, and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, behind his awful veil, and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said, at least no violence; and yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minister, that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture, and voice were those of Mr. Hooper.

At the close of the services, the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their mouths all whispering in the center; some went homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; some talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook, their sagacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery; while one or two affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper's eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp as to require a shade. After a brief interval, forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle-aged with kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled authority and love, and laid his hands on the little children's heads to bless them. Such was always his custom on the Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. Old Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory, neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, at the moment of closing the door, was observed to look back upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, glimmering as he disappeared. "How strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper's face."

"Something must surely be amiss with Hooper's intellects," observed her husband, the physician of the village. "But the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary, even on a sober-minded man like myself. The black veil, though it covers only our pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person, and makes him ghostlike from head to foot. Do you not feel it so?"

"Truly do I," replied the lady; "and I would not be alone with him for the world. I wonder he is not afraid to be alone with himself!"

"Men sometimes are so," said her husband.

The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. The relatives and friends were assembled in the house, and the more distant acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take a last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he stooped, the veil hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eyelids had not been dosed forever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who watched the interview between the dead and the living scrupled not to affirm, that, at the instant when the clergyman's features were disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance retained the composure of death. A superstitious old woman was the only witness of this prodigy. From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes, that the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the minister. The people trembled, though they but darkly understood him when he prayed that they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers went heavily forth, and the mourners followed, saddening all the street, with the dead before them, and Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind.

"Why do- you look back?" said one in the procession to his partner. "I had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's spirit were walking hand in hand."

"And so had I, at the same moment," said the other.

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, which often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. There was no quality of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. The company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered over him throughout the day, would now be dispelled. But such was not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil, which had added deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the black crepe, and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair stood up before the minister. But the bride's cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come from her grave to be married. If ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the wedding knell. After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests, like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the looking glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His frame shuddered his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed forth into the darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her Black Veil.

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of little else than Parson Hooper's black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the street, and good women gossiping at their open windows. It was the first item of news that the tavernkeeper told to his guests. The children babbled of it on their way to school. One imitative little imp covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized himself, and he well-nigh lost his wits by his own waggery.

It was remarkable that of all the busybodies and impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared the slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers, nor shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift the responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a deputation of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before it should grow into a scandal. Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister received them with friendly courtesy, but remained silent, after they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important business. The topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. There was the black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper's forehead, and concealing every feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But that piece of crepe, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper's eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled, except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a general synod.

But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black veil had impressed all besides herself. When the deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she, with the calm energy of her character, determined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper, every moment more darkly than before. As his plighted wife, it should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At the minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct simplicity, which made the task easier both for him and her, After he had seated himself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the multitude; it was but a double fold of crepe, hanging down from his forehead to his mouth, and slightly stirring with his breath.

"No," said she aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in this piece of crepe, except that it hides a face which I am always glad to look upon. Come, good sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud. First lay aside your black veil; then tell me why you put it on."

Mr. Hooper's smile glimmered faintly.

"There is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of crepe till then."

"Your words are a mystery, too," returned the young lady. "Take away the veil from them, at least."

"Elizabeth, I will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must separate me from the world; even you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it!"

"What grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly inquired, "that you should thus darken your eyes forever?"

"If it be a sign of mourning," replied Mr. Hooper, "I, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black veil."

"But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?" urged Elizabeth. "Beloved and respected: as you are, there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office, do away this scandal!"

The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that were already abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper's mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled again--that same sad smile, which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil.

"If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough;" he merely replied; "and if I cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do the same?"

And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist her entreaties. At length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in thought, considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her foyer from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow; her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its terrors: fell around her. She arose, and stood trembling before him.

"And do you feel it then, at last?" said he, mournfully.

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand, and turned to leave the room. He rushed forward and caught her arm.

"Have patience with me, Elizabeth!" cried he, passionately. "Do not desert me, though this veil must be between us here on earth. Be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between our souls! It is but a mortal veil--it is not for eternity! O! you know not how lonely I am, and how frightened, to be alone behind my black veil. Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity forever!"

"Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face," said she.

"Never! It cannot be!" replied Mr. Hooper.

"Then farewell!" said Elizabeth.

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly departed, pausing at the door, to give one long shuddering gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. But, even amid his grief, Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from happiness, though the horrors which it shadowed forth must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers.

From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper's black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to discover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice, it was reckoned more an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise rational, and tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr. Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw themselves in his way. The impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his customary walk at sunset to the burial ground; for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind the gravestones, peeping at his black veil. A fable went the rounds that the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It grieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to observe how the children fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest sports, while his melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused him to feel more strongly than aught else that a preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. In truth, his own antipathy to the veil was known to be l so great, that he never willingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should be affrighted by himself. This was what gave plausibility to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper's conscience tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed, or. otherwise than so obscurely intimated. Thus, from beneath the black veil, there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. It was said that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With self-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the veil. But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by.

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect, of making its wearer a very efficient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious emblem--for there was no other apparent cause--he became a man of awful power over souls that were in agony of sin. His converts always regarded him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that, before he brought them to celestial light, they had been with him behind the black veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr. Hooper, and would not yield their breath till he appeared; though ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. Such were the terrors of the black veil, even when Death had bared his visage! Strangers came long distances to attend service at his church, with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden them to behold his face. But many were made to quake ere they departed! Once, during Governor Belcher's administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, the council, and the representatives, and wrought so deep an impression, that the legislative measures of that year were characterized by all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway.

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved, and dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. As years wore on, shedding their snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the New England churches, and they called him Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners, who were of mature age when he was settled, had been borne away by many a funeral; he had one congregation in the church, and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and having wrought so late into the evening, and done his work so well, it was now good Father Hooper's turn to rest.

Several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight, in the death chamber of the old clergyman. Natural connections he had none. But there was the decorously grave, though unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he could not save. There were the deacons, and other eminently pious members of his church. There, also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a young and zealous divine, who had ridden in haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring minister. There was the nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not perish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth! And there lay the hoary head of good Father Hooper upon the death pillow, with the black veil still swathed about his brow, and reaching down over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. All through life that piece of crepe had hung between him and the world; it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and woman's love, arid kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him from the sunshine of eternity.

For some time previous, his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between the past and the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to come. There had been feverish turns, which tossed him from side to side, and wore away what little strength he had. But in his most convulsive struggles, and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his pillow, who, with averted eyes, would have covered that aged face, which she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the deathstricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse, and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except when a long, deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit.

The minister of Westbury approached the bedside.

"Venerable Father Hooper," said he, "the moment of your release is at hand. Are you ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in time from eternity?" Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful, he exerted himself to speak.

"Yea," said he, in faint accents, "my soul hath a patient weariness until that veil be lifted."

"And is it fitting," resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, "that a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it fitting that a father in the church should leave a shadow on his memory, that may seem to blacken a life so pure? I pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from your face!"

And thus speaking the Reverend Mr. Clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. But, exerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bedclothes, and pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister of Westbury would contend with a dying man.

"Never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "On earth, never!"

"Dark old men!" exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what horrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment?"

Father Hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back till he should speak, He even raised himself in bed; and there he sat, shivering with the arms of death around him, while the black veil hung down, awful, at that last moment, in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on Father Hooper's lips.

"Why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled face round the circle of pale spectators. "Tremble also at each others Have men avoided me, and women shown no pity, and children screamed and fled, only for my black veil? What, but the mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of crepe so awful? When the friend shows his inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin; then deem me a monster, for the symbol beneath which I have lived, and die! I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a Black Veil."

While his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore. him to the grave. The grass of many years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the burial stone is moss-grown, and good Mr. Hooper's face is dust; but awful is still the thought that it moldered beneath the Black Veil!

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autographedcat · 5 years ago

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A Fistful of Mithril: The Journey Begins

I was delighted recently to be invited by my friend Aron Wolf to participate in a D&D one-shot he was putting together. I’m a long-time RPG fan, but I haven’t really had a group of my own recently. Our old regular weekly D&D group in Atlanta scattered across the country, and while we managed to get things going again for a while over Skype, life intervened and we never got it back up again. So I was really excited to not only play, but play around a table in a room with a bunch of other people I already knew i liked and enjoyed spending time with!

Because this was intended as a shakedown cruise for the world Aron is building, he gave us all pre-rolled 3rd level characters with specific backstories, which let us drop into the “meeting the party” phase without a lot of time for chargen. This was useful, because our group was pretty evenly divided between D&D veterans and folks who had never played before, and even among the vets, some of us hadn’t really played 5th edition yet, so our knowledge of the system was rather out of date.

(Author’s note: I am not the DM of this campaign, so all of my reports will necessarily be titled towards my own perspective as a player. I will do my best to report on the happenings fairly and accurately, but I won’t always have all the information to hand about what is important, and that may influence my account.) Our setting is a land that is somewhat modelled on the Italian renaissance, and is set about 10 years after a very nasty war with a neighbouring nation-state devastated the region, and from which it is still recovering. Our characters all had various connections back to that war.

My own character’s story had a lot of interesting and tragic threads. She was born into nobility, but her family’s house was betrayed by collaborators and fell during the war, when she was a child. Her parents were executed by the invaders, and she was held hostage for a time in the occupier’s court. When the war ended, she found herself without land or title, and has been making a life on the streets in a variety of shady pursuits, with a speciality in skycraft and the acquisition and brokering of information to those willing to pay for it. As a result, she’s had a hard life for one so young, but can still, thanks to her upbringing and early education, still move as easily through high society as she does the criminal underworld. She’s still bitter about being cast out, and has ambitious to one day reclaim her birthright. 1 In addition to Kyrial, my rogue, we had the following PCs to round out the party: A cleric, Jane (Julie), A dwarven bard, Belle (Shawna) A fighter, Gordon (Marcos) A musketeer2, Lex (Jasmine/Leah)3 Another Rogue, Splendid (Paul) (Shawna helpfully live-tweeted some of the better dialogue, which I will be including throughout this report. Thanks, Shawna!) We had all been brought together to guard a caravan that was taking supplies up from the regional capitol to a mining town on the edge of the mountains, about two days travel away. Our benefactor, Elmo Bartolo, was one of the scions of the frontier town, which was still rebuilding after the war. We had a fit of giggles over learning the name of our employer, which lead the the DM referring to him exclusively by his last name for the rest of the session.

Elmo does not travel! Elmo is the money!#dnd5e #fistfulofmithril