Homebrew
Author: Xavier P. Hunter
Date: 2018-03-29 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: If Gary had known he'd get trapped in an RPG with his real-life stats, he’d have tried harder in gym class. Gary Burns just wanted to create the greatest RPG campaign of his gaming career. But a freak magical accident sucks him into the very world he created—as himself. Surrounded by heroes who look and sound like his friends, Gary is forced to play out the story he wrote. Worthless in a fight, Gary must prove himself valuable even if it means feeding the team insider knowledge. Because he needs keep his friends close—and himself alive—until he can solve the puzzle he never designed: how to ge
Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press

Copyright © 2018 Xavier P. Hunter

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Magical Scrivener Press, 22 Hawkstead Hollow
Nashua, NH 03063
www.magicalscrivener.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Ordering Information: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

Xavier P. Hunter— First Edition

ISBN: 978-1-942642-79-4

Printed in the United States of America

Homebrew

Metagamer Chronicles: Book One

Xavier P. Hunter

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Sign up

About the Author

Foreword

Many dice were rolled over the course of this book. The values you see were generated in the grand tradition of tabletop gaming. But a true DM will never let a bad dice roll get in the way of a good story.

1

Every other Saturday, from 11 AM to 9 PM, Gary Burns was a god. That was because it was only every other week that he could arrange with Stu at Jimbo’s Diner to swap shifts with him. It was hard to be a god with a side gig, even if working as a short-order cook paid the rent while godhood was merely a hobby.

But today was something special. It was the first day of a new campaign, one Gary had been working on for months at the expense of his gaming guild and band mates. It was his masterpiece, his grand oeuvre. This was the one they’d all be talking about for years, tucking away old character sheets like keepsakes and saving their tabletop miniatures on bookshelves and desktops for the warm glow it kindled in their souls every time they remembered the glory that was Pellar.

The players arrived in a disorderly queue starting at quarter of eleven. Darryl brought a slow-cooker filled with chili. Kim had picked up store-bought cookies from the GreenWay across the street. When Marty arrived, he plunked a five-pack of beer down in the middle of Gary’s dining-room table. Katie brought Caspian along, setting up his playpen within arm’s reach of her chair at the gaming table.

Everyone chatted and gossiped as if they didn’t all have each other on every social media platform, plus text and email. Between gaming sessions, they were acquaintances. When the dice came out, they became brothers in arms. Gary kept up with talk of work, a million baby stories, and Darryl’s misadventures getting his license renewed. Whenever anyone brought up the stuffed three-ring binder in front of his spot at the table, he deflected.

Eleven o’clock arrived. Then five past. Then fifteen. There was no sign of their last member.

“Anyone heard from Zane?” Gary asked.

Marty paused mid-sip of his beer and swallowed. “Said he was picking up supplies. Some guy selling shit on Craigslist.”

Kim tapped at her phone. Without looking up she reported, “Says he’ll be here soon. Get started without him.”

With a sigh, Gary sat down at the head of the table. It wasn’t an auspicious start to a new campaign, especially one he’d worked so hard on and poured so much love into. Zane was going to pay a price for missing the intro. “First off, everyone read up on the background material?”

“Kinda,” Marty said. “I skimmed parts.”

“Start to finish,” Kim said.

“Better than watching TV while feeding Caspian,” Katie replied.

“Yeah,” Darryl said, though he didn’t sound convincing.

“Characters ready for approval?” Gary asked.

“I’m not sure about this whole ‘no looking at the character sheets’ thing,” Kim said with a scowl as she handed hers over.

Marty waggled an index card. “How are we supposed to plan if we don’t know our own stats half the time?” The tiny slip of graph-paper cardboard included a few key combat numbers and bits of biographical data but not the nitty gritty of the character build.

“You’ll get used to it,” Gary promised. “I’ll update your card when things change. I want everyone reacting like their characters are in a situation, not a math problem.”

He checked out Kim’s character sheet.

Player Name: Kim Tanaka Character Name: Sister Sira Long

Level/Path: Cleric of Sevius XP: 0/1,000 Race: Human

STR: 11 DEX: 10 CON: 14 INT: 12 WIS: 17 CHA: 11

To Hit: +0 Weapon: Mace (1d6+0)

Armor Rating: 14 Armor: Chainmail (+4)

Path Powers: Divine Light, Lesser Healing

Skills: Intuition (+4), Lore (+2)

Tricks: Iron Will

Profession: Clergy (+4)

“You went with Sevius, huh?” Gary asked casually.

“I read the whole pre-game pack you sent,” Kim replied, fiddling with her index card. “Looks brutal. I’ve optimized for max healing power to keep the rest of you scrubs alive.”

Next, Marty collected Darryl’s character.

Player Name: Darryl Harrison Character Name: Beldrak Evenhand

Level/Path: Paladin 1 XP: 0/1,000 Race: Human

STR: 18 DEX: 8 CON: 14 INT: 11 WIS: 12 CHA: 16

To Hit: +5 Weapon: Broadsword (1d8+4)

Armor Rating: 15 Armor: Half Plate (+6)

Path Powers: Holy Resilience

Skills: Athletics (+5), Horsemanship (+0)

Tricks: Stoic

Profession: Blacksmith (+5)

“Two for two on humans,” Gary remarked, trying not to sound disappointed. “I guess the free Trick at first level was a big selling point. You read up on the paladin stuff?”

“I did,” Darryl replied in his reedy voice, always on the edge of wheezing. Gary wondered how long it would be before he was puffing on that steroid inhaler of his. “Don’t worry about me. I am the motherfucking justice machine.”

Marty burst out laughing. “I can picture Sam Jackson with a seminary degree.” Despite making light of Darryl, he still handed over his own character.

Player Name: Marty ‘the Party’ Clay Character Name: Zeeto Humblebottom

Level/Path: Rogue 1 XP: 1,000,000/1,000,000,000,000 Race: Halfling

STR: 10 DEX: 17 CON: 12 INT: 12 WIS: 6 CHA: 15

To Hit: +3 Weapon: Dagger (1d4+0)

Armor Rating: 15 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Stealth Attack (+1d6)

Skills: Sleight of Hand (+4), Stealth (+4), (Locksmithing +4), Persuade (+3), Study/Search (+2)

Tricks: Can Touch Tongue to Nose

Profession: Bartender (+3)

Gary took a pencil and corrected the XP total to its proper 0/1,000 and erased the unearned Trick without comment. The last thing Marty needed was encouragement for his antics. If there was one person with the ability to derail a carefully plotted and lovingly constructed campaign, it was Marty.

Although Zane could do the world a favor and show up. Missing a player would suck too.

Katie had extracted Caspian from his playpen for a feeding. She reached across the baby and handed Gary her sheet as everyone tried politely not to stare.

Player Name: Katie Bauer Character Name: Braeleigh “Leigh” Silverwind

Level/Path: Ranger 1 XP: 0/1,000 Race: Elf

STR: 14 DEX: 16 CON: 12 INT: 9 WIS: 12 CHA: 14

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Longbow (1d8+3) Short Sword (1d6+2)

Armor Rating: 15 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Pet

Skills: Woodscraft (+2), Stealth (+4), Animal Trainer (+3)

Tricks: Overland Navigation

Profession: Wilderness Guide (+1)

Pet: Caspian (Wolf Puppy)

Gary tactfully overlooked Katie naming her animal companion after her kid. “You sure about being an elf? They’re a dying race.”

Katie nodded enthusiastically. “I want to help rebuild the elven race. I’m a war refugee raised by human foster parents, and I want to reconnect with my roots in the northlands.”

OK, then. That answer meant that she’d not only read up on the history of the elves and their war against the orcs for control of the lands north of the Dwarfcrown Mountains but had connected with her backstory.

Marty leaned over. “I can help you with that repopulation effort.”

Before Gary could intervene, Katie cut him off. “Sorry, no halfbreeds.”

There they had it. Four players. Four characters. Gary started organizing his notes to begin the session shorthanded when the front door to the apartment burst open.

Zane Fischer was wearing a purple wizard’s robe that only came to his knees, with ratty jeans and tennis shoes showing beneath. Over his shoulder, he carried a bulging messenger satchel. Setting down a grocery bag overflowing with snacks and sodas, he stretched his arms overhead like a megachurch preacher. “I am here. Let the campaign commence,” he bellowed. Then in a lower, snarkier voice, he added, “Sorry I’m late.”

Picking up his snacks and kicking the door shut behind him, Zane made his way to the reserved seat just to Gary’s left.

“Nice getup, jackass,” Marty said before sliding a beer across the table.

Zane caught the bottle before it slid clear off the table and pushed it back. “Afraid not, kind sir. For, you see, a wizard must never imbibe when magic is afoot.”

Kim fixed Zane with a deadpan glare. “You know wizards are hunted in this world, right?”

“Did you read the campaign notes?” Gary asked. It wasn’t the end of the world if Zane hadn’t, but it might mean putting the game on hold while they designed him a more appropriate character. This wasn’t a story for lone wolves. The party needed to work together.

Zane appeared offended. He held a hand over his heart. “Did I read it? Did I read it? My dear sir, I have read, re-read, digested, shit out, and examined the droppings of this campaign. I find its anti-wizard stance morally repugnant and pragmatically misguided. The goal of Aster Hellcrack is to redeem the profession in the kingdom’s eyes.”

Caspian started crying.

“Could you turn it down a notch?” Katie asked sternly in that mom voice that seemed to have come along with the baby.

Zane silently held up his hands in surrender. Then he added in a whisper, “Want to see what I picked up on the way here?”

“Is this why you’re late?” Darryl demanded as Zane dug around in his satchel.

Zane arrayed several game source books and accessories across the table before producing a crystal ball. It was just one of those cheapie glass spheres that carnival fortune tellers used, but it had some weird, wispy gas floating around inside it like a science museum exhibit.

“Trippy,” Marty commented approvingly.

Katie leaned across the table over the baby, squinting at it. “How’s it do that?” she asked of the roiling miasma inside.

“I have no idea,” Zane proclaimed as if the notion absolutely delighted him.

“Nice to see how you’re blowing your stock option money,” Darryl muttered.

“Order in the court,” Gary said to reign in the chaos that threatened to sweep them off track. As the group quieted down (aside from snacking and cooing at a baby), he began his introductory remarks. “All right. The world of Pellar is all new. I’ve kept the races and a few fantasy touchstones, but all the rest of the monsters are completely homebrewed.”

Marty picked up a second beer and clicked it with his open one in a solo toast. “To home brewing.”

“The base system is d20 based, so the mechanics will feel familiar. The character progression system is all based on the Path of Power. You’re free to look a single ring ahead, and you can go sideways around the rings, including to other classes, but linear advancement is the most straightforward.”

“I know a guy who can print that up on t-shirts,” Zane said, rolling the crystal ball across his fingers like an amateur street magician. “I think it’d look slick, and we could look at each other’s chests to plan our level-ups.”

Kim and Katie produced identical withering glares at the idea.

“Anyway,” Gary said, raising his voice to regain everyone’s attention. “We’ll be starting with our traditional character introduction.”

Marty pumped a fist. “Hoo yeah! Strangers at a tavern! I was so worried this homebrew world would skip it.”

Gary patted a hand for him to keep his voice down, but Caspian had fallen soundly asleep. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a grin. “Some things are more important than—would you knock it off?”

Zane had thrown the crystal ball across the table to Marty at the latter’s request. Kim took advantage of the interruption to check her phone. The stress must have gotten to Darryl since he was already taking a hit from his inhaler.

Caspian woke up and started crying.

“Sorry,” Zane said, then motioned for the ball back.

Gary intercepted it, plucking the ball midair with the intent of confiscating it until summer vacation like some hard-ass middle school science teacher.

He shook the crystal ball for emphasis. The purple cloud inside swirled but didn’t distract Gary from his scolding. “I wish you guys could all just take this campaign seriously.”

The crystal ball shattered.

The purple gas spilled out. Players screamed and swore and knocked over chairs in their haste to get away from the table.

But the mist devoured them all.

2

One minute Gary was screaming for his life, clawing at the doorframe into his own kitchen as a vortex like the intake on a jet engine tried to suck him in. The next, he was standing on a cobbled street in front of a whitewashed stone building that looked plucked from a medieval town. The sign above the door identified the place as The Uncommon Room.

“No way,” Gary said breathlessly. This was the tavern where his players were supposed to meet.

All around him, pedestrians were dressed in tunics, doublets, and tabards. Some even wore armor of various makes. Horse hooves clacked on the cobbles, and the notes of a lute rose above the general din issuing from within the tavern.

Unable to resist, he pulled open the door and entered The Uncommon Room. Inside was a place halfway between an Irish pub and a Viking mead hall. Stone floor. Exposed wooden rafters. Long trestle tables with benches down the sides. A bar ran along one wall in front of stacked barrels of distilled and fermented spirits.

And tending that bar was a real, live halfling. Gary struggled for the fellow’s name, but this was the bartender he’d written for The Uncommon Room. He knew without having to look behind the bar that the halfling had a shelf-like mezzanine to work from, allowing him to interact with the patrons at eye level.

Gary stumbled through the tavern in dazed wonderment. The lantern light. The roaring hearth fire with a cauldron of stew bubbling its earthy aroma through the common room. The smaller, clustered tables in the shadowed recesses of the room’s far corners. The low stage upon which the evening’s bardic entertainer performed.

People were staring, he realized. Looking down, Gary saw that he wasn’t dressed like any of them. He was still wearing his favorite sweatshirt, emblazoned with his garage band’s vanity swag—a pair of crossed swords impaling a quarter note—plus jeans and work boots.

If this was a vivid dream, he wished he could have at least cosplayed for it.

He spotted them in the back corner of the tavern. Darryl caught his eye first, both for being among the outnumbered black-skinned patrons in this far northern city and for being half a head taller than his companions. Gary opened his mouth to call out but stopped short.

This wasn’t the Darryl he knew. Darryl might have been over six feet with room to spare, but he was built like a stick figure. The version of him sitting there with a foaming mug of ale in hand filled out the suit of armor he wore, and the corded muscle at his neck supported a shaved head with a jawline that you could bend horseshoes around.

Gary studied the rest of the table from a discreet spot next to the wall.

Kim wore fine chainmail covered in a tabard emblazoned with the holy symbol of Sevius with a pendant bearing the same image around her neck. She looked just the same as she had at the gaming table except for her hair. Rather than unadorned and straight, her glossy black locks hung in a long braid draped across her shoulder and plaited with ribbons in the colors of her goddess. It was a good look on her and something that the real-world Kim wouldn’t have dared try.

At Kim’s side was Katie. Taller and slimmer than the Katie who’d been holding Caspian, her features had sharpened, and her eyes had brightened to a vivid green. The mop of wavy blonde hair had straightened and lengthened, pulled back in a ponytail to expose a pair of gracefully pointed ears. Her leather armor hugged a figure that Katie couldn’t have pulled off even before her pregnancy. At her feet, a wolf puppy gnawed on a ham bone.

But it was Marty that had Gary covering his mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter. Marty was a halfling. That giant, tubby blowhard was half his real-world height, clean shaven, and boasting a mop of untamed brown hair.

There was no sign of Zane.

“Bet he’s the reason I’m here,” Gary muttered softly.

Wonderment and awe had forestalled questions over what exactly was going on here. Now that he’d had a moment to think, the most likely cause was some sort of hallucinogen. That strange gas in the glass ball was probably some exotic drug, which meant that Gary—and presumably everyone else—was stoned out of his mind right then. If that were true, the alternate versions of his friends were his own imagination as they’d have been in their own trippy nightmares, not Gary’s.

Not that this was anything like a bad trip, now that he considered it.

And if his imagination was Freudian at all, Kim and Katie both being smoking hot probably meant something. Then again, putting himself in a pair of hetero-female boots, Darryl was doing a little smoldering of his own, rocking the bald badass look.

Steeling himself and trying to get into character with the campaign world, Gary strode over to the table his buddies shared. “Greetings, friends. Is this seat taken?”

Darryl looked up at him, though “up” was a short distance for the towering paladin. “Thou look as if thou knowest us. Perchance have we met elsewhere?” He turned to his fellows. “Havest any of thee met this fellow?”

Kim shook her head, those dark brown eyes never leaving Gary. “I wouldn’t have forgotten an odd one such as him.”

Licking her lips, Katie sized him up shamelessly. “Not bad for a human, but I can’t say I know him.”

Marty elbowed him in the hip and whispered from the side of his mouth. “Hand over 20 gold and I’ll vouch for you.”

Darryl clapped him on the shoulder. “Worry not, friend. We companions are but newly met this very night. Five is a number that fortune favors. If thou would seek adventure, what Path dost thou follow?”

Gary froze. What Path? He hadn’t taken a Path. He was dungeon master. He didn’t even have a character sheet.

Unbidden, an image flooded Gary’s mind.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: ? XP: 0/1,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 17 WIS: 12 CHA: 17

To Hit: +0 Weapon: None

Armor Rating: 9 Armor: None

Path Powers: ?

Skills: ?

Profession: Cook (+1)

Well, that was no help at all, and frankly, it was a little insulting. Those stats were well under the reroll criteria he’d laid out to make sure no one spent an entire campaign bitching about their low ability scores. And seriously, not even an 18? Anywhere?

“Um…” Gary uttered, stalling for time to think. Musical notes, gentle and lilting, rose above the droning conversations and clanking of pewterware throughout the room. “Bard. Bard, of course.”

“You’re not carrying an instrument,” Kim pointed out dryly.

Marty rose up in Gary’s defense. “Hold up. You can’t just say that like it’s a fact. I knew a chap back in Senten who kept a piccolo sheathed up his sleeve like a knife. And there was good old Gastur the Brown. You’d hear him playing harmonica from the city dungeon in Opar every evening. The guards always searched him but never found it because he kept it crammed up his—”

Darryl put out a hand. “End thy tale, ere it sully the ladies’ ears.”

Marty shrugged. “Just sayin’. This guy might have an instrument.”

“Hold that thought,” Gary said, raising a finger. He headed for the ankle-high stage that set the tavern’s bard apart from the customers. As an unfinished character, he still had an entire allotment of 300 gold jangling in his pocket. He slipped up to the bard between songs—a fresh-faced young lad with long, shimmering hair beneath a poofy, feathered cap—and slipped him 20 gold. By Marty’s suggestion, that was the going rate for a quick bribe. “Lend me the lute for a song or two.”

The bard acquiesced with such haste that Gary realized Marty had been gouging him. Nevertheless, Gary now held a real, live lute in his hands. It was thick-necked and lightweight compared to a guitar. But it had strings and frets, even if there were a metric ass-load of strings, so how hard could it be?

Gary climbed onto the stool the bard had used and raised the fretboard to his ear to quietly test the strings.

What to play? His instincts were all heavy metal. Katie often joked that Cold Metal’s plan for making the big time was to keep playing covers of “Crazy Train” until someone signed them to a record deal. But lutes weren’t made for rocking out. He needed something on the slow side.

Taking a deep breath, he played “Smoke on the Water.” Without a band, he chose the bass riff. But as soon as he got to the lyrics, scattered boos sounded from the audience.

“Sorry,” Gary said quickly, putting up a hand to ward away any beverages that might get thrown his way.

Switching gears, Gary played them an acoustic version of John Lennon’s “Imagine.”

That went over a bit better. The diners in the common room resumed their meals in peace. There was no cheering when Gary ended the song, but scattered clapping from his friends’ table told him that Darryl and Katie had appreciated the music, at least.

A crash from the bar drew every eye in the room.

d20: 7

The ghostly image of a twenty-sided die flashed across Gary’s mind as a bar fight broke out. Holy shit! Gary had just rolled for Initiative!

In all the weirdness and talking to his friends and trying to come up with a Path to take, he’d forgotten the plot of the adventure. Wanting no part of the melee that was coming, Gary took his borrowed lute, dragged the stool to the back corner of the stage, and hunkered down to wait.

Gary’s friends, of course, couldn’t help but join in. They kept their weapons away and dealt nonlethal damage with fists, elbows, and the occasional headbutt.

While the fight was in full swing, consuming nearly every patron in the bar, the door burst open. City guardsmen poured in, wielding clubs with brutal efficiency. Without counting, Gary knew that there were twenty-four guards in the Durrotek City Militia’s response to the barroom scuffle. It was a number he’d been sure was enough to subdue the party.

One by one, the four of his friends who’d been in The Uncommon Room went down. The last to fall was Kim, who he’d caught using healing magic during the fight.

When one of the guards approached Gary, club slapping his palm, Gary put up his hands in surrender. “I’m just the bard. I didn’t participate in this fight. I’d be more than happy to come down and bear witness. I saw nearly everything.” Then he noticed the body on the floor atop a spreading pool of blood. “That is to say… almost everything.”

d20: 18 + (Persuade +4) = 22

The guard rubbed his chin. “All right. Stay put. Captain Stonebeard will want to hear what you saw.”

Gary breathed a sigh of relief. As much as he relished seeing how his campaign played out—even in a hallucinogenic vision—he wasn’t keen on the whole dungeon and shackles experience.

As he waited while the rest of the common room was cleared of patrons, Gary checked his character sheet, pleased to see that he was, indeed, now a bard.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1 XP: 20/1,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 17 WIS: 12 CHA: 17

To Hit: +0 Weapon: None

Armor Rating: 9 Armor: None

Path Powers: Inspire +2

Skills: Persuade (+4), Music (+4), Study/Search(+4)

Profession: Cook (+1)

But still not a race?

“I’m human,” he muttered to himself sternly.

The character sheet didn’t change.

3

After waiting what seemed like hours in the antechamber of the Durrotek Hall of Justice, Gary was summoned to speak with the guard captain.

If Gary had written for a television crime drama set in the twelfth century, this is how he would have envisioned the interrogation room. The room was just large enough for the table where Gary sat in a chair that was bolted to the floor. He avoided using the armrests since the guard captain had been so kind as to not place him in the manacles built into them.

Rellig Stonebeard was, as his name artlessly suggested, of dwarven heritage. He scowled across the table in a manner that looked more habitual than personal as he asked Gary question after question as if he had perfect recollection.

In fact, Gary had to refrain from offering up information he couldn’t possibly have known through legitimate means. He knew that the halfling bartender—Ronno, he’d finally remembered—had given up drinking after running his family into debt. He knew that there were no fewer than five Non-Player Characters (NPCs) in that common room who’d pop up later in the campaign and had enough information about them to imply he’d been spying on them for most of their lives.

Rellig dutifully recorded, in stilted handwriting, every word of Gary’s replies to his questions. But time and again, he caught the dwarf looking at him funny. At last, the guard captain set down his quill and crossed his arms. “This ain’t on the record, but where the muddy forges are you from? Can’t concentrate on account of my curiosity.”

Gary waved the question away. “Nowhere you’ve heard of.”

The dice roll flashed instantly across his mind’s eye.

d20: 3 + (Persuade +4) + (Poor Bluff -2) = 5

“Try me.”

Of course, no one ever bought that line, and the shitty dice roll didn’t help.

“Palo Alto,” Gary said, crossing his arms as a challenge. Without a lie or attempt to otherwise influence the dwarven constable, there was no accompanying die roll.

“Never heard of it.”

“Told you.”

“They all dress like that in Pal-o Al-toe?” Rellig asked, gesturing to Gary’s hoodie. “And what’s that symbol about? You some kind of cultist, or have you got your own gods thereabouts?”

Gary tugged at the front of his sweatshirt. “This? Nah. Just represents a local bardic troupe back home. Small time. Most of Palo Alto hasn’t even heard of them.”

Rellig grunted and took up his quill. “Now, to the heart of the vein. Did you see the victim, Thelius Macay, speaking with anyone prior to the fisticuffs?”

“Nope.”

“Did you hear anyone speaking about Mr. Macay?”

“Nope.”

“Was there anyone—?”

“Lemme save you some breath,” Gary cut in. “I only talked with five people while I was there. One was the bard who was on stage before me—didn’t catch his name. The others were an elf named Braeleigh, a paladin who went by Beldrak, Sister Sira of Sevius, and the halfling, Zeeto, and I can tell you it wasn’t any of them.”

“Can you now…?” Rellig said slowly, combing his fingers through his beard. “How can you be sure of that?”

“I was trying to prove my worth to those adventurers I mentioned,” Gary said. “I had one eye on them the whole time I was performing. None of them went anywhere near the unfortunate Mr. Thelius Macay.”

d20: 12 + (Persuade +4) + (More or Less True +2) = 18

Rellig grunted. “Fair enough. What about the bard?” He searched through notes from prior to Gary’s arrival. “One Sorin Snell.”

Gary forced a chuckle. “The victim had the body of a blacksmith’s assistant or a dockworker. Sorin Snell would have to have stabbed him a dozen times to kill him. I shook the lad’s hand, and he’d need a two-handed grip to pull garden weeds.”

He didn’t bother looking at the roll. Rellig didn’t exactly distrust Gary, but the dwarf didn’t seem to be buying a wimpy handshake as an alibi for murder. For the time being, that suited Gary just fine.

Scooping up his lute, he headed down to the dungeons with Rellig to free the prisoners he’d exonerated. After all, a little tavern dustup alone wasn’t reason enough to jail someone.

As they descended into torch-lit gloom beneath the Hall of Justice, Gary found himself thankful of his quick tongue. The stairwells stank of acrid smoke, but down below, the reek was fear and piss. Row upon row of iron-barred doors broke up the solid stone block wall. Rellig led the way, leaving Gary to wonder if this was a clever double-cross that might result in him being thrown in a cell instead of everyone else getting released.

Rellig turned a key in the lock of the second-to-last door on the right. “You lot are free to go. This one backed up your story.”

“Thank thee, good sir,” Darryl said formally.

Marty strutted out of the cell and gave Gary a slap on the rump. “Good man, stepping up for a bunch of strangers.”

Kim bowed her head in Gary’s direction on her way past.

Katie carried Caspian in her arms, stopping to wave the wolf puppy’s paw at Gary and attempt some playful amateur ventriloquism to make it appear as though the wolf was talking. “Tank you berry much.”

Darryl took up the rear like an usher waiting for the crowd to clear at a theater. Once outside the door, he clasped Gary by the wrist with a grip like an ironworker. “The world hath need of honest men. Praise Makoy that I findeth one in this forsaken, hellish waste.”

“Hey!” Rellig objected. “Some of us live here.”

“All good,” Gary assured the constable. “No ill will. We’ll just be on our way.” He put a hand to the small of Darryl’s back and guided him swiftly from the city dungeon.

Once they reached the fresh, crisp northland air outside, Gary and Marty took simultaneous satisfied breaths before each casting a mirrored dirty look at the other.

“Thanks for greasing the rusty wheels of justice, chum,” Marty said with a sly glance. “But we’ve got business to attend. Ta-ta.” He raised one hand in a salute that morphed into a wave goodbye.

The others muttered their farewells and turned to follow.

Gary stared after them, aghast. “Wait! Can’t I come with you?”

The four of them stopped. In unison, they turned to regard him with puzzlement, as if a piece of furniture had asked to join them on their adventures when previously they had been unaware it could talk.

Darryl cleared his throat. “I hadn’t imagined you to be the sort who sought adventure.”

“What happened to five being an auspicious number?” Gary countered. He could only hope that Zane wasn’t around somewhere spoiling to get in on the party. It would be one thing to add him in later; it would be a different matter if these chuckle heads thought they had a full party before letting a bard tag along.

Katie held up Caspian as if he could possibly be considered a full member of the party.

Forcing down the impulse to roll his eyes, Gary instead turned her argument around. “He’s just a puppy. You can’t expect him to shoulder a full load until he’s grown. Certainly, I could fill in until then.”

“You couldn’t fill in for that tin-eared bard at The Uncommon Room,” Marty replied. “And don’t call me Sir Tinley.”

Gary’s mind raced. These bumbling table jockeys were trying to ruin this dream or hallucination or brain-damaged coma fantasy of his. They wanted to cost him the chance at front-row seats to the action of a campaign he’d spent months designing.

“I can cook.”

That proclamation was met with a moment of contemplative silence. Gary waited while he suspected each of them envisioned long nights with nothing but hardtack and jerky for sustenance. None of their character sheets had said a damn thing about cooking.

Marty clapped his hands once to informally take control of this meeting. “Well, I think that settles it. This random bloke with the lute he can hardly play is our new bard.”

Gary didn’t take the disparagement to heart. The day Marty offered a sincere compliment would be the day of Gary’s funeral. Instead, he opened his arms and threw them around Darryl and Katie’s shoulders as the five of them headed off to plot their first adventure together.

“So,” Gary said in the tone of a lawyer about to lead a witness. “Did you meet anyone… interesting in the dungeons?”

4

They spent the night at The Sleepy Inn. Somehow, Gary was surprised to awaken again still in the fantasy realm of Pellar. A nagging worry that something more serious than a dream might be going on—like a medically induced coma to deal with the effects of an unknown crystal-ball-borne toxin—evaporated at the sight of Darryl performing his morning wash from a basin by the open window.

Make that Beldrak. Gary was going to have to get used to the in-game names for everyone since no one but him seemed to be letting on that this was all a game. It ought to have been easy enough. Aside from Kim, the rest of them looked pretty distinctly like Halloween versions of themselves. Beldrak’s real-world counterpart couldn’t lift anything heavier than a cell phone. This hulking gentleman looked like someone had Photoshopped Darryl’s head onto a pro wrestler’s body.

“You gonna do this every morning?” Marty—correction, Zeeto—asked acidly. “Because if so, this is the last night I split a room. I don’t care how tight money is, I’m not looking at that every morning. I can’t walk past a farm without wishing those animals would put on some pants. And you, sir, are no farm animal.”

Beldrak calmly finished washing as Zeeto and Gary discussed breakfast options while trying not to look. When he was finished, only then did he reply. “’Tis no shame to appear as thine god made thee. Nay, ’tis worse perchance to sully Makoy’s name in mine own haste to be about the day.”

Zeeto gave Gary a friendly, backhanded slap to the midsection. “At least you’re a slob like me, and the fine people of Palo Alto speak the trade tongue without Stuffy McSouthlander’s marble-mouthed brogue.”

Apparently, Zeeto’s 15 Charisma was enough to insult someone to their face without getting stomped like a rodent by someone eight times your size.

“C’mon,” Gary said with a jerk of his head toward the door. “Let’s go see if the ladies are ready to face the day.”

As it turned out, Braeleigh (Katie) and Sira (Kim) had been more than ready. They’d already ordered up a breakfast of eggs and sausage from the Sleepy Inn’s kitchen—enough for all five of them plus scraps for Caspian.

“So, what’s the nitty gritty on this mission?” Gary asked, rubbing his hands together. He wanted to hear their impressions of it. The furtive, conspiratorial machinations between prisoners in adjoining cells. The double-dealing and lies. How had they all seemed when played out for an audience?

“Some one-armed bandit’s looking to poach back some lifted goods,” Zeeto explained crassly. “It’s a muck down through the sewers to a back entrance.”

“Probably crawling with rats,” Sira said with a world-weary sigh ill-befitting a first-level cleric. Despite remaining fully in character, cracks showed through to the players beneath the facades.

Braeleigh ruffled Caspian’s fur. “Caspie loves chasing rats.”

“Rats or no rats,” Zeeto said, “this guy Arguile got a load of pipeweed boosted by the local thieves’ outfit: the Talis Guild. Good weed too. Southern Sweetfire. Never touch the stuff myself, but I’ve got a cousin who—”

“Ne’er mind the provenance of the goods,” Beldrak cut in with an upraised hand. “There hath been a crime, and local jurisprudence hath failed mightily in its resolution. Hence, it falls to we five.”

“Just to be clear,” Sira said as the group gathered their belongings to set out. “This Arguile character was in the dungeons. It’s thieves robbing thieves.”

Beldrak shook his head. “As were we. I took the measure of this Arguile, and he hath an honest manner to his countenance. Hold not the mirror of this northern justice up before me. ’Tis a greasy surface, and its reflection shows an errant view.”

Zeeto cleared his throat as the last of their gear was packed and ready for sewer delving. He looked to Gary and soon had all other eyes turned his way as well.

Gary backed up a step. “What?”

“You gonna stab rats with us?” Zeeto asked, and Gary nodded. “Then how about we go shopping? You need a weapon.”

This was the first time that Gary considered his fantasy dream to include personal combat. He’d envisioned himself in the traditional bardic role of snarky commentary and musical accompaniment. His only ability was Inspire, after all. Ineffectually swinging around a slab of steel with a damage penalty seemed like a waste of his meager skill set.

However, with his status in the group tenuous at best, he thought better of voicing those concerns. Soon, he was at the counter of Krader’s Emporium looking over racks of weapons and dummies draped in armor. Everything was straight out of his campaign guide, right down to the Durrotek local pricing variance of +25% over standard due to scarcity on the edge of civilized lands.

“Choose your poison and let’s get on with it,” Zeeto chided Gary as he hefted various blades a character on the Path of Music could wield without penalty.

Dagger? Flimsy and had no reach. Ideally, he’d stay more than a dagger’s length from anything threatening.

Crossbow? User friendly but cumbersome to carry. Gary already had a lute draped across his back on a strap. Switching between the two might have been a standard game action, but from the perspective of actually juggling both, he lost his nerve.

The club seemed too primitive a weapon, and the quarterstaff circled back to not having a way to wrangle both it and the lute.

After trying a number of sword options, Gary settled on a rapier.

He haggled with the shopkeeper—Hobart, though he kept from using the man’s name since he hadn’t asked for it.

d20: 15 + (Persuade +4) = 19

Hobart looked him up and down. “Town could use a few more upstanding young lads keeping it safe. You drive a hard bargain, but 8 gold it is.”

Acquired Rapier: 1d6 sharp, no special properties

That left Gary with 272 of his original 300 gold. The rapier came with a sheath that attached with some awkwardness to the belt holding up his jeans.

“Not to slow this honey drip any further,” Braeleigh said. “But I think Mr. Gary needs some armor too.” Though the comment was meant for Gary, she said it in a baby-talk voice to Caspian, whom she held in the crook of her arm.

Zeeto poked Gary in the ribs from behind. “Yup. Dagger right there and this one’s done for.”

His options on the Path of Music were cloth and leather armors. Since non-magical cloth would have been no better than his sweatshirt, he chose a basic suit of leather armor, which set him back another 35 gold after a less successful haggle.

Acquired Leather Armor: +2 Armor Rating, no special properties

Retreating to the back of the store, Beldrak helped Gary into his new armor. Though it carried the bulk of a heavy jacket, the leather armor wasn’t any more restrictive than dressing for a day of snowboarding.

“I shall tell the ladyfolk nothing of what I see,” Beldrak assured him in a conspiratorial whisper.

Gary didn’t know how to take that. For one, he didn’t like the idea that Beldrak was paying attention to what was—or was not—of interest to the women in the party. For another, he wondered just what Beldrak would have told them otherwise.

The work boots he wore in the kitchen at Jimbo’s Diner went fine with the armor, and his hoodie fit over the armor to keep him from feeling self-conscious. The leather might have fit the world, but it didn’t feel like Gary Burns.

The hoodie most certainly did.

With the leather armor on, Gary’s Armor Rating rose to a still pathetic 11. It also left him with a pair of jeans and no place to put them, so he went the full kit and bought a backpack, belt pouches, rope, a grappling hook, a lantern and oil, a flint and steel, two canteens, and a bedroll.

“Now can we get moving?” Zeeto asked.

Gary took a deep breath, weighted down like an army recruit before a hike. “Sure. Let’s do this.”

“Where you young folks off to?” the shopkeeper asked, leaning an elbow on the counter.

Braeleigh scowled. “The sewers. And I’d bet a week’s worth of wolf kibble that I’m at least twice your age.”

“The sewers, eh?” the shopkeeper replied, ignoring the bet. “I remember thinking I’d be a grand adventurer. Went down to these very sewers beneath our feet, me and a few chums from town.” He hung his head. “Narthus and Poe Jommy didn’t make it.”

Zeeto headed for the exit. “Cool story, old timer. But I doubt more than one of us will get killed down in the sewers.”

5

Sira lit the way. It was a basic power on the Path of Piety. Any cleric could do it. That didn’t mean that she had to take point, but no one objected when she did. The sewers of Durrotek were structurally sound but shabby with neglect. Old stone quarried centuries long past stacked along both sides, with solidly formed archways framing each intersection. A shin-high stream flowed down the center, but there were footpaths on either side for maintenance workers who came down all too seldom in the modern age.

Following right behind was Braeleigh, holding a hand-drawn map of the city. “We should be passing under Arcane Boulevard at the next intersection. It’s not too much farther now.”

“Does… uh, Caspian smell any rats?” Gary asked, trying to contribute. He knew that there were no rats scheduled for this adventure, not so long as they stuck to the map. Rats were cliché, and Gary wanted to avoid too many clichés early in the campaign. The tavern meet-up was a tradition beloved by all, so it got a free pass. That didn’t mean Gary was going to foist rats on them in a level 1 adventure.

Braeleigh nuzzled the puppy she carried under her non-map arm. “If he did, you’d know. The barking would be the first clue.”

“You know,” Zeeto said, his high voice echoing as he gave the architecture an appraising look. “As sewers go, this place isn’t half bad. I mean, I wouldn’t want to live here, but I could work with this. The smell isn’t any worse than a busy street in the summer heat.”

“Population crash,” Gary explained. “Durrotek was built for a population of over a hundred thousand. There isn’t a quarter of that left. Trade from the dwarves and elves to the north dried up after the orc wars.”

Zeeto scoffed. “Listen to this… a history lesson from the foreign guy.”

“Hey, I might be stranded in a foreign land, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t gone to great lengths to educate myself.”

Sira turned back but kept her feet moving forward. There was a faint curl to her lips that might have been mistaken for a smile in someone who knew her. “Go figure. Maybe this guy isn’t useless.”

Gary raised a finger. “I also cook. We find ourselves in the wilderness, you’ll be glad to have me along.”

From the rear guard position, Beldrak’s deep voice explained, “In truth, it was not thy claim of culinary prowess that won thy spot among this company. Thy willingness—nay, eagerness—to stand with us in danger and peril spake of strength in thy character. Wheresoever valor and perseverance converge, worthiness will follow. Thy strength of character shall beget strength in battle.”

Yeah, it’s called Experience Points, Gary said to himself.

Sira shushed them. In a whisper that still echoed with just the trickle of the sewer flow to cover it, she told them, “Just up ahead. There’s a door.”

Braeleigh turned the map sideways, then back upright. She counted on her fingers, lips moving but issuing no sound. “Yeah. This is the place.”

“You’re suuuuure?” Zeeto asked skeptically.

“Super sure,” Braeleigh assured them. She set Caspian at her feet and drew her bow. She strode forward, hopping the stream to the far side and knocking an arrow. The way she carried that bow, partially drawn and aimed at the floor just ahead of her, reminded Gary of a SWAT team officer with an assault rifle.

They all crept toward the door on tiptoe.

d20: 14 + (Stealth -1) = 13

Gary couldn’t recall minutiae such as the exact Stealth roll required to avoid notice, but for a first-level adventure, he imagined that a 13 was probably enough.

What grated on him was that he couldn’t tell what everyone else was rolling. He’d hoped that just the same as he had flashes of insight when his own rolls occurred, he’d get some indication—maybe a flash of a number near them—of how the others were rolling.

Rolls or no rolls, they made it into position at the doorway to the underground secret entrance to Club Talis, the casino front for the notorious Talis Guild.

Poised at the door, broadsword gripped in a non-stat-altering two-handed grip, Beldrak paused. He took a hand off his sword hilt to point first to himself, then to the door, then he pantomimed a kick. Cocking his head to the side, the paladin awaited confirmation from the group.

Gary shrugged. Far be it from him to dictate tactics. For all that he’d purchased gear, he was still along for the ride.

Braeleigh nodded with a tight, determined purse of her lips.

Kim breathed a sigh and gestured toward the door in a way that said, “After you.”

But Zeeto cast the dissenting and decisive vote. Deftly slipping between the armored bulwark and the door, he unrolled a leather tool case packed with every manner of pick, wire, chisel, and skeleton key.

Within moments, a soft click issued from the lock.

Packing up his tools, Zeeto scooted aside and slipped a dagger from a sheath up his sleeve.

Holding up an open hand, Beldrak used his fingers to count down.

5

4

3

2

1

Beldrak pulled open the door and gripped his sword. Across the sewer flow on the far walkway, Braeleigh took aim. Crouching low, Zeeto slunk through the door with his dagger leading.

And this was where the gray morality of fantasy role-playing games crept in. Gary and his friends were executing a warrantless, no-knock invasion of a private business on the word of a man already in the city dungeon.

Of course, it helped sooth Gary’s conscience that he knew the Talis Guild was a bunch of vermin. He’d written them that way. The pipeweed did belong to Arguile of the Durrotek Import Consortium. But the idea that everyone else was so assured of their cause—or at least in Zeeto’s case, not care either way—bothered him just a little.

A number rolled before Gary’s vision.

d20: 7 + (DEX -1) = 6

Gary’s heart quickened in his chest. He’d just rolled for Initiative.

A wet gurgle from the Club Talis sub-basement revealed Zeeto had struck the first blow of a surprise attack.

Sira crept up to the doorway and held her mace at the ready.

Beldrak waited at the doorway for Braeleigh to loose an arrow into the room before charging in with a clatter of armor.

Gary felt a prod to action. The battle had a natural flow to it, but he could sense that it was his turn in the Initiative order. He had a rapier at his belt and a lute on his back. If he hesitated too long, he’d pass his turn.

Slinging the lute around to his front by the strap, he gripped the neck and strummed. He wanted something inspiring and military, but the first song that came to mind was…

“The ants go marching one by one, hoo-rah, hoo-rah. The ants go marching one by one, hoo-rah, hoo-rah. Oh, the ants go marching one by one, the halfling’s killing on the run, and they all go marching down under ground to get out of the rain.”

Inspire: +2 To Hit

He felt the tiniest bit better for at least altering the kiddie song slightly, and most importantly, it had worked as a bardic buff to his allies To Hit rolls.

Gary kept up his song for two more turns, never setting foot inside the storeroom battlefield until Zeeto came out, wiping his dagger clean of blood using a rag.

“You can knock it off now,” the halfling said. “Catchy tune, but I don’t want it stuck in my head until suppertime.”

“Right,” Gary said, pressing his hand to the strings to quell them. He tried to steady his breathing and prepare himself for the gruesome scene in the next room.

Six bodies lay strewn in the storeroom amid casks of ale, sacks of flour, and crates of varying shapes and sizes. Blood pooled, but thankfully none of the fatal injuries were particularly gaping.

Sira’s hands glowed with golden light as she murmured prayers to Sevius. A bloody gash faded from Beldrak’s cheek.

Zeeto and Braeleigh searched the storeroom, prying lids from crates and popping the tops of barrels. The elf took a moment to scold Caspian. “Bad boy! Don’t lick that. Even bad people aren’t for eating.”

Caspian whined and put his ears back.

Footsteps upstairs hinted that their time to investigate the club’s sub-basement was drawing to a close. “Guys,” Gary said. “Let’s hurry this along.”

Zeeto coughed into his hand. “Hypocrite.”

“It would be nice having a little help,” Braeleigh added sweetly.

Gritting his teeth, Gary pointed to a wooden crate the size of a practice amp. “Right there. It’s marked with the logo of the Durrotek Import Consortium.”

Zeeto scurried over and peeked under the lid. He sniffed appraisingly. “I’ll be damned. This is the stuff!” Forcing the lid down, he pushed the crate in the direction of the freshly healed Beldrak. “Grab and hustle, you wall of muscle.”

“Wait!” Gary said. “We can’t outrun them with a load.”

“Betcha we can,” Zeeto said with a challenge in his voice.

Beldrak brandished his broadsword. “We can fight them.”

Gary remained undeterred. “Help me drag these barrels and crates out into the sewer.”

Putting his shoulder into it, he barely rocked a barrel of what smelled like fish.

d20: 10 + (Strength -2) = 8

“C’mon! If we barricade the door, we won’t have to run or fight. It opens out.”

That was the impetus that got everyone moving. With the five of them working as a team under the impending threat of the approaching footsteps from above, they took the crate of pipeweed into the sewer, set it aside, then dragged out enough random flotsam that it would take the Talis Guild an hour to bash their way through.

As they retreated down the sewers, Beldrak clapped Gary on the back. “Well played, my fulsome yet limp-armed friend. Thou hast saved the lives of miserly men, but men nonetheless.”

“Just hope this Arguile bloke pays up,” Zeeto grumbled. “Otherwise, he’s getting a steel enema.”

“Enemy,” Braeleigh corrected with an upraised finger. “That’s the human word you’re looking for.”

Zeeto didn’t turn to look back. “Listen, lady. Where I come from, we call that same language halfling, and I prob’ly know a fair cut more of it than you.”

“I was raised among humans!” Braeleigh protested.

“Polite ones, I reckon,” Zeeto said. “Trust me. Arguile’s getting more than an enemy if we get short coined.”

Gary kept his mouth shut and saved his grin for the shadows.

6

The Durrotek Import Consortium operated out of a warehouse on the riverfront. It had its own small dock around back, but Gary and the rest of the party came in through the front door.

Inside was a bric-a-brac of objects and substances from across the kingdom of Kovia and beyond. It gave the impression that someone had taken a pawn shop, an antiques dealer, and a dollar store, shaken vigorously, and installed a counter to sell the surviving merchandise. Beldrak entered first, bearing the pipeweed. The rest followed.

Zeeto pulled Gary aside just as they were about to be last to enter. “Hey, I know you’ve got a mouth on you,” he whispered. “But this is my bag. Got it? Leave the palm-greasing to me.”

Gary spread his hands. “By all means.”

He’d been waiting for Marty to get his hands on Arguile since creating the character. Far be it from him to take Zeeto’s spotlight.

“Arggie, my man!” Zeeto said as he entered the storefront. “So glad to see you out of the pokey and back to making fully legitimate business deals with fine, upstanding citizens.”

Arguile was an alias with no last name. Gary had jotted one down along with an Investigation roll required to dredge it up from underworld contacts, but he’d personally forgotten what it had been. That name hadn’t been important. The character, on the other hand, was a linchpin to the early branches of the campaign’s course.

“Looks like I bet on the right gladiators,” Arguile said with a wheezy laugh. The importer had rough-combed hair and a nose that bent where it had been broken long ago. He was left-handed by process of elimination since there wasn’t even a stump to fill out a sleeve on the right side of his shirt, which was custom tailored without one. “Bring the merchandise over here and let’s get a look-see.”

Beldrak set the crate on the counter and pried open the lid with a miniature crowbar Arguile provided. The aroma that wafted from the fully opened crate made Gary’s eyes water and his stomach growl.

Reaching in, Arguile pulled out a paper-wrapped and twine-tied bundle, running it under his nose with a long, connoisseur’s sniff. “Ah. That’s the stuff, all right. You lot did good. Gimme a moment, and I’ll grab your payment.”

As the one-armed importer headed through a door that led out back, Zeeto and Sira’s hands both strayed to their weapons. Gary could only imagine the Intuition checks they both failed if they expected Arguile was about to betray them.

When Arguile returned with a jangling pouch, everyone relaxed. Tugging the knot loose with one hand, he spilled the contents across the counter. “Two hundred fifty gold, as promised.”

Gary felt a strange, giddy surge inside. He hadn’t been keeping track of his experience totals but wasn’t surprised at what he discovered upon checking.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1 XP: 1,150/1,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 17 WIS: 12 CHA: 17

To Hit: +0 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire +2

Skills: Persuade (+4), Music (+4), Study/Search(+4)

Profession: Cook (+1)

“Yes,” he cheered softly, clenching a fist.

Zeeto shot him a warning look and raised a finger to his lips.

“Thank thee, kind sir,” Beldrak said with a bow. “Would that all justice came without incurring cost. Be that as it may, thy payment shall find its way to serve the cause of Makoy.”

“Hey, if Makoy is looking for funds, come back tomorrow,” Arguile said. “I might have another job if you’re interested.”

“Would it involve the sewers?” Sira asked dryly.

Arguile scratched his chin. “I couldn’t imagine that it would.”

“Look us up, then,” Zeeto said. He produced a small box from one pocket and slid it across the counter. “A token of my appreciation.”

As the party exited, Gary pulled Zeeto aside. “What was that you gave him?”

Zeeto pulled out an identical box and popped it open. Inside was a deck of playing cards. Gary recognized the design on the back and felt his gut clench. “Nicked a bunch of them from one of the crates at the club. Want one? I’ve got a bunch.”

7

That evening, back at the rooms the party shared at The Sleepy Inn, they gathered in the women’s quarters to discuss leveling up.

It was… odd for Gary.

He’d rarely given any thought to the jarring, stair-step progression system from an in-universe standpoint. In his mind, that was just a detail that the characters themselves would have ignored.

Except that wasn’t possible. Short of implementing rules for training (which Gary opposed on annoyance grounds), there would be a situation where suddenly players could cast a new spell or were mysteriously now able to pick locks when they couldn’t the morning before.

“So,” Zeeto said when the door was shut, and it was just the five of them alone. “Everyone advancing?”

“Yeah.”

“Yuppers!”

“Indeed, I hath advanced as well.”

They all looked to Gary.

“What?” he asked. “Of course, I did. I’m on a Path. I’m on the Path of Music, remember? Real adventurer here.”

Zeeto shot him a wink and a thumbs up. “Hey. Maybe once you get down that music path a ways, you can slide over my way and stop sounding a sack of crows trying to get out.”

One by one, they all closed their eyes. “What are you all looking at?”

“Try it,” Braeleigh advised. “Imagine your place on the Paths of Power and you should be able to see where you can go from there.”

“There won’t be many choices, I imagine,” Sira added. “Not unless the Path of Music’s a lot different from the Path of Piety.”

“In all seriousness,” Zeeto said. “Just stick with music. There’ll be other stuff to consider after, and we don’t want to be up all night with you rubbing your rocks trying to decide what to do.”

With a nod to four people with their eyes closed, Gary shut his and joined them in contemplation. In an instant, he could see the Paths of Power. But unlike Braeleigh’s implication, he didn’t see the Path before him. Gary saw the whole thing. Nine concentric rings. Eight Paths that hopped from inner circle to outer, wending their way to ever more options the larger the ring a character occupied.

Of course. It all made sense. He’d allowed the players to see the first two rings—the one they started on and the one adjacent. His plan had been to reveal additional rings to them as they advanced. It was a hedge against a group of notorious metagamers. He didn’t want them planning five, ten, or fifteen levels in advance, levels it might take months or years of real-world time to see.

But Gary had made the world.

He knew the Paths of Power. He knew how they worked. Unfortunately, that also meant that he knew that the Path of Music was underpowered, meant for challenging a player to think outside the dice rolls to succeed.

In other words, bard was a class for schmucks.

Lacking better options, Gary mentally committed to Bard 2. A second level of that was better than sliding over to Rogue 1 or Wizard 1. Fun as the Path of Shadow might have looked, that would have been stepping on Zeeto’s little toes, especially for loot sharing. As for wizard, Gary had basically set up a kingdom-wide Salem witch hunt for them. Getting used to living in an imaginary world was weird enough without running for his life constantly.

The skills he let advance all on their own, putting points where he already allotted them.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 2 XP: 1,150/2,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 17 WIS: 12 CHA: 17

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby

Skills: Persuade (+5), Music (+5), Study/Search (+5)

Profession: Cook (+1)

Since this was an even total level, he also got an ability point. As much as he was a Charisma-based class, nothing in the world was going to be easy. He was going to need a lot of scheming just to keep up with the rest of the party’s power level.

He went with Intelligence.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 2 XP: 1,150/2,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 12 CHA: 17

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby

Skills: Persuade (+5), Music (+5), Study/Search (+5)

Profession: Cook (+1)

“Done,” he announced, opening his eyes to find the rest of the party staring at him.

“Was it… harder for you?” Sira asked. “You can ask for help when you need it.”

“How long was I—?”

“I didn’t start an hourglass,” Zeeto said, flipping over cards from his stolen Talis-marked deck in a game of solitaire. “A while.”

“Sorry, I just got caught up in… I’m sorry,” Gary said. He’d been about to say that he was looking all up and down the Path of Music, wondering at what point he’d either become a sultry-voiced king among men or be forced to duck over to a more powerful Path. But none of them could see beyond the length of their noses. If he admitted to seeing the whole thing, he’d either weird them all out or be subject to an endless litany of questions regarding their future options.

That was just the metagaming he’d been aiming to avoid.

“Worry not, friend,” Beldrak said. “On the morrow, we five shall seek our fortunes where Goodman Arguile may suggest. Or, perchance he offers us foul fare, we turn about and see what Makoy might lay before us.”

“In the meantime,” Braeleigh said cheerfully. “I talked to the cook, and he’s agreed to let you use the kitchen tonight. We’re so looking forward to sampling your cuisine.”

“Yeah,” Zeeto said. “Maybe make us something from your native Palo Alto.”

Native cuisine? Were they serious? “Uh. Sure. Have… any of you ever tried a taco?”

8

The Yellow River ran through Durrotek, and a road ran south to more heavily settled lands of Kovia. To all other sides was boreal forest, with the Dwarfcrown mountains peering over the treetops from the north.

Arguile’s quest had them trekking northeast, overland along barely blazed mule trails toward the foothills of those very mountains. After a belly full of tacos made with the smorgasbord of ingredients available in The Sleepy Inn’s kitchen, a good night’s sleep, and a breakfast of porridge, the one-armed importer had tasked them with the delivery of his goods to their original recipient.

Braeleigh led the way with Caspian bounding around her with endless enthusiasm as if they were in the woods on a lark instead of traveling through untamed wilds. The elf showed no inkling of the single mom who drove a used hatchback and considered navigating around potholes to be off-roading. She set a swift pace, and her surety of direction came thanks to the Overland Navigation Trick available to the Path of the Wilderness.

“You still alive back there, Taco Man?” Zeeto called back.

With their breath puffing in the subarctic air, it was impossible for Gary to disguise his shortness of breath.

“Constitution… not my thing,” Gary said, holding up a hand to forestall any coddling that might be forthcoming. “I’m good.”

Braeleigh slung her pack to the ground against the trunk of a towering pine. “Lunchtime!” she announced much to Gary’s relief.

If he’d anticipated a cutting jibe from Zeeto about the reason for the meal break right at that moment, Gary was destined for disappointment. For all the differences between Marty and his alter ego, there was no getting between either of them and a meal.

With no kitchen and no perishable ingredients, no one even asked Gary to cook. The tacos had satisfied their nagging worries about whether or not he could live up to his boast. The flour tortillas had been rough around the edges since the absence of baking powder in Pellar was a complication he’d never stopped to consider until stuck in a kitchen without it. And without a meat grinder or the usual herbs and spices, the flavor and texture were a little non-standard. But with tomatoes, onions, and garlic available, the salsa had come out pretty decent.

This lunch, however, was just trail mix, bread, and jerky, washed down with stagnant water that tasted of leather.

As Braeleigh broke up firewood with a hatchet, Sira commented, “Thought elves had rules about fires in forests.”

Braeleigh shrugged. “Maybe. If there are, I don’t know them. I was super young when my parents died. I got raised by a nice human family after the war.”

“So, like… I could chop down this tree, and you wouldn’t straight-up murder me?” Zeeto asked.

“Lumbering provides wood for everything from ships to hair brushes,” Braeleigh replied. “I’d be more worried about you getting hurt than the tree.”

“Weird.”

Braeleigh ceased chopping and tossed her kindling into a pile at the center of their resting troupe. “No. What’s weird is being raised by a people who age at ten times the rate you do. My adoptive parents grew old. My siblings took over caring for me. I went from playing hide-and-seek with them to doing chores and living under their roofs. And it happened a second time with their kids. The first boy I ever kissed living in our village moved to seek his fortune, and when he came back, I still had the same crush on him… only to be horrified to discover it was his grandson—who looked just like him.”

Gary listened to the backstory Katie had written as he tried with his flint and steel to spark a fire in the kindling. It was tinged with such a unique perspective on the “raised by wolves” style of upbringing, never stopping to consider the short lifespan of a wolf.

Zeeto grunted. “Raised by humans. Got it. Free to maim and mutilate trees without reprisal. Hey, anyone else got a good orphan story? Lotta orphans take up adventuring. C’mon. Anyone?”

Beldrak shook his head. “I must disappoint thee, I fear. My sire and matron fare well—last I knowest, at the least—and my grandmares and grandsires also.”

Sira pinched the bridge of her nose. “My mother haunts me, and she’s not even dead.”

Zeeto and Gary stared one another down like gunfighters on a dusty road. Neither was going to volunteer their story first without an argument.

“Go ahead, big mouth,” Gary challenged. “Tell us your story.”

“My father’s fine,” Zeeto said. “Wanted me to go in to the family business. Mom’s got her issues with the bottle. Glad to be away from them.”

That stung. Gary heard Marty’s family history echo there. Marty’s dad was a personal injury lawyer who considered coding to be sucker’s work. His mom had been in and out of rehab for pills.

“Your turn, lute strangler,” Zeeto prompted. “Who’s your mommy and daddy?”

“I get on great with my mom and dad,” Gary said with an embarrassed shrug, as if a happy home life was fine for a paladin but not a bard. “If I hadn’t gotten magically whisked off to this distant land, I’d be having dinner at their place once a week.”

“Break’s over!” Braeleigh announced just as the fire she’d taken over kindling had started to warm Gary’s face. It suffocated beneath kicked dirt from the elf’s boot.

They traveled onward into the afternoon under the glare of a sun that seemed content to produce light without warmth.

For a while, Gary just tried to enjoy the trip and camaraderie. He’d nearly forgotten that this was a world ruled by dice and paper, it had been so long since he’d needed a skill check. Then suddenly, he was jerked back into awareness that this wilderness wasn’t dangerous because of simple climate.

d20: 8 + (Perception +1) = 9

Gary didn’t notice anything, and with a roll like that, he wasn’t surprised.

d20: 11 + (DEX -1) = 10 (surprised)

Well, except that his failure to detect the ambush meant that he was surprised.

Caspian barked, and Gary looked to see what the wolf pup had spotted. Up ahead, to the north, spindly, multi-legged creatures formed of ice skittered down the trunks of a frost-rimed pine. As their needle-tipped legs tapped the forest floor, hoarfrost spread at their every touch like ripples on a pond. Each had a body the size of a soccer ball and legs as long as a human’s.

Braeleigh and Zeeto were quick on their feet as, like Gary, Beldrak and Sira were caught flatfooted and were trying to get their bearings. Weapons still sheathed, they’d be missing their first turn as well.

Five ice spiders. Exactly one per party member—almost as if some jackass had planned it that way. In his notes, Gary had named them frost mites and forced himself to keep that name in mind. It could be the key to him keeping stats straight.

Name: Frost Mite Hit Points: 12 Damage: 1d3+1

Despite their mystic appearance, they didn’t have any special properties besides a vulnerability to fire, which none of Gary’s companions could exploit. But at 12 HP each, Gary and his friends seemed like the favorites.

The ice of the frost mites held no chill like the sensation that pierced Gary’s heart in that moment of terrible realization.

How many hit points do I have?

In that instant, he hated himself. Not the Gary in Pellar, traipsing about in frost-mite-infested woods, but rather the Gary Burns who’d decided to withhold the running count of hit points from his players to keep them from being cheesy and min-maxy about optimizing healing potions, calculating who could afford to take a fifty-foot plummet without risk of dying, and a million other immersion-breaking exploits.

Right then, he’d have happily relived Marty’s race between a ring of regeneration and a camp fire just to know how many hit points he’d gotten when hitting level 2.

He did quick math.

First level: max hit points. The Path of Music handed those out 1d6 at a time. So, with his -1 from low Constitution, he’d started off with just 5. Add in another 1d6-1, minimum of 1, and he was looking at anywhere from 6 to 10 hit points.

Gary Burns, level 2 bard on the Path of Music, was wimpier than these frost mites.

This panic attack occupied the turn Gary would otherwise have spent contributing to the fighting between Zeeto and Braeleigh and the frost mites. When his turn did come around, cold fingers gripped the neck of a lute.

Strumming a weak chord progression on the still unfamiliar strings, he sang, “Oh, the weather up north is frightful. Boy, some fire would be delightful. But since we’ve no fire to show… Use a sword! Use a mace! Use a bow!”

Inspire: +2 To Hit

“Nice little ditty,” Zeeto shouted as he dodged aside and sank his dagger into the spongy, squishy flesh of a frost mite’s thorax. “But you left out the best weapon.”

Rather than break the bonus from his song, Gary replied indirectly. “The monsters are slowly dying. And the halfling’s pride is crying. But as long as you lay them low… Use a sword! Use a mace! Use a bow!”

Despite being the object of the jest, Zeeto chuckled as he fought.

As Beldrak formed up as part of the defensive front against the creatures, Sira healed Braeleigh of a scratch she’d taken earlier in the battle. Keeping up his song as he kept well clear of the fray, Gary continued making up alternate lyrics as he went along.

While Gary roamed the rear flank, well beyond harm’s reach, the other four members of the party wore down the frost mites and healed up afterward.

Zeeto came Gary’s way after getting his cuts and scratches magically healed. “So, just between you, me, and the pine trees, you planning on using that letter opener sheathed at your hip one of these days?”

“In an ideal world, no,” Gary replied as he slung his lute onto his back. “My best contribution is by inspiring you fine boys and girls to reach greater heights. Once the math works out that my noodle arms and pointed stick add more value than my singing voice, I’ll draw steel.”

“Math, huh?” Zeeto said with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms that concealed daggers up their sleeves. “Ever think maybe that math might come out a little more on the stabby side if you weren’t a complete pile of pig vomit?”

“But I am.”

Zeeto turned to the others and hooked a thumb in Gary’s direction. “You see? This is why there are still bards in the world. This guy does nothing but flick the backs of my ears all fight, doesn’t get so much as a hangnail or even pull out a weapon, and I’m still willing to cut him a share of the loot. I’d skip a meal if someone could explain exactly why, though.”

“Just this once,” Gary said somberly. “I’ll give you my share of the loot.”

Braeleigh and Sira were busy checking the creatures’ corpses.

Beldrak came over and dropped a gauntleted hand on Gary’s shoulder like a hammer blow. “Thy heart o’erflows with charity. A fine companion art thee.”

It came as no surprise that there was no loot on the frost mites. Oh, maybe as a player, there could have been some vain hope of gold in the creatures’ stomachs, devoured along with a less-fortunate adventurer at an earlier meal. Or perhaps one could have been forgiven for thinking that these otherworldly beasts might be useful to alchemists in whole or part.

Alas.

Gary had tried to limit the incentives for amateur taxidermy mid-adventure when populating his monster field guide. While a few dumb creatures might have collected shiny objects with magpie compulsion, only intelligent adversaries were likely to hoard useful treasure.

Zeeto didn’t speak to Gary the rest of the afternoon.

It was evening by the time Braeleigh called their halt. By the reckoning of Gary’s stomach, it wasn’t dinnertime just yet—and it didn’t help knowing that dinner was a lunch redux.

“Someone’s been here,” Braeleigh informed them in a whisper that carried on the cold air.

The elven ranger pointed out the holes jabbed by tent stakes into the frozen soil, the ash-black where a fire had been set. It might have been Gary’s imagination, but his nose insisted that a lingering whiff of bacon floated in the vicinity.

“Pray tell, who hast visited this vale ‘ere our arrival. Can aught be gleaned from these mean environs?” Beldrak asked. Gary wasn’t even positive some of those were words.

“Also, can you tell who’s been here?” Zeeto asked.

Sira glanced around nervously. “If they didn’t want to be here any longer, perhaps we should move on as well.”

“Shh!” Braeleigh hissed past a finger at her lips. She crouched low and waddled around the campsite. Her hand brushed aside fallen pine needles to expose the ground below. She pinched a bit of campfire ash between her fingers. Placing an ear against the ground, she listened.

“So?” Gary asked, unable to contain himself in the role of observer. He wanted to scream, “It’s an elf who camped here.” Her kind were few and scattered. This was a chance at a side quest to connect with a long-lost member of her ravaged race. “What can you tell?”

Braeleigh’s shoulders rose and fell in resignation. “Nothing. With the frozen turf, I mistook this site for recently occupied. But these signs could be weeks or even months old.”

Gathering up her gear, Braeleigh started off on their original heading. “Keep up the pace, everyone. Sorry for the delay. Nothing to do but make up the time. Chop chop!”

Last to follow was Gary. He wanted to rush up, grab Braeleigh by the shoulder and scream that there was a renown warrior living off the land just to the east of here, a nomad for whom the forest was a grocery store, not a hazard. The target roll for discovering even the most basic facts around the site were so low that…

Gary fell into step at the back of the group. He knew what must have happened.

Braeleigh had rolled a 1.

There was no overcoming that.

9

Long hours and short breath gave a guy a lot of time to think. While certain minor XP bonuses could sneak up on him, Gary knew that those frost mites were 125 a pop. He cross-referenced his character sheet, finding that the 625 from those spiders, split five ways, had been the only ones he’d earned since leaving Durrotek.

But as he lagged at the rear of the formation, falling behind their nominal rear guard, Beldrak, Gary had more on his mind than character arithmetic.

This world hadn’t gone away, and this was day three—or was it four?—of this adventure. He was already losing track without a cell phone to cross-reference. The gnawing uncertainty of how or why or where this was all happening compounded by the day.

A brief blackout seemed impossible. This dream was too lucid, too cogent to be a moment that only felt like longer. Sudden nearness to death was said to flash your life before your eyes, not some all new life based on a game setting. And no blow to the head caused cooking side quests that didn’t even give XP.

The stuff in that toy of Zane’s could well have been hallucinogenic. Horror stories floated circles around social media about zombie drugs and plant extracts that could destroy your mind with a single exposure. For all Gary knew, he was sitting up in a hospital bed as a nurse spoon fed him applesauce.

Then again, if that were the case, he was glad to be where he was—er, wasn’t.

Last but not least, there was the good old-fashioned coma. There were entire daytime soaps about coma dreams. Sure, maybe the Dr. Phil crowd liked their alternate realities filled with eye-patch-wearing, evil race car driver twin brother love triangles. Why wouldn’t a geek-to-the-core like Gary get a homebrew RPG?

d20: 15 + (CON -1) = 14

He knew as he plodded along that he’d just passed another endurance check. It would have been a hit to his tattered pride, but he’d have preferred collapsing to the frigid forest floor and forcing the party to carry him. Yet in a streak he knew he’d pay for later, Gary was on a string of five straight passes.

“Almost there!” Braeleigh shouted from the head of the line, a good hundred feet ahead. She knelt and spoke with Caspian. “Just a short climb!”

The wolf pup bounded to the back of the line, looking a little bigger than he had on their first quest down in the sewer. Just as he caught himself marveling at how quickly the little scamp was growing, Gary realized that he’d leveled up along with his master. No longer a little puff of fur and a lolling tongue, he was the size of a typical house cat.

It was all adorable until Caspian nipped at Gary’s ankles.

“Hey! Quit it!”

Not fully versed in the human language, Caspian ignored Gary’s protests. Worse, the little wolf grew emboldened.

Gary dodged and darted. The few nips he got didn’t feel like the sort that would take healing magic to repair. Caspian was clearly playing, and from the laughter up ahead—Braeleigh chief among the comedians—Gary being the target was no accident.

“Better get a move on!” Sira shouted back, cupping her hands to her mouth. “I hear he has a taste for slowpokes.”

“Want me to carry you?” Zeeto asked, his high-pitched voice needing no help to carry on the wind.

Beldrak stood with a stern scowl on his face that could have been meant for either Gary’s slow pace or the prank they were playing on him. It was hard to tell.

The instigator of it all laughed from her belly, doubled over at the sight of her puppy herding Gary like a stray sheep. She only called him off when Gary caught up to the rest of the group. By that point, she was wiping tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic.

From the vantage where the rest of them had stopped, Gary saw why they’d waited. The foothills rose with a switchback trail winding up toward an encampment visible a short ways up the mountainside. It was nothing special, just a scattering of pavilion tents and a couple crude log cabin structures.

“What do you think?” Sira asked. To his surprise, Gary found the question directed at him. The fact wasn’t lost on Sira. “Yeah. You. Beldrak thinks you might actually be useful as a strategist for some reason. I’m willing to take the chance at finding something you can do besides cook weird foreign food and make up goofy songs.”

I can craft entire worlds, peer into the minds of the gods themselves, understand plant and animal life with the perspective of the craftsman who breathed life into them. You manage the database of a detergent company, Kim. Don’t go getting high and mighty.

“Yeah. Sure,” Gary said instead of all that. He squirmed into a more dignified posture. “Let’s see. Arguile wanted us to deliver the weed to Previn’s mine.”

“Pipe weed,” Zeeto corrected.”

“Check mark on that,” Gary said, ignoring the halfling. “This fits the description. It’s a mining camp a full day’s forced march from Durrotek, so they’re not popping down to the local bodega for beer and a pack of smokes. If they want to get lit, they need a supply chain. That’s where we come in. Face it. If these guys want to smoke some weed, we’re their hookup.”

Zeeto cleared his throat. “Pipe weed. It’s for pipes. This isn’t the low-class stuff you roll up in a scrap of parchment from your old man’s wanted poster. Gotta make sure these blokes know this shit is genteel.”

“Can we not try to cut a deal with this Previn character?” Sira asked with her hands spread.

Zeeto leaned back as if Sira had taken off a mask to reveal a hideous creature beneath. “What are you talking about? We have to haggle. It’s our moral obligation on behalf of our employer.”

Beldrak’s chuckle caught Gary off guard. He hadn’t been sure that Darryl had imbued the paladin with any sense of humor at all. “Think we be fools? Thou havest not the intention to return a dram more than Goodman Arguile presently expects.”

“Damn right, you glorious pillar of muscle,” Zeeto said, hands on hips. “Five hundred gold might sound like a lot—”

“It is,” Sira deadpanned.

“But think of it this way,” Zeeto continued. “He’s buying in bulk from Arguile for a reason. Parceled off in smaller amounts, you could get nearly twice as much for it. Granted, more work, but hear me out. The same holds true the other way. If Previn wants to buy this much, the alley price for a puff this fine would run him the same if he had someone go out and beat the back streets for him. We’re giving him the bulk discount and delivering it to his door. That’s worth a little something extra from him for our trouble. Just taking our share from Arguile is only getting half of what we’re due. This is a two-party transaction we’re brokering. No free rides for the boonies side of it.”

“Can we just go now?” Braeleigh asked. “I stopped listening halfway through. I just want to go and get rid of the stinky box.”

As they ascended the switchback trail, Gary wondered how badly his friends were going to screw this all up. He had built in layers of contingency this time around, but so many of his prior campaigns had veered badly from his planned narrative arc.

Previn’s Mine would determine whether these were the cleverest characters of Gary’s gaming career, the hard luck sort who’d plod their way through adversity, or the sort who’d be rerolled after an untimely demise.

Gary shuddered.

Rerolling the other was fine. In a world where resurrection magic was the stuff of myth, adventurers came and went. But what would happen if he died?

Suddenly his footsteps slowed. Previn’s Mine was a gallows draped in plain-spun tent cloth. Gary knew what lay beneath.

“C’mon, sloth foot,” Zeeto yelled down the trail to him. “In this lifetime.”

Yes. In this lifetime was exactly where Gary hoped to remain.

10

The party ignored the shabby tent city and headed for the log cabin just outside the mine shaft. Over the right side of the shaft entrance was an askew sign tacked in place with nails. It read, “Previn’s Mine,” and the cracked and splintered left edge suggested that the original sign had said something longer.

Above the door to the cabin was another sign of similar construction with equally sloppy painted lettering. When choosing their lone permanent structures, the miners had made sure one of them was a tavern—the Lucky Strike.

As taverns went, the Lucky Strike was dismal and cramped. There were only four tables, an unpolished bar, and three patrons drinking. Oil lamps kept the worst of the darkness at bay, but even without them, there would have been light peeking through the gaps between timbers.

“We seek Previn,” Beldrak announced as if requesting a royal audience. “Hath any among you seen this man?”

One of the patrons pushed back his chair, wooden legs scraping the bare rock floor. “Who’s asking?”

“I am Beldrak Evenhand, servant of Makoy,” Beldrak said, placing the hand of the arm not holding their cargo over his heart. “Our errand be one of commerce, fine goodsir, and—”

“We’ve got your shipment,” Zeeto cut in. “The supplier sends his regrets for the delay.”

Previn was a barrel of a man with a flattened, upturned nose and a prominent lower jaw and a thick forehead betraying the orcish blood that mixed with human in his veins. With a muttered apology to his two drinking companions, he came over and sized up Beldrak from a pace away while addressing Zeeto. “Your boss put me to a lot of trouble. Thinking that comes with a discount.”

Gary listened with one ear while keeping an eye to the mine owner’s companions. No one else in the party seemed to be interested in the other two drinkers at all, and that was a shame.

The thin one was Biel. He’d come to this forsaken mine to collect payment for the murder at The Uncommon Room. The victim had been Previn’s business partner, leaving the half-orc as sole owner of the mining outfit. If the party were to play detective, they could uncover the truth, free the innocent bard who was being held as the prime suspect and would result in them gaining ownership of the mine after the authorities came to arrest Previn.

The mine operator’s other guest was Murrow Greenmoor, there to negotiate the sale of the same pipeweed on behalf of the Talis Guild. He’d left before Gary’s friends repatriated the goods, and this was the first he was to hear of its disappearance—unless the party kept coy about where their employer had obtained a replacement shipment.

“Discount?” Zeeto scoffed.

“Yeah!” Braeleigh said. “Zeeto says you owe us more because we delivered it. Plus, I think, you know… since we had to steal it back from the thiefy people, that means we tried extra hard to get you your smelly weeds.”

Sira pulled Braeleigh away as Caspian growled softly, responding to the ranger’s clenched fists and indignant tone. “Easy, girl. No one cares how we got it. It’s just a matter of delivering goods and taking our payment.”

“Our 600 gold,” Zeeto clarified.

Previn shook his head, greasy hair flopping with the motion. “400.”

“550,” Zeeto countered without hesitation. “If not for us, there wouldn’t be a shipment at any price.”

The Talis Guild negotiator at the table raised an eyebrow, but it didn’t appear as if anyone but Gary noticed. He didn’t even roll a Perception check since he was explicitly watching for it. The rest… he couldn’t tell if they even bothered getting a roll.

Previn tapped a finger to his temple for a moment before answering. “Got me an idea. Always short manpower up here. Broke through to an old dwarven shaft a few weeks back; ain’t got enough hands to excavate it, but odds are there’s more left in them old mines than my new ones. Been selling stakes for enterprising individuals such as yourselves to strike it rich.”

“Nope,” Sira replied. “Gonna step right in and put the ‘nope’ on that one. We’re here to do a job, collect our fee, and deliver the proceeds back to our employer.”

Zeeto held out a hand. “Hold on. Let’s hear him out.”

“Been selling stakes for 2,000 gold apiece,” Previn continued. “But since cash is short right now, maybe I can cut you a deal. The pipeweed for a stake in the dwarven mines.”

“But thy remuneration is destined for our patron’s purse,” Beldrak pointed out. “Without such, this venture should prove a costly travail.”

These interplays were the meat of Gary’s love for role-playing. He’d offered the party a bag of magic beans for their payment—and Arguile’s—and here they stood debating the merits.

“I’m a business man,” Previn said. “It’d come with papers and whatnot. You wouldn’t be out with nothing, and who knows what might be down there. Gold, gems, old dwarfy crafted stuff. I’d keep it all for myself… except on account of this gimpy knee I’ve got and no manpower to hire out for extra diggers.”

“We shouldn’t take anything sight unseen,” Gary suggested, acting the instigator. “I mean, who’s to say it’s really dwarf-made mines down there and not old goblin digging. For all we know, it’s knot-holed timbers and bits of twine supporting the digging.”

“It ain’t,” Previn said, thrusting his prominent lower jaw out even farther. “It’s dwarf-made, or I’m an elf.”

Braeleigh scrunched her nose. “Not even if you were the last one…”

Shaking his head, Zeeto wagged a finger. “No deal. We don’t sign anything without seeing it for ourselves.”

“We came for gold,” Sira said. “Five hundred gold, to be exact. We should take it and head back.”

“I’ll give you 450,” Previn reiterated. “Ain’t got the 500 at the moment if I was inclined. And I ain’t, neither. It’s 450 or barter for a stake.”

“Betwixt a natty pair of choices, we find us pinned,” Beldrak said. “To crawl with poor pennies back to our benefactor and lay his tribute from our own meager pockets or delve like beardsmen to the earthy bowels and test fate’s kiss upon our fortunes.”

Zeeto sighed. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“We should at least look, right?” Braeleigh asked.

“You won’t be disappointed,” Previn assured them with a curt nod.

And so it was that Gary, Beldrak, Sira, Braeleigh, and Zeeto followed the half-orc mine operator into the shaft that had his partner’s name excised from the sign.

They left behind them the man whose murderous deed had landed them in jail and an operative responsible for selling Arguile’s stolen shipment. And they hadn’t stayed long enough to encounter the mysterious stranger…

Or had they?

“Previn!” an imperious voice called out from the entrance to the cave. “I’ve come to see the owner of this sorry excuse for a settlement!”

Gary stopped short. The others, including the half-orc leading the way, pulled up and turned to regard the one who’d bellowed from down the row of tents.

He wasn’t especially tall, nor well muscled, but the way the stranger carried himself brooked no ignoring. The clothes the human wore were of fine make but mild disrepair as if from long travels and little washing. The heavy ermine cloak he wore carried more trail dust than its original black. His hair was long and greasy black. A bellows fog puffed with his every breath in long gouts that suggested a breathless haste in his ascent up the mountain trail. The only sign of armament was a longsword sheathed at his hip in a scabbard of ancient design.

“Who the bleeding axe blades are you?” Previn bellowed back, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. “I’m Previn, and if you don’t like my mining camp, you can go right ahead and evict yourself.”

“I’m looking for a man named Nethel,” the stranger said as he drew near. Each pace was swift and sure. If there was any concern about approaching the burly half-orc and the five armed adventurers at his side, the stranger concealed it utterly. Contempt was his armor, and he wore it like a tournament jouster. “I chase a rumor that has placed him hereabouts.”

“I’m a miner,” Previn said as if that were any sort of answer. “I dig in the mountain. I pay others to dig it for me. And in between, I drink, smoke, and sleep. If any of my boys has an old name he ain’t shared, that’s his business, but I know ‘em all, and none’s ever called himself Nethel in earshot of me.”

Zeeto cupped a hand to his mouth and spoke aside to Gary. “Who’s this grease stain?”

The stranger paused and released the flap of the tent he had peered inside. His eyes snapped toward Zeeto with a look that promised fire. “I am Kurgath. Should you discover Nethel, seek me out with his whereabouts and you’ll be well rewarded.”

With a look that came from a database admin, Sira made a simple request. “Can you quantify that?”

“What hast this Nethel done, pray thee, to earn thy enmity?” Beldrak added.

Kurgath scowled more shrewdly at Sira’s request than Beldrak’s demand for cause behind his pursuit of justice. “Ten thousand gold I can begrudge for the recovery of what the swine thief stole from me.”

“You’re a pig farmer?” Zeeto asked incredulously.

Kurgath bared teeth—perfect and white—in a snarl. “No! Nethel is the swine in question, and he’s robbed me of far more than mere livestock. If I find him in this camp and none reporting his presence, I’ll take my payment in blood!”

With that, the strange traveler stormed down the row of tents, throwing back the flaps and sticking his head inside one by one. Previn tried, at first, to object, but Gary’s friends kept their voices more closely guarded.

When Kurgath’s one-man stampede drew to a close with a parting threat and promise of gold before descending the mountain trail once more, Zeeto broke the silence with a clearing of his throat.

“Can we get on with this? Let’s go check out our new mining claim.”

11

If Gary was any kind of expert on fantasy-world mining—and he was—then this was a shabby example of human excavation. Previn’s Mine showed every indication of proper planning, from layout to the gentle consistency of its downward grade, but its execution had been left in the hands of itinerant laborers and fugitives willing to live in the primitive conditions Previn and his now-departed partner had provided. The floor was broken and gouged, the walls uneven, and the support beams of questionable practical value.

Had he not designed the manual elevator himself, Gary would have been concerned that the rickety, rope-and-pulley contraption wouldn’t have supported their weight—or its own for that matter. In the real world, he’d never have set foot in such a machine. But here in his dream, he was more curious what death beheld than worried over shoddy workmanship.

Death in a workplace safety accident just wasn’t thematically appropriate.

Gary’s only sense of self-preservation came from a combination of old habit and a worry that if he awakened from this dream he might never find his way back. Thus, when the others hesitated and held back, Gary was the first to climb aboard, hopping on the slightly swaying floor to show that it was safe for more than just his own meager weight.

“Don’t be fraidycats,” Zeeto said as second passenger. “Feels plenty safe.”

“The oak must not allow the shrub to cast its shadow overhead,” Beldrak said before murmuring a prayer and stepping aboard.

Caspian barked and bounded, prompting Braeleigh to follow. “Careful! You fit between the safety bars!”

“I’ll wait up here,” Sira said, folding her arms.

Braeleigh grabbed the cleric and hauled her in. “Don’t split the party. I got a stern talking to from my grandnephew before heading off for a life of adventure. That was rule number one. Well, actually, it might have been more like rule six of seven. I think number one might actually have been to always set a watch for sleeping in the wilderness, but this is an important rule too.”

Beldrak operated the hand crank that spooled out rope, lowering the lift car inch by creaking inch. The darkness loomed below.

“If you find a spot to your liking, it’s all yours,” Previn called down after them, voice echoing from untold depths below them. “Only two stakes been sold, and they’re marked clear as diamond.”

Sira closed her eyes, barely visible in the gloom. “Sevius, light our way.”

Holding her mace aloft with the head now aglow, Sira became their lantern bearer.

“See?” Braeleigh said with a hug for Sira. “We all need each other. Well, I can see in the dark pretty well, but I’m sure everyone else is, like, super happy to have magic light.”

“Just don’t go getting blood all over it,” Gary joked. “Or we’ll be in the dark again.”

Beldrak fixed a curious look on Gary. “Wherefore wouldst thou suggest such a happenstance?”

Gary glanced around and realized all eyes were on him. The lift car had stopped descending. “What? We’re adventurers.”

“That doesn’t mean there are going to be monsters around every corner,” Sira said in a scolding tone.

Braeleigh ruffled his hair. “Gary’s just being paranoid. It’s probably because he’s so useless in a fight. He’s got that sort of ‘save me, I’m too pretty to fight,’ thing going on, except he’s not exactly pretty. He’s just got that sort of je ne sais quoi about him.”

“What’s that mean?” Zeeto asked.

“I can’t really say,” Braeleigh replied.

“Then why’d you said it?”

“No, that’s what it means. It’s elvish.”

Gary snorted softly. He’d never planned for elvish to be French, but he’d never not planned it. Katie had just hijacked his world-building.

“You think that’s funny?” Sira asked. “She thinks you’re too much of a damsel in distress to defend yourself.”

“Just lower us, Beldrak,” Gary said wearily. “I’m not gonna knock Leigh for being accurate. But I’m probably not paranoid. Adventuring life is trading safety for riches. The least heroic thing we could have done was take Previn’s low-ball offer and slog back to Durrotek. You can all feel it, too, can’t you?”

The lift lurched as Beldrak worked the crank.

“Hell, yeah,” Zeeto said. “I was never walking away with short coin on that deal. I’d have drawn steel first.”

“Admittedly, I didn’t come north to be a delivery girl,” Sira said. “The Path of Piety is wasted on mundane commerce.”

“I don’t want to meet my first real live elf in eighty years and have to tell him I help humans suck smoke clouds up their lungs,” Braeleigh added.

Beldrak was silent. His hands kept the pulley crank turning.

“How about you, jumbo?” Zeeto asked. “Would you have settled and gone back for table scraps?”

“The balance scales taunt me,” Beldrak said. “To the one plate, piled with duty, our benefactor hath enjoined us return with gold of certain quantity, and we five did swear. Across the balance, the other plate holds honor, and there be little honor to be found in the work of mules and asses. I must confess, when the balance tipped, and honor won the day, ’twas mine own thumb pressing down the side where honor wept for joy.”

Zeeto shook his head. “I’m never visiting the far south. It is just so much work listening to you.”

It wasn’t long before the lift car clanged to solid rock, its echo ringing up the pitch dark shaft. They’d bickered and chatted the whole way down, not once wondering what monsters might inhabit such a shaft. It would have been iconic to have gargoyles or bats or some such flying nuisances attack while the party was trapped and one wholly occupied with their safe travels.

But not one of them worried openly about it. Gary missed the gaming table at times like that. He couldn’t imagine such an eventuality going unremarked.

“Hey, at least nothing attacked us on the way down,” Zeeto said with a slap on Gary’s backside. “Right, Mr. Damsel?”

The others chuckled at his expense. Gary raised an eyebrow and waited by the lift car.

With a crash and clatter, a pulley slammed into the metal cage, trailing with it all the rope from high above.

“Oh, shit!” Sira said, putting the first piece of the puzzle together in an instant.

Braeleigh rushed over. Caspian took hold of the rope in his jaws and shook it like this was a game. “Excuse me!” the ranger called up the shaft, her melodic voice’s echo a choir of angels. “The rope fell. A little help, maybe?”

Coming up to her side, Zeeto examined the loose end of the rope. “Not fell. Cut.” He held out the loose end. “Too clean for it to have frayed.”

A thin slip of paper floated down lazily, like a leaf on an autumn afternoon. It was a playing card. Gary stepped in to pick it up and held it out for all to see by the light of Sira’s mace. It was the ace of diamonds, and the backside showed the Talis logo just like the packs Zeeto had pilfered.

“There’s a note written on it,” Gary reported. “To whom it may concern: No hard feelings. Let’s call it even. Hope there’s a back door.”

“Holy hell,” Sira said with annoyance. “We left some Talis lackeys up there, and they stranded us.”

“Might be that I could ascend the rough-cut shaft,” Beldrak suggested. “Should I taketh with me yonder coil of rope, I might retrieve thee trapped here the umbral depths.”

“Or… you could get stabbed to death by the Talis guys up there and tossed back down,” Zeeto stated bluntly.

“Yeah,” Gary said. “Not sure that plan’s got legs. We’ve got plenty of exploring to do down here. Maybe we ought to look around.”

As they started down the rough-hewn corridors, clustered in the feeble glow of Sevius’s grace, a knot clenched in Gary’s gut.

The floor rumbled.

“Guys?” Sira asked. “What was that?”

d20: 4 + (DEX -1) = 3

Gary had just rolled for Initiative.

12

“Moleants!” Gary shouted as the dog-sized creatures burrowed up from all around them. The rough rocky floor was like loose soil to the iron-mandible mammals. Bristle-furred bodies boiled up from the stone propelled by chitinous legs.

Name: Moleant Hit Points: 5 Damage: 1d4+1

Gary found himself penned in as two came out of the ground behind him at the back of the formation. At his back, his companions had weapons out and began hacking away at the subterranean beasts.

By sound alone, he caught the crunch of broadsword upon furry carapace, the twang of bowstring, the snarl of juvenile wolf. The shadows swirled and shook as Sira wielded their light source as the mace it had been forged to be.

There were times for music, and there were times for bashing moleants with a rapier. Lucky dodging and the creatures own ineptitude at attacking allowed Gary to evade two pincer bites until the latter time arrived.

Drawing steel, he gripped the short, basket hilt of his weapon and swung it in a downward chop like an angry golfer abusing his club.

d20: 19 + (To Hit +1) + (Strength -2) = 18

His rapier connected. A wild, errant swing and an unfortunate dodge by the creature combined in the beast stepping right into the blow.

1d6: 4 + (Strength -2) = 2

These little bastards only had five freaking hit points, and Gary hadn’t shaved off half of them. “I so need to get to the gym,” he muttered.

“Maybe use the pointy end,” Zeeto suggested over his shoulder.

Braeleigh yelped as she took a hit. Pincers scratched along Beldrak’s armor. Gary backed against the paladin as the two he faced closed in.

“Don’t let them flank you,” Gary warned. “They’re animals but not dumb. They’ve got a hive mind. They’ll work together.”

“I’d feel better hearing one of those songs right about now,” Braeleigh called out, pain clear in her voice.

Why not? There was nothing in the rules about bardic music being instrumental only. What could Gary come up with on the fly, a cappella?

“Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis for glory we fight. We’re stuck, yet we’re brave, in this land without light. To honor we call you, as warriors not wimps. We’ll get our revenge on that half-orcish pimp.”

Inspire: +2 To Hit

To Gary’s mild surprise, he found his own spirits lifting as well. He was feeling positively upbeat about their chances of fighting off this swarm of minor pests.

Right up until the two in front of him bit him in succession.

Damage Taken: 3 (sharp)

Damage Taken: 2 (sharp)

Wonderful. That was his allotment of first-level starting hit points right there. Now he was down to whatever he’d rolled at level 2.

Continuing with a second go-round of the verse before, he struck back, taking Zeeto’s advice and trying to use the rapier properly. While it didn’t make any difference as far as game rules, it did feel right wielding it like a fencer and not a barbarian.

d20: 8 + (To Hit +1) + (Strength -2) = 7

That wasn’t enough to hit an average pedestrian on a city street, let alone an official monster with its own entry in Gary Burns’s three-ring binder of campaign info.

He was feeling woozy. It was all psychosomatic, of course. As long as he had hit points left, the blood oozing from his legs and abdomen was all for show. The moleants weren’t venomous. He’d have noticed the roll to resist the poison.

Behind him, carapaces cracked. Pained, animal shrieks heralded the death of each moleant as Gary’s companions picked them off one by one.

Gary got another chance to exact revenge.

d20: 16 + (To Hit +1) + (Strength -2) = 15

The tip of his rapier skidded off the thick shell beneath the moleant’s fur. The pair of creatures bit back. Gary twisted aside to avoid one, contorting like a failed contestant on a dance show’s open casting episode. The other sank its pincers into him.

Damage Taken: 5 (sharp)

Gary swooned. The dim light from Sira’s mace stopped dancing and faded to black.

A moment later, Kim was kneeling above him. Her hand was inside his shirt, palm so warm against his flesh it nearly burned.

He put up a hand to rub his temples. “I just had the weirdest dream.” There he’d been, right in his own campaign world. Everyone was cosplayed to the nines, completely in character. It had been so vivid he’d felt the mandibles of a moleant tearing into his flesh.

As he tried to rise, Kim forced him back down with businesslike efficiency. “Stay down until I’m done.” Her voice lowered to a murmur. “Sevius, cast pity on this poor unworthy fool who stood beside your servant in battle. Close his wounds that he might serve again.”

The warmth of Kim’s hand redoubled, spreading through Gary’s entire body like someone had filled his veins with fresh-brewed coffee. He snapped upright to find himself sitting in a dingy mine tunnel with his friends gathered around. The only light came from the head of a bloody mace lying at Kim’s side.

No. Not Kim. Sira. This was still the dream world. Somehow, Gary’s brain had attempted a reset and failed to escape the imaginary realm.

Then he remembered the moleants in a panic.

“Rest at ease, friend,” Beldrak said, first laying a comforting hand on Gary’s shoulder, then offering the other to hoist him to his feet. “These fell beasts are no more. Thine efforts hath not been in vain.”

“Yeah,” Zeeto said. “You can even see where you clobbered one—for a pretty loose definition of clobber.”

“I liked your song,” Braeleigh told him. “I think it did better for not having the lute.”

Gary took a deep breath to help get his bearings. He was still in Pellar. This was still the tunnel complex that connected Previn’s Mine to the abandoned dwarven city of—

Quickly, Gary forced back the thought. He couldn’t afford to give away clues that might spoil the surprises yet to come. Let them discover the adventure without forewarning.

“Well,” Gary said. “I’ll keep that in mind. There’s an instrument from back home that I’m a lot better with. The lute’s new to me.”

“We should keep moving,” Sira said, interrupting. “We’ve got food for the trip back to Durrotek, and every moment we waste finding our way back to the surface cuts into our reserves.”

Gary was tempted to suggest not mentioning hunger. Depending how realistic this world decided to be, running out of rations might be one of those things lost in the shuffle of travel distance charts, wilderness survival checks, and harrowing escapes. It wouldn’t have been unprecedented for a band of adventurers under Gary’s rule systems going days at a time without food because no one brought up the subject of keeping track.

With everyone watching him for signs of readiness to travel, Gary cleared his throat. “I’m game. Which way should we go?”

Zeeto kicked a thumbnail-sized pebble down the tunnel. It rolled and clattered into the darkness. He shrugged. “Follow the grade. Downward.”

13

“Anyone get a count on those moleants?” Gary asked. He was still trying to manually keep tabs on campaign info.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 2 XP: 1,453/2,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 12 CHA: 17

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby

Skills: Persuade (+5), Music (+5), Study/Search (+5)

Profession: Cook (+1)

“Eight,” Braeleigh reported. “One for every one of their creepy little legs. It’s like that rhyme. I met a moleant with eight legs. Each leg carrying eight eggs. Every egg hatched—”

“Got it,” Gary said brusquely. “Thanks.” He preferred the vile little beasties when reduced to a statistics block.

Crunching numbers, at eighty XP apiece divided five ways, that left Gary with fifty unexplained XP. Somehow, somewhere, and for reasons unknown, someone had doled out bonus XP to him somewhere along the lines.

Was it for a clever song? Had it been for mustering the bravery to draw his sword and flail around like a drunk at a pool hall? Hard to say. It could have been for coaxing the party to accept Previn’s offer of a peek down the mine shaft or delaying them long enough to encounter Kurgath. Game masters appreciated a player who could keep a team on course.

More importantly, who was giving the XP? The very concept of adjudicated experience gain implied an adjudicator. Killing monsters and completing quests was all well and good, but Gary wanted to know who was running this universe if it wasn’t him.

The obvious answer would have been Zane. He was the only one not present.

But that made no sense either. Zane was a player in this campaign, and this whole thing was cooped up in Gary’s skull, probably taking place in hospice care after someone drugged him and his friends with magic eight-ball gas bought on eBay.

“Listen,” Braeleigh said, cupping a hand to her tapered ear. “Can you hear it?”

d20: 15 + (Perception +1) + (Elven Assist +2) = 18

They all stopped and quieted their gear. There was indeed a faint whoosh like a distant air vent. “Wind,” Gary reported. “There’s air flow down here.”

“We must be close to the point where Previn said we’d break into the dwarven excavation,” Sira reasoned. At her invocation of her deity, the light spell on her mace renewed.

There was a minor cave-in where a hint of a whistle called attention to the passage of wind through the rubble. A map in Gary’s head told him exactly the spot they had come to.

“Lendeth what aid thou canst,” Beldrak said as he slid away his sword and picked up the nearest basketball-sized boulder. “Yonder humorous vapors speak of open skies not but far from here.”

Braeleigh scrunched her nose. “Air, yes. Fresh… not so much. Don’t get too excited.” Nevertheless, she lifted a smaller rock and shifted it aside.

Sira joined in as well, though Zeeto hung back. The halfling cast a raised eyebrow in Gary’s direction. The implication was clear. Some of these rocks were half Zeeto’s size. What was Gary’s excuse?

With a sigh, Gary climbed the shallow run-out of the underground rockslide and selected an imposing specimen of stone.

d20: 9 + (STR -2) + (Not Really Trying -2) = 5

With a grunt of feigned effort, Gary managed to shift the rock slightly but not dislodge or lift it.

“I’ve seen snakes with bigger arms than yours,” Zeeto commented. “Honest to Denee snakes.”

“Then help him,” Sira snapped. “Between the two of you, you ought to be able to scrape together a man.”

Ouch. That bit deep.

As Zeeto grudgingly sauntered over to lend him a hand, Gary started up a work song.

“You haul sixteen stones, and what do you get? Another level lower and deeper yet. Treasure, don’t you call me ‘cause I can’t go. I’m still trapped behind half a mile of stone.”

Inspire: +2 To Strength Checks

He made up three more verses before looping back around to start over. The second go round, Braeleigh joined in, fumbling through the words but trying. By the third time through the song, everyone but Sira was singing it.

“I can fit through!” Zeeto exclaimed, though he declined to suggest scouting ahead on his own. Even if he took little Caspian with him, they’d have been cut off from the support of the rest of the party.

Soon enough, the gap had been widened to the point where even Beldrak’s broad, armored shoulders could fit through. The paladin came through last, with Gary and Braeleigh taking an arm apiece to haul him past the narrowest point.

“This certainly looks different,” Sira said, holding her lighted mace high. “Previn and his goons didn’t do this work.”

Indeed, they hadn’t. Gary could have expounded on the history of the place. The dwarves had called it Gelzhearth, and it had been abandoned since the war against the orcs some eighty years past, thought lost, and forgotten by humans.

“Keep a sharp eye,” Gary warned. “This isn’t some fly-by-night operation down here. I think we just cleared a deadfall trap sprung long ago.” Previn’s mine had expanded, but it had begun its life as back door dug by orcish sappers to surprise the dwarves.

Gary’s party was in a mine shaft tunnel, but the quality of the excavation was worlds better than the haphazard network of sloppily chopped holes the orcs and humans had bored. The floors were smooth enough to shoot pool on, if not for the gradual slope. Walls came with a thigh-high lip with an upturned edge—a dwarf-height handrail—carved straight into the stone. When they came to the first four-way intersection, the side passages met at right angles an architect would have envied.

Braeleigh scouted side passages with Caspian, neither fearing the darkness—perhaps unwisely. But neither encountered anything but disused mining equipment and empty shafts.

Farther ahead, there was a series of holes set into the wall with bent and rusted spikes sticking out. Another trap, long since sprung and left to decay.

“Verily, these beardsmen did defend this mine against those who might despoil it,” Beldrak said as he stepped gingerly around the tips of the rusty spikes.

Gary had never written up rules for tetanus, but it never hurt to play it safe.

A nagging idea tugged at the sleeve of Gary’s brain. He knew the layout of the mines, but specifics had been buffed from his memory like scuff marks from a car’s paint job. But one notion stuck hard and stayed stuck.

There were unsprung traps down here.

The question was: where?

Zeeto yelped. His scream trailed off, followed shortly by a thud.

Everyone rushed forward to the edge of the pit trap he’d sprung. The halfling lay beside more rusted steel spikes. One such implement had skewered an earlier adventurer, whose rag-clad skeleton sat supported on one spike.

“I’m alive,” Zeeto reported, calling up from the bottom of the pit. “Built for thicker bodies than this one.” He patted his gut. “Glad I’m not some oversized, beer-guzzling human.”

Gary smirked. Zeeto might not have been, but that was an apt description for Marty.

“Who’s got rope?” Sira asked. “I swear someone packed rope.”

A ghostly form wrapped itself around the skeletal remains. “I believe the servant of Makoy appears to be carrying a coil,” the ghost stated with prim, educated diction.

Zeeto shrieked like a cartoon character afraid of mice. The humans above winced. Braeleigh covered her ears. Caspian howled. “Get me out of here!” the halfling shouted. “I don’t want to be ghost-kibble!”

“I do not eat the living. Neither do I wish you any harm, small sir,” the ghost said.

“Who are you?” Gary asked.

“In life, I was known as Randal Vintner, a wizard of no small renown, at least locally.”

Zeeto shrieked again. “Help! It’s a wizard! I don’t want to be a six-legged spider centaur or a pile of ash or a bowl of sexy, sexy halfling stew!”

“Good gracious!” the ghostly wizard scoffed. “Wherever do you young people get these notions stuffed in your heads?”

“Wizards are evil,” Sira reasoned. “And you’re a dead one.” She took her holy symbol in hand. “Now release the halfling and begone!”

“Begone?” Randal Vintner echoed sadly. “Ah, if only. I’ve been trapped down this miserable pit with only my own bones for company for longer than I dare guess. What year is it up there?”

“’Tis the Year of the Gods 954,” Beldrak replied. Gary was impressed that any of his players knew the campaign’s calendar. Then again, none of them had broken character yet. Anyone who believed they belonged in the world should have known it.

The ghost, if possible, went whiter. “Egad! I’ve been here seventy-nine years. And here I’d moped about it possibly being twenty.”

Gary turned to Beldrak. “Can you just throw down the rope? The ghost clearly isn’t going to do anything. He’s stuck there.”

“Please don’t leave me!” Randal pleaded as the loose end of the coil pooled beside Zeeto. The halfling worked at making a harness, showing off an impressive command of knot-tying.

“We’re not hauling around a pile of bones,” Sira insisted. “Especially not wizard bones.”

“Just the skull?” Randal asked. “Pretty please. Lay it to rest on consecrated grounds. I was a devout follower of Vynchee. If he’s fallen from favor, as your words imply, perhaps the clerics of Sevius might take pity on a poor, arcane foot soldier of the orc wars.”

Sira quickly covered her holy symbol as if hearing Sevius’s name on Randal Vintner’s lips might offend it or the way a mother might cover her young son’s eyes at the sight of a naked woman.

Gary studied his companions. None of them looked ready to step up. There was no way he could wake up in the real world and pretend he was ever going to be a heavy metal rock star if he was afraid of a stupid skull. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Are you mad?” Sira demanded.

“I ain’t bringing it up,” Zeeto said. “You wanna chauffeur this Yorick-mobile, that’s all on you.”

Gary narrowed his eyes at the halfling. Marty was the closest to breaking free and admitting to being from Earth. No one else should have understood half of what he said. There was no such thing as a chauffeur in Pellar, and Yorick was straight out of Hamlet. Katie might have decided that French was elvish, but Zeeto still sounded like Marty—albeit a high-pitched version.

As the halfling rappelled up the side of the pit wall, Gary leaned over to haul him over the lip. Once on the same level as the rest of them, Gary took the rope harness from Zeeto and squirmed into it. Despite a two-foot difference in height, the halfling was tubby enough that they wore the same improvised rope harness size.

“Lower me?” Gary asked.

Beldrak inclined his head. “’Tis a mission of mercy. Should yonder wizard prove the darkest blackguard in his mortal days, he hath not but pity left to pillage from us, and I say let him pillage.”

Sira’s hand was glowing golden, healing the falling damage Zeeto took, as Gary began his descent.

d20: 5 + (Athletics -2) + (Beldrak’s Doing All the Work +18) = 21

It was somehow comforting—if not healthy for his self-esteem—to know that Beldrak was basically guaranteeing Gary couldn’t screw this up. He walked down the side of the pit clutching the rope white-knuckled.

His fingers didn’t know what that roll meant.

Carefully edging around the spikes at the bottom, Gary made his way over to the wizard’s corpse.

“Oh, thank you, kind sir,” the wizard said, ghostly hands clasped in supplication. “Might I know your name, that I might thank you properly?”

“Don’t tell him, Gary!” Zeeto shouted down.

There was a fleshy smack as an unseen someone slapped the halfling.

What could the wizard do with his name, anyway? Though there was considerable room for creative spell development built into the campaign rules, there was none that gave a wizard power over you for knowing your name.

Plus, once they got out of this underground maze, Gary was sending Randal Vintner packing straight off to the gods.

The gods…

A subversive notion entered Gary’s head. As he worked to pop the skull free of the sinews clinging to the spine, he lowered his voice so that only the ghost could hear him. “My payment for services rendered is this: when you get to the next life, tell the gods that Gary Burns wants a word with them. Got it?”

The ghost’s reply was fainter than a whisper. “Yes. I acquiesce to your condition.”

d20: 14 + (Perception +1) + (Vaguely Remember Writing This Part +8) = 23

“That’s my payment,” Gary said. Then a dust-encrusted leather-bound book caught his eye. Randal Vintner’s book of spells. “That and this book.”

Tucking it away alongside the skull, Gary tugged the rope. “OK. Haul me back up.”

Acquired Randal Vintner’s Skull: Quest Item

Acquired Randal Vintner’s Spellbook: Contents Unknown

14

The search resumed once Gary was back up with the skull of Randal Vintner. Tucked away near the top of Gary’s backpack, the dead wizard had the good sense to keep quiet.

Down in the depths of the Dwarfcrown Mountains, beneath a peak that had no human name, the party picked over the bones of a dead dwarven work site. Shaft after shaft, they split up and searched, growing weary with caution after hours of finding no opposition.

It also didn’t hurt that they’d picked up a scattering of pebble-sized gemstones, mainly rubies. Gary could well imagine that only Beldrak had reported every stone he found.

“Hey, look what I found!” Zeeto said, holding his glowing dagger aloft and beckoning with it. Once they’d learned that Sira could keep multiple light spells going at once on a rotating basis, they’d all let her illuminate their weapons.

The party gathered at a short, well-carved tunnel—more an entryway than anything—ending in a thick iron door that stood slightly ajar. Whereas much of the ironwork in the mines had gone to rust, the hinges as least had been so well oiled that the door swung at a touch.

“Congratulations,” Sira said flatly. “You’ve found a dwarven broom closet.”

While the comparison was apt, the contents of this particular closet were less for cleaning than for mining. A wooden rack along one wall had gone to moldering and rot. Six pickaxes rested precariously on the remains, handles holding better up to wear thanks to a thick coating of varnish. The heads of the tools were oiled as well and looked functional if not entirely pristine.

“Well, it’ll make our next road block easier to clear,” Gary said with a shrug. He stepped inside to examine the scattered odds and ends lying about the rest of the supply room.

“Come on, Gary,” Braeleigh said with a jerk of her head toward the main passage. “We’re looking for a way out of here, and unless you’re planning on digging your own set of stairs—which would be super ambitious, especially for you—then there’s nothing here.”

A portable tool chest creaked as Gary lifted its lid. A glint of metal shone among the grime-coated and rusted implements within. He pulled out a simple bit-and-brace—the kind carpenters of yore used before the invention of the electric drill—and held it up for all to see.

“Firmium,” he pronounced. “Also known as gods’ bone. Hardest metal of them all and damn near impossible to work. Dwarves used it to make a cutting bit that could bore through stone or metal.”

“Cute,” Zeeto said. “Not that it wouldn’t be great for drilling out a lock, but by the time you’re that desperate, you’re better off just using a pry bar or a hammer and chisel.”

“Indeed,” Beldrak said. “Let us hie and make the surface all the sooner. Whether sun or moon doth offer us their chaste kiss, I shall welcome it equally.”

Braeleigh giggled. “I can’t picture you kissing.”

“Mine ladywife wouldst find thy jest of equal humor,” Beldrak replied.

Sira dangled her mace from a hook on her belt and held up both hands. “Wait a minute. You’re married. I thought that paladins weren’t supposed to…” She poked the finger of one hand into the loose fist of the other.

“Indeed not,” Beldrak replied. “But fairest Chantara and I hath bonded so that our families might cease an age-long quarrel. Ours is a love of companionable chastity made all the easier on the passions by great distance.”

Gary had used the distraction to tuck the bit-and-brace into his pack, brooking for further argument over its merits. “OK, lover-boy. You’ve got one over all of us in the romance department. Now let’s find our way up to that sun you’re mooning over.”

Acquired Firmium Bit-and-Brace: 1d2 improvised weapon

The section of mine shafts ended a short while after. A cross-shaft ran past with a pair of iron rails set into the floor. Just before their tunnel ended, Gary ran up beside Braeleigh and barred her path with an arm. “Wait!”

d20: 6 + (Perception +1) + (You Just Remembered Something Important +20) = 26

Reaching forward, he tapped his foot on a deviously concealed trigger plate in the floor. Out of reach of the blade’s path, Gary didn’t even sense the chance for a roll to his Armor Rating as the circular disk spun out of the wall before retreating back.

Zeeto whistled. “Nice eye, twinkle fingers. Maybe you’ve missed your calling. You could hustle three-cup-find-the-pea on the streets of Sillimar for better scratch than we’re making down here.”

Braeleigh threw her arms around Gary’s neck. “Thank you! I so like having my head. I use it for… well… everything. I totally owe you one.”

Gary froze. This was roughly how he imagined Caspian coming to be. There was little else except a favor gone wrong to explain Katie’s brief, tumultuous relationship with Derek. He cleared his throat as he extracted himself. “All part of the job, being adventurers. You’d have done the same for me.”

Braeleigh tousled his hair. “You bet I would. Your head’s easily the best part of you.”

2 Points Self-Esteem Damage.

Gary scowled up at the unseen gods in their celestial realms. That wasn’t funny.

“Left or right?” he asked to divert attention from Braeleigh’s playful condescension.

The question doubled as a test. The “Left-Hand Rule” was legendary among gamers when navigating. Follow a left-hand wall in a maze with dead ends and eventually you’ll find the exit. Conversely, it worked going to the right as well, but that wasn’t the rule of thumb passed down since before the age of home computers, when the forefathers of pen and paper enshrined the medium’s canon.

“Left,” Zeeto said instantly. “Always left.”

“I favor the hand of mine sword arm,” Beldrak said, brandishing the cleric-lit weapon in his right.

Sira nodded. “Right is the more blessed direction.”

Braeleigh pointed down the tracks to the left. “But the windy sound is coming from that way.”

“Tie breaker, chief,” Zeeto said with a wink and a pointed finger at Gary.

“Noooo,” Braeleigh cut in. “Caspian wants to go left too.”

“The wolf doesn’t vote,” Sira replied sternly.

“I’m on board with left,” Gary said. “The right just ends in a tear-drop loop-around to reverse the mine carts on the track.”

They all stared at him.

“OK,” Zeeto said. “Now I know we’re going right.”

“How came thee by this knowledge?” Beldrak asked with a furrowed brow.

“What?” Gary said, backing up a step. “Haven’t any of you studied dwarven mining norms? This is fairly common knowledge in Palo Alto.”

d20: 15 + (Persuade +5) + (But How Can They Refute It? +2) = 22

After a moment of uneasy scrutiny, they gave up questioning the source of his knowledge. Gary could just envision the players sitting around a table knowing they were getting bullshitted and unable to roll anything better than an 8 or 9 on their twenty-sided dice, trying to use Intuition against him.

Nevertheless, they went right.

Just as predicted, after a few hundred feet, the tunnel ended in a loop of track then came back around and reversed the direction of the carts. A depot for storing empty carts was the only feature of interest at the termination of the line.

Zeeto sized up one of the mine carts appraisingly. “Think you guys could get one of these rolling?”

“What thinkest thou?” Beldrak asked. “A rolling bulwark? Dost thy optimistic mind foresee treasure beyond carrying?”

“I wouldn’t mind a ride,” Zeeto replied. “I take two steps for every one of yours. Getting a little footsore.”

Sira cuffed the halfling upside the head with a carefully measured blow. After all, if she damaged him, it would fall to her to heal him back up before they got into a fight.

“Well, see?” Gary asked, leaning into his lie. “I knew what I was talking about. Now let’s head the way Braeleigh smelled the wind so we can get out of here.”

“Heard the wind,” the elf replied. “Caspie smelled it.”

Sira grunted a sigh and took the lead.

Dysfunctional as they were, Gary found it a familiar dysfunction. It had all the bickering between life and death encounters but none of the jokes about Marty’s car or the time Alvin had to go to the emergency room after swallowing an eight-sided die on a dare—and Alvin hadn’t played with them in over five years. This was the epitome of immersive gaming.

Gary couldn’t have wished for it to be any better than this.

Ambling along at the back of the pack, Gary whistled a tune as they followed the tracks.

“What’s that song?” Zeeto asked.

“Old railroad song,” Gary replied. “Um. From back home.”

“Must be a helluva lotta dwarfs back in Palo Alto,” Zeeto said.

The tracks terminated in a processing yard. All manner of mining equipment from picks and shovel to temporary support timbers and sifters for separating crushed rock from precious metals and gems. Where there had presumably been a smelter and ore refinery off to the left side of the tracks, there was a massive cave-in. The right side of the tracks opened into an area of built-in carved benches and tables with the look of a cafeteria or break room for the miners. A large tarpaulin covered a hidden structure twice the height of a human—or roughly three and a half Zeetos.

Up head, the gloom of the priestly light faded to the gloom of another tunnel leading out. Gary only knew the tunnel headed east because he could still picture the map when he closed his eyes. In game terms, he had no business knowing his way by compass points down here.

Zeeto shot Beldrak a smile. “Up for a little digging?” he asked, gesturing toward a loose wall of spilled rock that might have taken a week to clear with a Bobcat and a jackhammer.

“The humor of thy jest fails to outstrip thy stature,” Beldrak replied.

“What’s under the big blanket?” Braeleigh wondered aloud, the sort of unabashed sharing that Katie often displayed.

“Unless it’s a door out of this place, who cares?” Sira asked.

Braeleigh cocked her head to one side as she sleepwalked toward it. “It looks kind of door shaped. I mean, it would be a big door, but it’s not like big doors are a problem.” Slicing through a pair of tattered ropes holding the cloth in place, she dragged the tarpaulin away.

What lay beneath wasn’t a door but an arch. Trapezoidal and slightly rounded, it was carved from dark stone that neither matched the stone it rested on nor seemed distinctly separate from it. All along the sides and across the top, it was covered in carved runes.

By now, everyone had gathered around the arch. No one touched it despite coming so close to stare that they could have shaken hands through the empty void it surrounded.

“Anyone here read dwarfish?” Zeeto asked.

Gary didn’t stop to think. “Yeah, but this isn’t dwarven. Dwarf-made, perhaps, but not in their own language. Magic made this. Not chisel or pick. Old. Powerful. Inert. Not to be trifled with.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sira asked.

Gary blinked. This arch wasn’t mean to be unraveled now. Later. Much later. So late he expected them all to forget it by the time its purpose became clear. “Storytelling,” he muttered. “Never mind. One day I’ll find myself in front of a tavern hearth, recounting tales of our adventures. We know nothing about this thing. It needs a story worth telling, even if we don’t know what it really means.”

When he reached out and touched the cold stone surface, everyone else’s breath caught in their throats.

d20: 10 + (Lore +6) + (You’re Not Going to Tell Them Anyway -20) = -4

“See?” Gary said, looking them each in the eye in turn. “Harmless.”

Of course, nothing could have been further from the truth. But it wasn’t the time for that now.

“C’mon,” Zeeto said. “I looked up ahead and there’s a little bridge with a door on the far side. I’m thinking once we get through there, maybe we see something with stairs heading up.”

15

The bridge that Zeeto mentioned spanned a natural chasm just long enough that no one made any ludicrous suggestions like long-jumping it or throwing the halfling across. It was deep enough that the magical radiance from their weapons didn’t illuminate the bottom.

“Not it,” Zeeto said, holding a finger to the side of his nose.

They all looked at him funny. All except Gary, who placed a finger aside his nose as well.

“Wherefore hath thou placed a finger aside thy snoot?” Beldrak asked.

“When I say, ‘not it’ and do this,” Zeeto explained. “That means I’m not going across the bridge first and the last one with their finger on their nose has to instead.”

Braeleigh caught on instantly. She even had Caspian’s paw touching his canine muzzle before Sira realized her plight and touched her own nose before being left as last remaining.

All of them stared down Beldrak.

“What say thee?” Zeeto asked mockingly. “Iseth thee man enough to walk yonder plank?”

“You mock me, sir,” Beldrak said with stern menace. “Retract thy slanderous tone else we shall quarrel.” He put a hand to the hilt of his broadsword.

Zeeto’s eyes shot wide. “Whoa! Hold your horses, cowboy! I was just having a little fun.” He ducked behind Sira for protection.

“To each the role he playeth best,” Beldrak said, carefully easing his hand away from the hilt. “No game or merry jest when unfriendly claw or venomous tooth seek to spill the wine of thy vein. No silence held when implication of the blessed gods soothe our wounds. No laggard lookout leave us bereft of keen ear, keen eye, the keen scent of beast. Nor does Gary deny us the meager service of his voice. Nay. Ye shall cross the first, light-body light foot. If thy protestations of an honest life ring true, ’tis the true service thee provideth. Thy dagger work balance not the weight of thy tongue, and I could trade that weight for the service of two stout lads and a mule to bear the spoils we might win. Instead, I cast my lot with thee, little burglar.”

As Zeeto moped across the bridge, he muttered loud enough that all could hear. “Sore loser.” But he wore the rope harness for safety, and there was little chance that, even falling, his weight would strain Beldrak’s mighty arms.

Nor was there any chance the paladin would let him fall on purpose.

Darryl wasn’t the sort either.

Leaning over the edge halfway across, Zeeto used the light from his glowing dagger as a lamp. “Wonder how deep it is? Anyone got a coin?”

“Don’t you?” Sira asked.

“Well, yeah,” Zeeto called back. “But I was hoping to use one of yours.”

A muffled whisper came from Gary’s pack.

“Is your backpack talking?” Braeleigh asked, coming over and regarding the leather pack with suspicion.

“He’s carrying a talking skull,” Sira reminded her.

The elf cocked her head. One long ear flopped slightly. “What’s it got to say?”

Gary opened the backpack and shot the dead wizard a warning glare as he took out the skull.

“There was a great battle at Norchek Chasm,” Randal Vintner said, his ghostly form coiling from the eye sockets of the skull like steam from a teapot. “I sense no other trapped souls down below but have a care for your tone. There are heroes entombed beneath your feet. That you are human, halfling, and elf without an orc among you speaks that those heroes did not sacrifice in vain.”

“So, you’re saying there’s probably loot down there?” Zeeto translated.

“How dare—? No, nothing of the sort!” the irate ghost replied. “Do not toss coins upon the remains of the fallen like their resting place were some tawdry wishing well.”

“Hold tight,” Zeeto warned, and before anyone could object, he took two running steps and leaped into the darkness.

Beldrak yelped in surprised and redoubled his grip, setting his footed feet against the smooth stone floor. Soon enough the line pulled taut and soft feet scuffed against the chasm wall.

“Oof!” Zeeto grunted.

They all rushed to the edge and looked down. “You all right?” Braeleigh asked.

Zeeto stood sideways, feet planted on the wall, with his hands gripping the rope. He was crouched, bent over at the waist. “Oooh. I’ll be OK, but let’s just say I won’t be in the mood for lovin’ tonight. Damn! I’ve gotta work on where those ropes cross under.”

“What do you see?” Sira called down to him.

“Give a guy a minute!” Zeeto snapped. Then, once that minute had passed, he shouted up. “Lower me slowly.”

Beldrak spooled out rope. Gary squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the chasm floor by the scant light of Zeeto’s dagger. Then the dagger went dark.

“Oh, of all the… Sira, send me a new light!”

Sira pulled out a coin from the purse at her belt and invoked Sevius. “Goddess, light our path, that we might hold back the darkness in our souls.” Then she flipped the coin down the chasm. After a scary length of time, the plink echoed back to the bridge.

“What’ve you got down there?” Sira asked once Zeeto made it to the bottom and retrieved the coin.

They could all see down, but the details were too far for human eyes. By Braeleigh’s squint, that went for elven eyes as well.

“Nothing but a fancy gauntlet,” Zeeto said, clearly disappointed. “Haul me back up.”

d20: 17 + (Intuition +1) = 18

Gary hadn’t consciously thought to question whether the little scoundrel was lying, but he had been suspicious. That was even without thinking back to what he’d written for that Easter egg treasure down at the chasm floor.

Zeeto came up brandishing a silvery gauntlet set with gemstones at the knuckles. He turned it over in his hands appraisingly once Beldrak reclaimed the rope from the harness. “I’m thinking we might be better off prying out the rubies and piecing it off for resale.”

Gary snatched the magic item away before the halfling did something stupid and destructive.

Acquired Gauntlet of the Destroyer: +1 STR

“It’s magic, you idiot,” Gary pronounced. He handed it to Beldrak. “You’d make best use of this.”

“What is this, Club Beldrak?” Zeeto demanded. “First you don’t honor the ‘not it’ you clearly lost. Now you take the first real loot we find?”

Gary was about to make a car analogy before catching himself. He tried to think up an in-character response. “This party is like an orchestra. You don’t give a violin bow to a percussionist. You don’t give a cellist a reed for an oboe.”

“And you don’t give the conductor’s baton to the first jackanapes to step up to the rostrum,” Zeeto snapped back. No longer showing any sign of fear after making half a crossing of the bridge the prior time, the halfling stormed across, soft-soled shoes and the tiny feet inside doing their best to stomp.

On the far side of the bridge, there was a shallow landing and a heavy stone door. Beside the door were three levers, two up, one down. As the others started across, an angry Zeeto marched up to the bank of levers with ominous purpose.

“Stay away from those until we’re across,” Sira warned.

Braeleigh jogged ahead, dodging between Gary and Beldrak, then around Sira to reach the halfling before he could do anything rash.

Perhaps, in retrospect, making a race of it wasn’t the best of plans. Panicked and possibly not thinking clearly at that moment, Zeeto scurried to the levers in a fit of contrarianism that was so Marty.

Marty was the guy who would eat the food at the back of the fridge because someone told him to throw it out, who had broken up with a girl for making plans two months ahead, who dressed like a hobo Monday through Thursday and showed up to casual Fridays wearing a tie.

In the most Marty moment Zeeto had yet to display, the halfling put his head start to good use and outran the swifter elf to the bank of levers. With a desperate lunge, he fell onto one of the levers in the up position—the leftmost, if the halfling even cared which—and pulled it down with his weight.

All the yelling and warnings from the party members racing to cross the bridge before who-knows-what happened to it were drowned out in the most horrendous noise anyone trapped below ground could conceive.

d20: 18 + (DEX -1) = 17

An earthquake knocked everyone off their feet. Even Gary’s respectably good roll was insufficient for a difficulty that warranted a target roll of 25, if he recalled accurately. Collapsed in a pile, they cowered and covered their heads and the unrelenting storm of stone and debris rained down.

But not atop them.

Across the bridge, there was no sign of the mine cart rail yard. Where it had been a moment earlier was a mountain of stone, and the dust kicked up as the massive deadfall trap was sprung.

Coughing, Zeeto pointed an accusing finger at Braeleigh. “This is her fault.”

Who took the blame was unimportant. Right then, at that very moment, they were trapped with no way back to Previn’s Mine.

16

“And this,” Gary said, pointing to the faded placard above the lever that Zeeto had pulled. “Is dwarven for ‘Emergency Defense Only.’ Congratulations. You just sealed us in.”

Everyone was on their feet by now, dusting off and checking for injuries. The air was still thick with the unsettled cloud kicked up by the cave-in.

“If she wasn’t coming to get me, I wouldn’t have felt so rushed,” Zeeto said.

Braeleigh held her head in both hands. “I don’t even. You’re, like, delusional. I was trying to stop exactly what just happened. Well, maybe I didn’t know exactly, because if I had I’d have shot you with arrows until you stopped trying.”

“Thine errant folly hath beached us upon a foreign shore of this dwarf-dug ocean,” Beldrak said testily. “Would that raising this lever tug puppet strings to raise the rocks as well.”

Sira let out an exasperated sigh. “Gary, what do the other two say?”

“The one that was down already was the bridge control,” Gary informed them. “The far right was for the door.” He made his point clear by yanking down the rightmost lever without a hint of hesitation. Everyone else cringed, but the only hint of moving stone was the mortar-and-pestle grinding of the dwarven machinery as the door swung ponderously open.

Down the short length of hall that followed, the passage opened out into a city-sized dome lit by scattered torches. Pillars left in place while the rest of the dome was hand-carved by dwarven artisans kept the structure from collapsing, each the size of a castle tower.

“Wow,” Sira said, the first of the others to recover the power of speech at the sight of mighty dwarven artifice from a bygone age.

“If we’re still getting a stake in these mines, I want this to be our claim,” Zeeto said.

“It’s like trees underground,” Braeleigh said, picking up Caspian and holding him up to see the shadowy recesses of the underground ceiling. “Trees made of stone. How did they do it?”

Gary cleared his throat. “I’ve studied a bit of history since arriving in this part of the world. Call it a habit from barding college. The dwarves settled here after exploratory shafts found the area rich enough in metals and gems to warrant permanent habitation. They chiseled out Gelzhearth from the bones of the earth, leaving those pillars to hold it up. Each pillar is not only a tower with rooms and stairwells, but each houses a central chimney. Forges in each send heated air up to the surface, which suck in fresh air to replace it.”

Zeeto gave an impressed little grunt. “I gotta read more books. Actually, no. Strike that. I gotta hang around more guys who read books.”

“So, theoretically, these Gelzhearth dwarves traded with the outside world, right?” Sira asked. “That means somewhere around here, there’s an exit topside.”

“Mayhap the placing of the cart and horse ought be reversed,” Beldrak suggested, pointing with the tip of his sword. “Yonder torchlight hast not lingered since the war of orcs and elves. Dost thou know whose house we presently invade?”

Zeeto spat a harsh whisper. “Then ‘mayhap’ keep your voice down. Whoever’s down here probably won’t be happy about Braeleigh dropping that earthquake trap.”

They all turned to glare at him.

“Fine. We dropped,” Zeeto said. The halfling crouched and had his dagger in hand as he set forth into the gloomy shadows between torches. Then he gave the glowing weapon a scowl and turned to Sira. “Any chance you can shut the lights off?”

“Sheath it.” Sira tucked her mace beneath her cloak as an example. The rest of them followed suit until the party found themselves in darkness, like guests at a nighttime barbecue who ventured too far from the tiki torches.

“All right,” Zeeto said. “Follow me. You want me pulling my weight? You’ve got two choices. Keep back and stay quiet or stay put and wait for me to return with an exit plan.”

“Together,” Braeleigh said firmly. “Keep the party together.”

“That’s what I thought,” Zeeto confirmed with a nod. “So, shut up, don’t bump into one another, and run like hell if I give the word.”

“Perchance we might bargain with whomever dwelleth herein?” Beldrak suggested.

Zeeto held a finger to his lips, then pointed it at Beldrak. “You are a challenge. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Now, come on, all of you.”

Gary found that despite his clumsiness, stealth suited him better than combat. And even with the admonition not to make a sound, it didn’t stop him mouthing the words to a song he adapted on the fly.

“Follow the shadow. Just follow, don’t say so. Follow the halfling. He’ll show you where to go…”

Without lending voice to the song, it had no power of bardic music, but composing it kept his mind from worrying that they’d be discovered. This game of hide-and-seek-and-stab was more stress than he’d bargained for.

Zeeto navigated them between circles of torchlight like a prison break evading search lights.

d20: 16 + (Stealth -1) + (Halfling Guide +2) = 17

That felt like a good roll. Solid. Unlikely to get a low-level adventurer in trouble. There were times when a 12 or even a 10 worked out just fine. But as a general rule, 15 and above felt pretty safe.

There were noises in the darkness. Footsteps. Muttered voices. Occasionally there was a clatter of a wooden bucket or a scrape of metal on stone. Back-lit figures passed by distant torches as Zeeto kept them all well clear.

A rustle of metal from far closer made Zeeto freeze in his footsteps. The rest of them affected an emergency halt in the best silence they could manage. The sound had come from Beldrak’s chain armor. There was no getting around the possibility that the chain link garment would clatter as he moved. That was when Gary remembered that his Stealth rolls wouldn’t matter if someone else made noise.

With a shriek, the denizens of Gelzhearth raised the alarm. Zeeto’s efforts ensured they were caught not at the tunnel out of the city but dead smack in the center.

d20: 15 + (DEX -1) = 14

To Gary’s great surprise, he was the first to act. This was his first experience coming out ahead on Initiative, and he had no idea what to do with that privilege.

“These half-sized lizardmen are called lizardlings,” Gary announced. “They’re tribal and territorial, mildly vulnerable to cold, cowardly when they don’t have a numbers advantage, which they presently do.”

Name: Lizardling Hit Points: 6 Damage: by weapon

With that lecture, Gary spent his turn’s action. He didn’t have time to get into the fact that lizardlings could advance down the Paths of Power to become far more formidable than the base model.

The lizardlings swarmed in. Too many for Gary to count, and without his maps and notes for handy reference, he couldn’t guess how many patrols would have been within a single action of arriving at the battle.

Beldrak grew his sword, and the glow helped divert the lizardlings’ attention toward him. They jabbed with spears and whacked with clubs, but the inept little creatures fared poorly against the paladin’s armor.

“Move and fight,” Zeeto said, heading onward into the shadows before ducking behind an oblivious lizardling, drawing his glowing dagger, and sticking it in the creature’s back before it could recover from its surprise.

Braeleigh followed, Caspian practically glued to her heels. She loosed her arrow over Zeeto’s head, and it took a lizardling in the chest, dropping it dead to the city floor.

Sira remained behind. “Gary, you head over to Leigh and Zeeto. We’ll cover you.” She swung her mace in a swift arc that left a glowing trail in its wake. Cool as it looked, her attack missed its mark.

Gary was speechless. With a wordless nod of thanks, he drew his rapier and jogged over to Braeleigh and Zeeto. With no other action at the ready and no song springing to mind, he lay in wait and held his attack.

His wait wasn’t long.

The lizardlings poured in, emptying nearby pillars of their inhabitants. By their shouts and distant cries, the whole community was rallying against them.

Gary took his stab as one of the creatures approached with caution, spear leading. These first responders didn’t have to win the battle, just delay Gary and his friends. That was a circumstance liable to invoke the dreaded TPK—Total Party Kill.

d20: 20 = Critical Hit

2d6: 6 + (Strength -2)x2 = 2

Gary stabbed the lizardling right in the center of its chest. It should have been a lizardling-kabob. But the tip of the rapier barely broke the creature’s skin.

For a critical hit, it was insultingly ineffective.

“Good work, Gary,” Braeleigh cheered him.

The offended lizardling unimpaled itself and stabbed back, nicking Gary in the gut. Fire erupted from the wound—or felt that way, at least, to one unaccustomed to getting stabbed.

Damage Taken: 3 (sharp)

No need to panic, Gary told himself.

Zeeto used the creature’s focus on Gary to slip behind and slit its throat.

Braeleigh pranced ahead. Caspian shot forward and took a lizardling by the leg, wrenching and shaking to bring the reptilian creature to the ground. With the lizardling’s attention fully fixed on defending its face, Braeleigh drew her short sword and stabbed it to death.

Beldrak and Sira closed the distance spreading out the party. They’d become a roving rear guard keeping the party from being overrun.

“We can’t keep this up,” Zeeto said. “There are more coming than here already.”

“Valor fadeth at the black,” Beldrak boomed in reply.

“They live here,” Gary said. “We’re just defending ourselves. Anything more and we’re the bad guys. This is a communications barrier, not a war.”

That was enough to break the paladin free of his martial fixation. The five of them beat a hasty withdrawal, barely making an effort to hold the lizardlings at bay as they searched for another exit to the cavern city.

“This way!” Zeeto shouted, pointing to a tunnel in the city’s south wall.

“No good,” Gary shouted back, panting as he ran. He pointed to the signage over the arched exit, written in dwarven. “It says eighty-five miles to Devin’s Forge.” They’d never have made it before resorting to cannibalism—or a dungeon master’s forgetfulness—to stave off starvation.

Lizardlings were numerous in the old city of Gelzhearth, but they weren’t fleet-footed creatures. Once out ahead of the main pack, Gary and the others were able to keep ahead of them. Those that peeked from pillar doorways or the tents the lizardlings had constructed themselves thought better of confronting the adventurers on their own. A few with bows in high-up windows rained shots down among them but to little avail.

“How about this one?” Zeeto asked, pointing on the run.

This tunnel bore its own signage, similar in design to the previous exit. “Eastern mines and Lake Kemha. No indication that it might lead out.”

Making a slow circuit of the city, like the late stages of a community marathon, they came across another archway. The halfling inquired again.

“Crypts and Vault,” Gary reported. “Not sounding like a—”

“We’re going!” Zeeto proclaimed. “We can make a stand. Hold them off. We can’t search the city with them chasing us, but I bet we can fight them if we put a wall to our backs.”

No one objected. Gary didn’t see a reason to. It was surprisingly sound logic, even if he suspected it was based on hopes of looting said vault.

As they raced under the archway, the lizardlings pulled up short. None were willing to follow them out of the city proper.

17

Sira healed their wounds as the party walked down the sloping path to the Gelzhearth crypts and vault. All of them were short on breath—except Caspian, whose panting seemed to show his enjoyment of the life-and-death sport.

“I don’t like this,” Braeleigh said.

“Too much stone overhead, elf-girl?” Zeeto asked.

Sira paused between healing spells. “I get it. Someone else’s burial grounds. Consecrated to unfamiliar gods. I can feel the reverence imbued into the very stone we tread, but it’s not the same as the feeling of Sevius’s grace.”

“No,” Braeleigh objected impatiently. “I mean why are the little gecko-men afraid to come in here after us. What do they know that we don’t?”

“How reptiles breed?” Zeeto suggested.

“Can we just be thankful that, for the moment, no one’s trying to kill us?” Gary asked.

“Small blessings filleth the cracks in men’s souls,” Beldrak said.

They came upon a door of solid marble, twenty feet high. They might never have budged it with all five of them working in concert. Luckily, however, the door was already ajar. The gap was wide enough that even broad-chested Beldrak could slip through sideways with a scrape of chain.

Inside, there was a somber blue luminescence with no apparent source that chased away all shadow. Each side of the perfectly square chamber measured at least a hundred feet. The walls bore carvings that were lifelike in their detail, life-size in their scale, and ubiquitous across every vertical surface. High overhead, a vaulted dome of gold looked down upon them.

Within the chamber were four smaller structures each the size of a woodsman’s cottage, capped with an ornately sculpted dome of its own. At the center of the square arrangement of cottages was a fountain that spouted water like an umbrella of opposing purpose.

Zeeto made straight for the fountain. “Man, I could use a good drink.”

Sira chased after him, slapping the halfling’s hand hard enough to make him drop the silver ladle he’d taken from the fountain’s edge. “You idiot! That could be poison.”

“Might explain why the geckos stay away,” Braeleigh reasoned, coming up and giving the fountain a sniff from a healthy pace away. “Doesn’t smell bad, though.”

“Pray thee, Gary, what sayeth this graven plaque upon the matter?” Beldrak asked, holding a hand out to indicate an inset silver panel carved with a dwarven caption.

“Font of the Ancestors,” Gary read. He wondered whether he could actually read dwarven at all or if his mind merely filled in the information he’d written for the campaign. Thus far, it was impossible to separate one from the other to know.

Braeleigh scrunched her nose. “Totally still could have poisoned it.”

Sira wandered over to the carved walls. “These seem to be telling a story.”

Gary joined her. He scanned along image after conjoined image, struggling to divide one scene from the next as it all flowed together. The mural was an artistic masterpiece both in concept and execution. It was Dante’s “Inferno” depicted with the reverence of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling and the skill of Rodin’s The Thinker. Dwarven history flowed from the chisel of the artisan who’d birthed it.

“Right here,” Gary said, pointing with his rapier to an image well out of reach overhead. “They show a dwarf drinking from the fountain. Looks like some kind of coming-of-age ritual.”

“Good enough for me,” Zeeto said, scooping a double-handful of water to his lips.

Instantly, the halfling swooned. Braeleigh caught him before he struck his head against the marble base of the fountain.

Zeeto shook and quivered. Sira rushed over and knelt beside him as the others crowded around. Caspian tried to force his muzzle under Zeeto’s hand to receive a pat.

“Sevius, take pity on this poor—” Sira prayed, hand upon the halfling’s forehead.

“I see them,” Zeeto muttered. “Marching. Brave.”

“…fool, and in your mercy remove the toxin from his body.” Her hand glowed the same color as the light imbued earlier on their weapons.

Sucking in a deep breath, Zeeto’s eyes snapped open. “What the? Hey! I was just developing a deep and abiding understanding of the dwarven people when you pulled me out of there.”

“Sorry for saving your life,” Sira replied, standing and dusting the knees of her pants.

“I wasn’t in any real danger,” Zeeto replied indignantly. “I might have had our first real clue if you hadn’t wrecked it. There was this odd jumble of wars and coronations and festivals and marriages. Things were starting to make sense. I might have gotten the whole layout of this place, but now it’s gone like a dream after a bucket of water to the face.”

Beldrak steeled himself with a breath. “I shall volunteer. If there be information vital to our quest within these waters, I shall plumb them. By mine best supposition, ’tis in the ladle that the proper dose be measured.”

Taking up the ladle, Beldrak reverently filled it and brought the mouthful to his lips. In a single swallow, he drained the dwarven water, slouching against the base under his own power in the aftermath. Eyes open, he looked at no one. His mouth hung open.

“How long do we wait?” Braeleigh asked.

“Until he snaps out of it or seems close to dying,” Sira replied, arms crossed and staring at the paladin.

Gary could only imagine what Beldrak saw. He’d never detailed the hallucinations. Whatever corner of his comatose mind was spackling in the cracks and crevices of the world had done it without his conscious consent.

With a gasp, Beldrak blinked and opened his eyes.

“What’d you find?” Zeeto asked.

“Clarity,” Beldrak replied breathlessly. “’Tis like a shade hath been removed from a lamp within the slumbering mind. ’Tis seeing trees for the first time and realizing they hath been a forest and shall become a ship. Therein lies no map but mayhap the answer to far the greater quest of life ephemeral.”

“I want another crack at it, then,” Zeeto said, confiscating the ladle. “If this stuff makes the damn world make the first bit of sense, I’m all over it.”

With a slurp and a hand braced to keep himself from toppling over, Zeeto drained the ladle. He stood motionless a moment, then his shoulders fell. “Drat! Nothing. Thanks for blowing my one shot at maybe understanding why my dad walked out on us or why I can’t trust a man wearing an eye patch.”

Sira held out her palm. The muscles of her jaw strained as she waited for Zeeto to hand over the ladle. “If I fall, carry this back to Durrotek and have the temple of Sevius return it to my family.” She held up the silver holy symbol, depicting an open palm, she wore on a chain around her neck.

“This I swear,” Beldrak replied, holding a hand over his heart.

Sitting against the fountain beforehand, Sira drank the hallucinogenic water like an oversized shot of vodka. The ladle fell from her grasp and clanged on the marble floor.

Unseeing eyes didn’t blink when Zeeto waved a hand mere inches in front of them.

When the trance ended, Sira’s eyes were half shut, and she let out a low moan reminiscent of post-coital bliss. Pawing absently, her hand closed on the ladle, and she handed it up to Braeleigh before climbing to her feet.

“Too bad we left the pipeweed up topside,” Zeeto said. “You look like you could use a smoke.”

“Peace. Balance,” Sira said. “The universe is coming together.”

Braeleigh passed the ladle to Gary. “I don’t know that I want my universe changing to dwarfy mode.”

“You sure?” Gary asked. “Beldrak and Sira seem happy about it.”

Braeleigh nodded. “I’m not saying you have to. I’m just saying I’m not. Plus, I think at least one of us besides Zeeto ought to stay sober. I can be our designated thinker.”

“Nay, I be not drunken,” Beldrak protested.

“Me neither,” Sira said.

Gary knew they weren’t. He might not have written detailed accounts of what the drinkers would witness, but he’d been fairly explicit about the way the poisoned water worked. It dealt temporary Constitution damage. 2d6 of it, to be precise. Zeeto and Sira had been in some danger. Beldrak not so much.

With 8 Constitution, Gary was looking at a little better than 50-50 odds of survival.

“Look,” he told Sira. “I’m a wimp. You all know it. If this stuff knocks me totally off my feet, don’t hesitate to stop the poison.”

“It’s not poison,” Sira insisted.

Gary scowled at the halfling. “Then why’d your prayer snap Zeeto out of it?”

That was enough logic for Sira. She agreed with a nod.

Gary filled the ladle and sat down against the fountain. Ripples rushed across the surface with his breath as he stared into the liquid. This ranked up there with the stupidest Internet videos of college kids huffing sawdust or doing shots of furniture polish.

The bardic song for courage was next in line down one of the third ring branches if he so chose. Knowing that didn’t help Gary in the moment. The best he could do was a little ditty.

“Fifteen hundred dwarfs in a dead city rest. Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of… whatever this stuff is.”

With that, Gary tilted the ladle back and swallowed. There were times that he considered his college days a waste, but even students at a community college knew how to find a party and get wasted. The “hey, try to guess what’s in this” challenge was training Gary didn’t regret as the dwarven equivalent of mescaline poured down his throat.

Damage Taken: 7 (Constitution)

Unlike the others, he didn’t get visions of dwarven history like a YouTube montage of movie highlights. Instead, Gary saw his dining room back home in Palo Alto, still set up to begin an epic campaign. He and his friends were collapsed on the floor around the table including Zane. Bits of broken glass lay scattered where Zane’s mysterious crystal ball had broken.

While everyone looked like he remembered them, Gary had the hollow sense that he was looking at empty vessels, mere images in a wax museum.

Gary was descending toward the body that had once been his own, drifting closer and closer until suddenly the vision ended. The poison wore off.

1d6-1: 5 (Permanent Wisdom Gain)

He checked his character sheet quickly.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 2 XP: 1,823/2,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 17 CHA: 17

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby

Skills: Persuade (+5), Music (+5), Study/Search (+5)

Profession: Cook (+1)

Sira shook him by the shoulders. “Gary? Gary, are you all right?”

“I think I’m beginning to understand.”

18

Gary didn’t feel any different, at least not in the ways he might have expected. While it was still certainly possible that what he saw was merely an Inception-like dream within a dream, he was beginning to suspect another explanation that he hadn’t previously considered.

Portal fantasy.

It was the heart of everything from The Chronicles of Narnia to The Matrix. Regular person sucked into an imaginary world. But none of them had been taken away to a world of their own creation.

Just what had been in that glass ball of Zane’s anyway?

If Gary’s new guess was correct: real magic.

Zeeto snapped his fingers in front of Gary’s nose, forcing him to blink. “There ya go. Welcome back. Sira was this close from zapping you out of that poppy haze.”

Clambering to his feet, Gary risked asking a borderline question. “Did any of you get a vision of a dining table?”

“That hungry there, champ?” Zeeto asked.

Caspian barked. “He knows that word,” Braeleigh explained. “And I think all of us could use a meal.”

The five of them sat on the edge of the fountain, their irreverence tempered by the fact that three of them had just imbibed that the wisdom of the long-departed dwarves had left therein and two had never found it reverent in the first place. They lunched or supped or possibly breakfasted upon jerky and hard tack.

And Gary shared water from his canteen with Zeeto, whose dehydration had prompted him to try the fountain waters in the first place.

Bellies filled, they set about searching the four cottage-sized vaults around the chamber.

“There aren’t any levers for these doors,” Zeeto reported after a cursory inspection.

“Good,” Sira snapped from across the chamber at another vault. “Maybe you won’t be able to drop the ceiling on us this time.”

“Gary, pray tell what sayeth these inscriptions?” Beldrak asked.

Rather than read them aloud, Gary begged a piece of chalk from the group and wrote the translations beneath the dwarven words.

“The pictographs are just that: pictures,” Gary explained, pointing to the chalk around the periphery of the low, dwarf-appropriate doors that Beldrak would have to duck to enter. “The words are a direct translation. Don’t blame me if they don’t make any sense.”

I SHINE MY VERY BRIGHTEST SMILE

TO HEARTY WARRIORS WITHOUT FEAR

WHEN GOBLINS SEE ME, RANK AND FILE

BREAK INTO GRINS FROM EAR TO EAR

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zeeto asked.

“It’s a riddle,” Gary explained. “The pictographs are likely the potential answers.”

Zeeto blew a rude noise. “Pfft. Multiple choice? Easy. We just try ‘em all and—”

There was a crackle of electricity, and Zeeto was launched backward staggering. His curly hair had straightened to a frazzled shrub still sparking like a Jacob’s ladder.

Sira rushed over and prayed for healing.

“I count us thankful, we four, that we have so brave a fool among our number so none but he must suffer for curiosity’s sake,” Beldrak said solemnly.

Gary cleared his throat. “Personally, if I were designing vaults like this one, I’d worry about someone touching the wrong one accidentally. But I’d make sure each jolt was stronger than the last, because by then, you know it’s no accident.”

“OK, so it’s a pictures thing,” Braeleigh said. “Like charades for old doors. Let’s see…” She traced around the door from lower left up and around. “Beardy dwarf face, anvil, axe, bag of gold, crown with three gems, hammer, mountain with two little mountains on either side, shield, pickaxe, gauntlet, tankard with curly hair—”

“I think that’s supposed to be the head on an ale,” Sira corrected.

“Aaaand, last but not least, an imperial-cut gemstone,” Braeleigh finished. “I know that one because that’s the cut of my human mother’s wedding ring. Well, it actually belongs to my niece now, but it’s way tinier than the picture.”

Zeeto shuddered and tried to pat his hair back down to his head. “OK, so which of those is the answer?”

“The crown,” Sira suggested. “Won by the greatest warriors. Goblins are known for being loyal to their monarch. Makes sense.”

“Nay,” Beldrak replied. “’Tis the shape of a smile, and goblins be creatures of the underworld. Mining ought be second nature to them.”

Braeleigh stared at the symbols, tapping a finger from each hand alternately against her cheeks. “The hairy ale. Ale makes warriors brave and goblins happy. I mean, I assume so. Don’t get me wrong; I haven’t known any goblins, so I can’t say for sure. But, I mean, people are people, right? We can’t all be that different.”

Zeeto looked over to Gary. “This is kinda your bag, isn’t it? I mean, didn’t you probably read in some history book or something what the answer is?”

Gary affected a sigh. “I could conjure up a meaning for and two meanings against every symbol on that list. It’s the curse of the creative mind to think in stretched and twisted parable and never in the straightest line.”

d20: 15 + (Persuade +4) + (True, You Are Kind of a Bullshit Artiste +2) = 21

“Fine. Be a scaredy cat,” Zeeto replied. “I think I’ve got it figured out, anyway. It’s the axe. Axes are like the dwarfiest weapons ever. The best warriors would use them. And that ear-to-ear smile is what a dwarf hero would give to any goblins he met. Ancient foes and whatnot.”

“I’ll not touch any save mine own guess,” Beldrak said. “If Sister Sira be on her guard against thy imminent demise, have at it.”

Casting the paladin a scowl, Zeeto backed up his words. Careful of an errantly placed finger, Zeeto lined up a digit with the rune for axe and pressed it firmly.

With a grinding of stone upon stone, the vault door swung open.

“Yeah, bitches!” Zeeto shouted, throwing the heavy metal horns gesture to the universe at large with both hands. He was first inside the vault.

The audible groan of disappointment followed before anyone could squeeze in behind him.

Zeeto came out holding in his hands a pair of bracers, silver and etched with a hammer and anvil motif that screamed dwarf. It looked as if someone had taken a pair of fancy pewter drinking tankards and hollowed them out to fit a pair of wrists. “They’re not even halfling-sized.”

“They’re pretty,” Braeleigh said. “Objectively, I mean. It’s nice workmanship. I wouldn’t wear anything like that. A little blocky and masculine for my taste.”

“Any additional effects?” Sira asked. Always a mind on the practical, same as her creator. Kim could see a friend drive up in a Ferrari and her first question would be about the gas mileage.

“Armor bonus,” Zeeto replied. “Hardly worth trying to get them resized to fit normal-sized arms.”

“Gary needeth the most protection,” Beldrak stated as if it were a natural fact. “Thus, he is the logical beneficiary.”

Cool as those bracers were, he knew they only gave +1 Armor Rating. If there was better loot yet to come, he’d rather take his chances. “I decline. Sira should get them. As our healer, the rest of us are disposable by comparison. She goes down, we’re all screwed.”

Sira cocked her head, possibly an imitation of Braeleigh’s frequent pose. “Seriously? That’s sweet of you. They’re not exactly my style, either, but I don’t plan on wearing them to fancy dinners.”

As Sira donned the bracers—known as Forge Guard, Gary read them from an inscription etched inside—and checked out the look and feel of them, they trekked over to the next vault.

Around the door of this one, the pictographs were identical to the last set. Gary set to work again with chalk translating the riddle.

BLUE

WHITE

GRAY

BLACK

RED

“Um,” Braeleigh said when Gary finished. “That’s it? How are we supposed to answer a color puzzle when all the answers are marble-colored?”

“Maybe this one has five answers,” Zeeto suggested. “Like a combination lock. You know, the puzzles getting harder as we go along.”

Sira shook her head. “That’s silly. The order can’t matter. We just started at random and came over to the next one. There’s no order to them.”

She neglected to draw any meaning from the fact that Gary had been the one to direct their wandering path from vault to vault.

“Accepting for the moment thy premise,” Beldrak said, stroking his chin with a gauntleted hand. “Therein lie five and only five, one to each color. Mine eyes see many a gray among thy cohort of pictographs.”

“And that gem can be any color,” Braeleigh said. “My mother’s was sapphire, but most of the townswomen with more money had diamonds in their rings.” She yawned. “Anyone else getting super tired? I was hoping to sleep under the stars tonight, but I’m about ready to sleep standing up.”

Sira didn’t hesitate, showing that Braeleigh wasn’t the only one feeling the weight of a long day. “Double watch. Latrine is outside this chamber—I won’t stand for any further desecration; if we earn these treasures from the old dwarves, that’s one thing. Soiling their temple is a whole other level. No one goes out alone.”

They set up camp. Tent stakes were a non-starter with the impeccable stone floors of the vaults. Bedrolls beneath a soft blue radiance were what they settled for.

Gary fell asleep, head pillowed on his pack, listening to the muttered protests of the ghostly wizard stuffed inside as bone-deep exhaustion drew him into slumber.

No one bothered waking him to take a turn on watch.

19

No cell phone. No clock. No wristwatch, television, or even hourglass. Yet somehow, around about the same time, they breakfasted on more jerky and hard tack and decided to begin a new day.

For someone who hadn’t couch-surfed in years and often found sleep elusive even in a motel bed, Gary awoke well rested from a night spent on a bedroll.

He yawned and stretched and ambled over to where the others were gathering: in front of the second vault. “Any inspirations? Anyone solve the puzzle overnight?”

“That’s silly,” Braeleigh said. “How could anyone even touch the runes in the middle of the night—the middle of the sleep, that is. I have no idea whether it’s night or noon right now.”

“Yeah,” Gary replied. “It could be anything from a cloudy night to midday under a clear blue sky.”

Braeleigh giggled. “Under blue, just like the words in the puzzle.”

“What did you say?” Sira demanded.

“What?” Braeleigh said. “I was just saying… you know… blue it up above us outside and it’s up above the other color words on the vault door.”

“What’s the next highest thing beneath the sky?” Sira asked quickly.

Zeeto shrugged. “Birds?”

“Trees,” Braeleigh said.

“Nay, thee both,” Beldrak said. “The tallest mountains stretch higher than any bird dare soar, with peaks that no tree may grow upon.”

Zeeto shook his head. “Nah. Clouds go higher. Besides, mountains are gray, not white.”

Sira snapped her fingers. “Snow cap. Or clouds. Either way, they’re above a mountain, which is gray.”

“Well, we have a mountain picture,” Braeleigh said. “But what’s sky or cloud?”

Sira shook her head. “Not five things. One.”

This was getting good. One tiny clue, dropped without them realizing he’d left it, and Gary had set them rolling down the path. It wasn’t that he doubted they’d have figured it out eventually, but there was still the matter of a limited food supply.

He didn’t want to be down in Gelzhearth long enough to starve.

“If the mountain is gray, what are the other four, then?” Zeeto asked.

“Hear me out,” Sira said. She held out a hand at eye level and stepped it down one line at a time. “Sky, snow, rock, cavern, magma.”

Beldrak’s eyes lit. “’Tis a picture of a mountain, top to bottom, outside to in. I wager my own flesh against this vault that thy verdict strikes the mark.”

The paladin strode over and pressed his finger to the carved likeness of a mountain. With a rumbling, the vault door swung open.

Zeeto squeezed his eyes shut and crossed his fingers. “Dagger… dagger… dagger…”

Gary peered inside, ducking beneath Beldrak’s head and above the crouching Braeleigh’s.

“It’s a dagger!” Braeleigh squealed.

Zeeto’s eyes shot wide. “Really?”

“Nope,” Braeleigh replied with smirk.

Inside the vault was a crossbow sized for dwarven arms—lightweight by human standards but not because its makers were weaklings. It was carved of wood and adorned with brass. It was fashioned of the highest quality craftsdwarfship. Perhaps not coincidentally, the bowstring was made of nickel, just like a guitar string.

“Oh, screw you, universe,” Zeeto yelled at the ceiling. He looked around as if searching for a vent for his rage. Then his gaze settled on the fountain. “I am so going to take a leak in that holy water.”

The halfling didn’t make it three steps before Beldrak hoisted him by the back of his shirt. “Calm thy bile, small one. Remember that there be two vaults yet to salve thy avarice.”

“Two tosses of a crooked set of dice,” Zeeto muttered. “What’s that worth?” He cast the fountain a dirty look and wagged a finger at it. “If I don’t get something worth by while, you know what’s coming.”

The crossbow wasn’t entirely alone within the vault. A small strongbox yielded easily to Zeeto’s ministrations with the pick and wire, revealing a cache of 200 gold coins and a pair of sapphires. Zeeto held onto the gems until they could pawn them, then they split the rest.

Acquired 40 gold

“Leigh, you’re probably best with the crossbow,” Sira said, holding it out to the elven ranger.

Braeleigh gave the weapon a look as if it were covered in snot. In the real world, Katie had been like that before Caspian. Since his birth, Gary had seen her zip up a soiled diaper in a baggie and stuff it in her purse for lack of a place to dispose of it. This avatar of hers hearkened back to the days when a fork that fell onto the floor went straight for the dishwasher, not a quick wipe on the hem of her shirt.

“It was made by dwarves, not demons,” Zeeto said testily.

Still leaning away from the weapon, Braeleigh waggled a finger in Gary’s direction. “Give it to him. Maybe he’ll be better off not getting near monsters.”

Acquired Hair-Splitter: 1d8+1 (sharp) critical range 19-20

“Uh, thanks,” Gary said, wishing that he’d acquired it because they thought it would be of best use in his hands, not because the dwarfophobic elf thought it was diseased and no one had confidence in his skills with a blade. “Anyone seen any quarrels?”

“I’ve heard plenty,” Sira said dryly. “But no.”

With a sigh, Gary slung yet another useless implement over his shoulder, joining the lute he sucked at playing.

Zeeto clapped his hands sharply. “Let’s get our translator in gear. Chop, chop. Loot’s not going to deliver itself.”

Once again, Gary was able to guide them to the next vault and choose between the remaining two.

He translated the inscription.

ONE TO HELP US BEAR OUR WOUNDS

ONE TO STEEL US ‘GAINST OUR FEARS

ONE TO BLESS OUR HOLY FEASTS

ONE TO DRY OUR GRIEVING TEARS

Zeeto was shifting his weight from foot to foot before Gary even finished with the chalk. “I know! I know! This one has to be booze!” He jumped up and pressed the foaming mug of ale before anyone could think to stop him.

And why would they? This was the easiest of the puzzles.

The grinding stonework swung wide to reveal an armory of dwarven mail, but in among the dwarf-sized mannequins bedecked in steel was a two-hooked rack supporting a black metal greatsword of questionable quality.

Beldrak shouldered the stone door open wider and strode inside. Ignoring the armor, he took up the sword and held it close to his eyes for better examination. “At morning glance, this blade seems not the work of dwarven hand. But upon the second look, it hath never felt the kiss of forge’s fire.”

Sira didn’t look convinced. “I’m no blacksmith, but isn’t fire sort of essential to the process?”

“Nay,” Beldrak replied. “But only in the hands of a master can iron be wrought without flame. ’Tis said that the denizens of the netherworld fear no blade of the forge. Gary, pray thee, this blade doth have a name writ in dwarven runes below.”

Gary gave the name placard a cursory glance. He’d have needed binoculars to make it out without pushing past the paladin for closer examination. Fortunately, he remembered the name well enough without any reminder. “It’s the Shard of Pellar.”

“A favored name for a blade a mighty smith hath wrought from Pellar’s bones.”

Zeeto huffed. “One shot left. Can we check out the last vault? And I call dibs. Dibs for Zeeto on whatever’s inside. I don’t care if it’s a lead helmet of a codpiece sized for an ogre. Whatever we get from it, I’m keeping and I’m wearing.”

“I hope it’s a frilly pink dress,” Braeleigh suggested. “Or maybe one of those sparkly masks on a stick that fancy ladies wear at costume balls.”

“Odds of anything like that in a dwarven crypt?” Sira said, then held up a hand with her fingers making a circle. “Zero.”

Beldrak clapped a hand on Gary’s shoulder. The paladin had already replaced the sword at his hip with the one from the vault, and he’d left his old sword in its place. “Let us away and staunch the seeping flow of Master Zeeto’s loins. The last vault awaits but thy translation.”

Giving a solemn nod, Gary set to work. While he didn’t generally want it known that he’d created this whole world for them, to this point he hadn’t needed to fear their response should they find out. It would have merely been a point of dispute as to how Gary ought best to use his unique knowledge.

But if they discovered he was behind this puzzle, they might kill him.

FIVE BEFORE AND THREE BENEATH

DARKNESS WHERE THE AIR HAS TEETH

FIRE CAGED WITHIN A SHEATH

STONES UNTO MY KIN BEQUEATH

They watched expectantly as Gary worked. He kept checking their reactions over his shoulder. Keen eyes fixated on each chalked word upon the marble until he’d finished.

“Huh?” Sira said. “Can you double-check that gibberish? I think you must have mistranslated something here.”

Gary made a show of reviewing his translation. “Nope. That’s what it says.”

“OK,” Zeeto said. “What if we go out and kill a bunch of those lizardlings in the city. Maybe we advance down the Path of Power a little, maybe one or two of you take a zap to give us some extra guesses.”

“We shouldn’t spend too long on this,” Braeleigh said. “We’ve already gotten most of what’s in here, and there’s only so much food to be had. Plus, I think Caspian would really like to see some trees.”

“Not leaving without getting my fair share,” Zeeto insisted.

“Then press buttons at random until you fry or open it,” Sira replied. “By Sevius’s grace, I’ll keep you alive as best I can.”

The great puzzle debate began.

“…that second line has to be a bat. Teeth in the air in the dark.”

“…a sheath of fire hast the semblance of a hearth, would it not?”

“…not to be, like, dwarfist, but do they really bequeath stones? Like, ‘oh, Brugar, my beloved nephew, to you I leave this rock I found in mine shaft three that looks like a dancing pig.’”

It went on that way for over two hours. None of the answers fit closely enough to the puzzle that anyone was willing to take a guess. It wasn’t that they didn’t have some halfway decent ideas; it was that the first line utterly baffled them. Even if they thought that multiple answers were the key, without the first in the sequence, they were at an impasse.

“Has anyone else noticed that Gary is pretty frickin’ useless here?” Zeeto asked testily.

Gary had been playing the theme song to Jeopardy for the past half hour, trying to either help them think, spur memories of their real-world lives, or just rankle his friends.

Gary opened his pack, placing a finger to his lips lest the dead wizard riding inside remind the superstitious adventurers of his presence. He found the bit-and-brace with the firmium tip and tossed it at the halfling’s feet.

“Want my advice?” Gary asked. “There it is.”

Sira rolled her eyes. “For a bard, you’re pretty stupid when it comes to old stories. No quest culminates in the fourth of four puzzles being overcome by brute force. This one will be all the more rewarding for being harder to solve.”

“It’ll only be rewarding if you get inside,” Gary said. “Think how long it will take to drill through, squeeze a grappling hook inside and haul that door open. Then compare that to how long this committee meeting might last. Then check both of those against our food supply.”

“He’s probably right, you know,” Braeleigh said. She took Caspian’s face in both hands and ruffled his fur. She spoke to the wolf pup in baby talk. “After all, it’s just a silly old dwarf door. Isn’t it, little guy?”

“’Twould be disrespectful of the craftsman’s intent,” Beldrak said, and the debate began anew.

Half an hour later, the paladin’s reserve of calm had dried up. “Drat thee, stone riddle. Fie and begone. Hand me yonder implement of destruction, and let me have at.”

“Still a little sacrilegious,” Sira said. “I only approve of any of this because we’ve been passing tests of worthiness set down by the builders of this place. With each test, we prove our understanding and reverence for dwarven culture.”

Gary couldn’t guess at the time that passed before Sira exploded. “I can’t take it anymore. Screw these dead dwarfs and their schizophrenic word vomit riddles!” She marched over and picked up the bit-and-brace.

Zeeto intercepted her. “I think I’m onto something. Count the letters in each line. 25, 27, 22, 23.”

Sira’s boil reduced to a simmer. “What’s that all mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” Zeeto said. “But I bet if we break into that vault, something awful’s going to happen to the treasure inside. And it’s my treasure.”

Five minutes later, a frustrated Zeeto took up the bit-and-brace, and no one had a mind to stop him. Five more minutes and the indescribably sharp tip had bored through the stone door. After that, it was only a matter of time before they managed to stuff a rope through with a short crowbar tied at the middle. Once through the hole, the crowbar turned sideways and wouldn’t come back through.

Beldrak hauled, and the door slowly slid open.

Sira shook her head sadly. “Bugs me that we’ll never know what the answer was.”

Gary walked up to the runes around the door and slapped a hand over several of them at once. Sira and Braeleigh gasped, but nothing happened. “I think this one was broken.”

20

Inside the fourth vault was a scene that none but Gary was prepared for. Unlike the treasures of the prior three, this fourth stone structure was a mausoleum.

Lying beneath a coffer lid of glass was an elf woman, lying on her side with one hand outstretched. No sign of limpness or decay showed in her features. That reaching arm had neither string nor cradle to support it.

“Uh, I revise my previous statement,” Zeeto said. “No way I’m carrying this thing out of here.”

“She’s not a thing,” Braeleigh insisted. “And she’s pretty. Her eyes are open. You can almost imagine that she can see us in here, staring at her like a public statue. It’s rude.”

Gary read aloud from the marker placed below the glass case. “Here lies Miriasa Starlight. She is our lesson about the danger of the Gem of Eternity and forevermore guest of the people of Gelzhearth.”

“Gem of Eternity, huh?” Zeeto asked, sauntering around the far side of the case. “Think that’s what’s in here?” He popped open a stone coffer on the low table set behind the bier. The vault was bathed a pale radiance briefly, but it quickly faded.

“Whatever’s in there, do not touch it!” Sira ordered.

“Geez!” Zeeto said, holding up his hands. “Give a guy a little credit for self-preservation. But have a look-see.”

Inside the coffer was a diamond the side of a turkey egg. Though it wasn’t emitting the same light as had briefly shone upon the coffer’s opening, it still carried a warm glow within.

“It’s mine,” Zeeto informed everyone as they gaped over his shoulder. “Elf’s party treasure. Probably get good coin off a museum for her.”

“We most certainly will not sell her,” Braeleigh insisted. “We need to help her.” Caspian barked once, seemingly in support of his master’s indignation.

“How are we supposed to help her?” Sira asked, folding her arms. “Not that I’m opposed, mind you. But tell me, how can this whole city of dwarves not know a thing about how to help her—and they went to the trouble of building her a glass tomb, so it’s not like they ignored the problem—and we’re supposed to figure it out ourselves?”

“They’re dwarves,” Braeleigh said with a shrug. “I’m guessing building a big fancy stone wood shed and glazing a coffin was a lot easier than reading books of lore or consulting with an actual expert on magic.”

“The arcane arts be fraught with demon wiles and temptations vexing to even the most stalwart heart. The orcs of yore fell prey to those irksome, poisoned fruits,” Beldrak said. “Let us not tread the trail of footsteps past the cliff’s edge.”

Zeeto giggled. “Orc-some fruits.”

“Are you listening?” Sira said, looking from Braeleigh to Zeeto and back. “Dangerous gem. Probably froze this elf. Don’t go looking for wizards’ help to undo this.”

Braeleigh crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Wizards aren’t bad any more than priests or warriors. Elves have a long, proud history with magic, and we didn’t poo our britches every time one of them went bad.”

“We’re not taking her,” Sira said.

“We can’t leave her,” Braeleigh argued.

Sira seethed. “We physically can’t get her out of this tomb city! We’re going to have to fight or sneak or come up with some crazy plan to get out of this place, and our odds drop like stones off a pier if we try to lug a frozen elf along.”

“But a wisp of flesh and cloth,” Beldrak said softly. “It would be little burden to bear her.”

“You’re our best weapon in a fight,” Sira countered.

Beldrak shook his head. “Our weapons be not steel and wood. We fight with this.” He tapped Sira in the center of her chest. “And this.” He tapped his own ribcage just above his heart. He gestured to Braeleigh and Zeeto and even Gary. “And thine as well. The moral right throws its weight behind our sword arms.”

Braeleigh helped Beldrak gently lift and set aside the five-sided glass crate that covered Miriasa Starlight like a serving platter. When Beldrak picked up the rigid elf, there wasn’t the faintest sign of motion. Not a hair on her head so much as budged relative to the rest of her. Not a fold of her pale blue dress rustled. The eyes, fixed it seemed upon the object she reached for, kept their catatonic stare.

Gary was impressed. The moral fiber of this party was more than his friends could usually muster. He’d half expected they might concoct some half-baked plan to return later and retrieve her. It was the flotsam of campaigns past that such revisitings accumulated without any resolution. Most were forgotten until the campaign was at an end and Gary shared his notes.

Clearing his throat, Gary found it his duty to point out the obvious and speed things along. “We’re in a dead end—literally, in fact. There are tombs concealed behind all these mural carvings. But the only way out is back through the city.”

“And all that gets us is a bunch of lizardlings,” Zeeto added. “Anyone get a count while we were running? Maybe we can pick ‘em off a few at a time. If they won’t come down here, maybe hit and run can win out over the long haul.”

Sira was still scowling at the frozen elf, slung like a plank over the paladin’s shoulder. “I didn’t take a census. Must have been at least thirty chasing us. Plenty more where they came from too. That city was huge, and there were lights in upper story windows all over.”

Braeleigh held up a finger. “Guys? Maybe this isn’t the right time, but… hasn’t anyone else noticed a little pent up feeling? Like maybe a rest and some contemplation might advance us down the Paths of Power?”

Dammit! She was right.

Gary checked, and he’d gone over as well.

“We’ve got enough food—for now,” Sira said. “We might as well. A little forethought and we might have what it takes to fight our way through the city and out one of the other tunnels.”

Gary closed his eyes. It was a distraction seeing the entirety of the nine rings of the Paths of Power when he could only reach the two options ahead on the Path of Music.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 2 XP: 2,273/2,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 17 CHA: 17

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2) , Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby

Skills: Persuade (+5), Music (+5), Study/Search (+5)

Profession: Cook (+1)

Down Music 3A was the ability:

Bolster: All allies within fifty feet resist fear effects with a +4 bonus

Path of Music 3B offered:

Fascinate: All enemies within fifty feet must resist willpower or stop all actions while listening to the melody. Attacking or forcing the subjects to test against willpower, dexterity, or fortitude will break the effect.

Gary knew the formula for determining the roll the lizardlings would need to pass to resist. It was his level (3), plus his Charisma modifier (+3), added to a base difficulty of 10. Assuming the lizardlings were mostly all level 1 or non-leveled, and their base wisdom was 8, good for a -1 penalty on the roll, they’d be looking to roll unmodified 16s to do anything but listen, entranced, to Gary’s music.

Speaking strictly in statistics, that meant Gary could neutralize 80 percent of the scaly little runts with a song—so long as no one tried to harm them.

There was one other matter to address in leveling up. Gary was eligible for his first Trick. He should have been able to take a free one at first level like any other human—that was their lone racial bonus, after all—but the stupid race glitch from Gary’s improper character creation persisted.

Gary knew the Trick he wanted to take. If he was to play along with the party and still keep his secret safe, it could prove essential.

Fast Talk: on a failed Persuade check, roll a secondary check to make up a plausible excuse that the target can believe.

If Gary was going to lie through his teeth, sooner or later someone was going to call him out on it. Best to be prepared with a backup plan.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B XP: 2,273/4,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 17 CHA: 17

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2) , Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate

Skills: Persuade (+6), Music (+6), Study/Search (+7)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

Taking a deep breath, Gary opened his eyes. As it happened last time, everyone was waiting for him.

Zeeto bracketed the air with his hands. “You know, Gary-old-chum… Most of the time, you seem like you’ve got your head on straight. Maybe you’re not much in a fight. Maybe your singing voice can make the dead claw their eardrums out. Maybe you sit on your ass a little too much while the rest of us are trying to solve puzzles. But for the most part, that thinker in your skull seems to be working juuuust fine. But then you get stuck there gaping at the Paths of Power like it was a work of art in a museum and you were there with Larsi Butterbread trying to impress her by being all cultural and sophisticated. Except you didn’t have the slightest clue about gnomish Post-Draconic-Age watercolors, so you just stood there making thoughtful noises until the museum staff booted you out.”

Braeleigh tilted her head and interposed between the two. “I take it your date didn’t end in littler halflings running around?”

Zeeto scoffed. “What? Hah! This is about Gary, not me. That was just a metaphor.”

“Sorry, everyone,” Gary said. “But I think I have a plan to get us out of this place.”

21

Gary and the others slunk out of the Gelzhearth crypts like burglars fleeing a department store with one of the window displays. If Miriasa Starlight weren’t suspended in temporal stasis courtesy of the Gem of Eternity, she’d have been aghast at the manhandling she received.

“Pardon, my lady,” Beldrak murmured again and again as the statue-like elven woman cracked against the vault on the way through the door, as he nearly dropped her adjusting his unfamiliar new sword at his hip, and when he switched shoulders to free his sword hand in case of combat.

Zeeto shook his head as he led the way toward the city proper. “I can’t believe we’re trusting our lives to bardcraft. It’s like being on a sinking ship, and the only guy with a plan is the cook. And the plan is peanut butter.”

“Path of Shadows offer up anything better?” Sira asked. “I’ve always wondered what you can see when you look at your Path.”

“Treasure and glory is what I see,” Zeeto replied. “But I’ve got nothing that’ll sneak four clumsy oafs, a wolf, and a birdbath decoration past a city full of non-huge lizards.”

Gary had his crossbow slung on his back. This was a job for a lute. As he trailed the group, his fingers formed chords on the strings. No strumming; just practice.

Zeeto held up a palm outstretched behind him, and the party waited while he looked out the archway into the dwarven city. The halfling crouched even lower than his normal stature and clung to the side wall, peering out into the city as everyone else hung back in the darkness.

A minute later… five minutes later… ten…

Gary grew antsy. Zeeto had warned them that he wasn’t going to give them a quick thumbs up or down the instant he glanced upon the city. This was tactical recon. Therein lay an inherent need to trust the judgment of the one observing the enemy.

This was the same halfling who’d dropped half the mines in an avalanche and touched every button, pulled every lever he saw.

There was a swift hiss and the crack of an arrowhead on stone.

Gary strangled the neck of his lute, anticipating battle.

Zeeto came back carrying an arrow in one hand and a scrap of parchment in the other. “Can’t read this. Too dark.”

They headed back to the vault room rather than risk a light within view of the lizardlings. Everyone gathered around as Zeeto unrolled and flattened out the rumpled scrap of parchment. The halfling cleared his throat.

“Combine forces? We know a way out. Lack sword arms on our own. Light two torches at the entrance for ‘yes.’ We are the Sunspear Four.”

Zeeto crushed the note in his fist. “See? So much cooler than us. We need a name. Something like ‘The Furious Nightblades’ or ‘Zeeto and the Zeroes.’”

“‘Seekers of the Lost’?” Braeleigh suggested.

“‘Gary and the Dominos’?” Gary suggested with a sly grin.

“More like ‘Gary and his bodyguards,’” Sira grumbled.

“Perchance a determination on this subject might best wait for greener times and a hall with ale and stew?” Beldrak asked, hand resting on his sword hilt as he stared down that passageway back to the city proper.

Zeeto sighed and looked to Sira. “So… two light spells? Any objections?”

Inwardly, Gary groaned. The Sunspear Four was a backup plan, a contingency in the event that the party couldn’t make it out of Gelzhearth on its own. Accepting their help was the backup parachute for the adventure.

Gary had never imagined that the party would get stuck down in the dwarven city forever or get wiped out by the diminutive residents, but neither did he want them spending in-game weeks on hit-and-run tactics, guerrilla ops, or cockamamie schemes like setting up a mushroom farm and living in the crypts until they could level up enough to curb-stomp the community.

The Sunspear Four was the tapping foot demanding that the campaign get moving.

“I could still try using Fascinate to keep roughly 80 percent of the lizardlings from attacking us,” Gary mentioned.

Zeeto waved the notion away. “Nice plan for desperation, but if I’m choosing between your singing voice and a second band of stranded adventurers…”

“It does seem like the obvious choice,” Sira added.

Braeleigh came up and put an arm over Gary’s shoulders, giving him a brief side hug. “I’m sure your way would have worked too. But, like, don’t we get farther on the Path of Power fighting?”

No, you dopes! You can get full XP for defeating an encounter without resorting to murder!

There was simply no way to discuss the intricacies of the Paths of Power without either campaign spoilers, opening Pandora’s Box to min-maxing, or revealing that he had more knowledge of the world and its workings than he was willing to admit.

So, Gary said nothing.

At the tunnel entrance, Sira cast light spells on her mace and Zeeto’s dagger. They waved the weapons like a pair of airport ground-control workers guiding a taxiing plane to the terminal.

From one of windows of a nearby support pillar, a bowstring twanged.

The deal had been accepted.

When the arrow struck with a meaty thwack, the lizardlings raised the alarm.

d20: 1 + (DEX -1) = 0

Gary stood frozen. That Initiative roll meant that he’d be spectating as the battle began. He was just lucky that a zero didn’t mean he missed out entirely.

22

Without understanding a word of the lizardling tongue, Gary understood what the creatures were saying. It took little in the way of linguistics or psychic powers to glean “hey, we’re under attack, everyone get out here” from the panicked squeals and cheeps of the squatters who’d made the dwarven city their home.

Had anyone in Gary’s gaming group decided to play a dwarven character, this would have been a great time to explore the themes of ownership when it came to places. Whose home was it? Did Gelzhearth still belong to the dwarves driven out some eighty years ago or the lizardlings who’d been born beneath its vaulted ceilings? Entire generations of the short-lived creatures might have been born and died without ever knowing another home.

And yet, there were still living dwarves among the refugees who’d fled that orcish invasion. There were masons who’d built these homes and miners who tunneled out the caverns. The sculptor responsible for the historical murals in the vault room was still alive and well in wistful exile.

As all this was going through Gary’s mind, the others on both sides of the conflict joined battle.

The Sunspear Four was a four-man company comprised of two warriors, a rogue, and a ranger. They fought their way from the tower like a commando squad because that’s the way Gary had written them. They weren’t rolling real dice; Gary had planned them as a fudge factor.

Now that he saw them in action, the idea sickened him.

Arrows took lizardlings in the eyes, never missing, never less than fatal. The swordplay between the lizardlings and rival adventuring party looked like a Hong Kong stunt director was choreographing it. It was flashy, dramatic, and lacked any sense that the Sunspear Four were in any danger.

They weren’t.

Braeleigh jogged ahead, bow taut and arrow ready, loosing a shot on the move that missed the lizardling spearman she’d aimed for. Caspian tagged along at her heel, wary of leaving his master to engage.

Zeeto ran for it. With his shorter legs, he needed to double-move to keep from being left behind, but at the same time, taking two move actions put him ahead of the elf.

Sira followed Braeleigh, angling for the tower to rendezvous with the other party of adventurers. She held her mace at the ready but didn’t seek to brawl with the city’s inhabitants.

Beldrak had Miriasa Starlight slung over his shoulder like a plank while the other held his greatsword. He’d have been wielding it at a penalty one-handed, but Gary couldn’t imagine him setting her down in any but the direst circumstances.

The paladin waved Gary ahead. “Precedeth me. Thy safety be more precious than mine doth.”

Let me carry the elf woman so you can fight.

That would have been the noble gesture. That’s what a budding hero would have done. Contribute. Acknowledge inferiority. Find a way to help the team.

Instead, Gary nodded and darted ahead. His hands quivered. He wanted to take Hair Splitter in hand and storm through the city like the protagonist in some Tom Clancy–inspired first-person shooter. Unfortunately, he lacked ammo. There hadn’t been a cache of crossbow bolts in the vault with the weapon. The place had been more mausoleum than museum and more museum than armory.

Without a weapon worth a damn, Gary played.

The lute strings were damp from sweaty fingers, slippery on top of still being unfamiliar.

“Imagine there’s no battle. It’s easy if you try. No vault below us. Above us, blessed sky. Imagine all the people… living through the day…”

Fascinate: Test Willpower against Music check
d20: 3 + (Music +6) + (No Hablo Human -2) = 7

A few of the lizardlings paused to listen, fascinated by the sound of the song even if they couldn’t understand the lyrics. Those few were readily cut down by the Sunspear Four and an arrow from Braeleigh.

“I’d tell you to stick to your day job if this wasn’t it,” Zeeto said without looking Gary’s way. The halfling was on the balls of his feet, dagger gripped backhanded, ready to pounce when next his turn came around.

Gary quietly tucked his lute away on his next action and allowed himself to be herded along with the rest of the party.

Two combat turns later, they merged with the Sunspear Four near a pillar tower that contained an old temple to the dwarven god of ale.

“I’m Gellard Turnweisle,” said a statuesque warrior with a cleft chin and a voice like Prince Charming. “I lead the Sunspear Four. Who leads your company?”

Gary’s companions looked to one another with questioning eyes and subtle shrugs amid the chaos of lizardling bodies that littered their vicinity. Finally, it was Gary who spoke up. “We’re a collective of equals.”

“Four equals and a sidekick,” Zeeto added quickly, casting a glare at Gary’s lute.

The rest of the Sunspear Four introduced themselves as Zeefus Mackenzie, a grizzled, green-clad bowman with a perpetual squint in one eye, Corbin Detmar, a fresh-faced lad who looked like a junior version of Gellard, and a shaggy-haired rogue who went by the single name, Shlan.

“Nice to meet you, Shlong,” Zeeto said as the two shook hands, finishing the round of introductions.

Braeleigh cuffed the halfling upside the head and offered a smile to the Sunspear Four. No one objected from either side, not even the chastised Zeeto.

With suspicious timing, the lizardlings began to regroup just as the two groups had all learned one another’s names.

“We needeth a plan, posthaste,” Beldrak said, shifting the time-frozen elf woman on his shoulder.

Gellard scowled. “You still haven’t explained that macabre trophy of yours. She doesn’t appear to have been turned to stone. Did… did someone paint her after she turned to stone?” he ventured cautiously.

“Magic mishap,” Sira said curtly. “We’re getting her out of this miserable tomb. Enough said.”

Young Corbin held up a finger. “Now just a minute. The architecture here is quite stunning, and—”

“No,” Braeleigh cut in. “It’s gloomy and rocky and no elf should have to stay down here any longer than absolutely necessary. It’s totally icky.”

“You guys know a way out of here by any chance?” Zeeto asked.

Gary fumed silently. Stop leaning on these chuckleheads to do everything for you. “I do.”

“Care to share with the rest of the class?” Zeeto demanded. “When did you sneak off and explore this place?”

“I haven’t,” Gary replied. “But think about it. This place was inhabited by dwarves. Master builders. Master smiths. They had forges all over and didn’t choke themselves on smoke.”

Sira’s eyes lit. “Chimneys. There must be chimneys around this place somewhere.”

“Good luck finding one,” Zeeto grumbled.

Beldrak held up a hand to quell the argument. “Yet find one we must. Gary, dost thy ken contain an answer to whence these Gelzhearth dwarves removed their smoke?”

Was relying on the infallible knowledge of having created the city in his scribbled notes any better than using the Sunspear Four as a crutch?

Yes. Yes, it was.

Extending a finger in a direction he only knew to be southwest because he’d drawn the map himself on a piece of three-hole-punched graph paper, Gary indicated the central pillar at the heart of the city. “Up there. I imagine there are others in a place this size, but the dwarves would have built their community around a religious forge dedicated to Makita, god of craftsmen and laborers. It’ll contain the biggest smelter and bellows in the city, and there should be a huge ventilation shaft leading up from it.”

Zeeto shook his head. “I don’t get it. You play the lute like you’ve got ten thumbs, play songs that a local tavern drunk would be embarrassed to sing, and yet you can reverse-architect abandoned dwarven cities?”

Beldrak nodded slowly. “Our squatty friend dost have the right of it. Perchance thou hast misplaced thy proper calling?”

Gellar waved a hand between the squabbling party. “Your guy’s got the only idea on the table. We doing this or what?”

Somehow, this entire time the combat counter had been ticking. There was no additional roll for Initiative—which Gary might have welcomed, stuck on 0. The lizardlings closed in with a battle cry and took their turn.

Spears flew, sailing in deceptively graceful arcs to clatter on the stone floor or glance off armor. Gary had one nick in his leather armor that saved him from a flesh wound. The closeness of potential death threatened to rise up and choke off his reasoning mind.

Gary hated playing paintball the one time he’d tried it, and these lizardlings weren’t using harmless, paint-filled pellets that would raise a welt at worst.

The combined group moved together, fighting the whole way.

On a separate Initiative roll, just before Gary’s turn, a gout of flame washed over Braeleigh, Zeeto, and the Sunspear Four’s rogue.

“Get that wizard!” Gary shouted, doing nothing on his own action but drawing his rapier and taking up a position to protect Caspian—the only one in the whole group who might benefit from Gary’s aid.

Braeleigh and the Sunspear ranger, Zeefus, loosed arrows in the direction of the fire-hurling lizardling. Gary didn’t see the creature go down, nor did he stop to check on its health. If the two archers missed, so be it. Everyone needed to keep on the move lest sheer numbers and minor injuries wear them down.

They traipsed through a tent city that was barely Gary’s height. Lizardling homes and shops became obstacles to topple in their wake to slow pursuit. Lacking foes to fend off, Gary hacked at support ropes and overturned wheelbarrows of mushrooms and grains behind them.

At the fore, the Sunspear Four carved a path toward the central pillar.

Had Gary made this stretch too hard for such low-level characters? In his mind, working together, they could have created a distant distraction in the city, then fought a much smaller force to gain the chimney shafts. This was the brute force method, taking on the majority of the city’s inhabitants.

Heck, if anyone in the party had learned any language with roots in the draconic vein, they might have negotiated a non-violent exit to the surface.

No. Those ways ran contrary to the Zane-and-Marty School of Role-Playing. If it was loot, they took it. If it was worth XP, they killed it. This whole adventure in Gelzhearth was supposed to have punished that approach. The Sunspear Four had been created because Gary wasn’t sure his players had it in them to think their way through a problem that had an obvious—if daunting—martial solution.

When they reached the pillar, Gellar and Corbin led the charge inside. A trio of lizardlings in smith’s aprons fled via the first-story windows.

Zeeto approached the forge to peer up at the vent shaft above it, then drew back quickly. “Holy phoenix-kabobs, that’s hot!”

Sira took a quenching bucket from the floor and dumped the contents into the red glowing coals. With a hiss, an instant, near-boiling fog filled the smithy.

“Um, Gary,” Braeleigh said between coughs, shielding her eyes from the burning steam. “You think, like, maybe picking one without a roaring fire in it might have been a better idea. You know, just thinking—”

But Gary wasn’t standing there to take the party’s abuse when his perfectly good plan hit a speed bump. Grabbing a shovel propped against the wall, he dug into the burning coals and flung them into a far corner of the smithy.

A lizardling-crafted wooden rack of hand tools smoldered from the errant coals, but Gary kept on shoveling. Beldrak set Miriasa’s frozen form aside and grabbed a shovel to help. The elf was frozen in time, not temperature, so the walk-in oven in which they found themselves posed no threat to her.

“We’ll guard the door,” Gellar promised.

Of course, he did. This was the escape clause. Let the slightly higher level throwaway NPCs bear all the risk. If Gary had been running things, the party would get half XP for this whole venture—everything since collapsing the deadfall at the bridge.

Then again, even if someone else was running his campaign per Gary’s rules, they’d already be getting an uneven split of the XP just because the shares were pro-rated for level. All of them were level 3 while the Sunspear Four ranged from 4 to 6.

Soon, enough of the embers had been cast aside that the stone edges of the forge were safe to stand atop. The fire in the corner of the room would be a long while in causing real trouble in the nearly all-stone chamber.

“We need someone to climb up with a rope,” Gary said. He dreaded the idea that he’d be among the climbers once someone secured a line high above. Distances that had seemed so paltry on the blue grid of lines on graph paper now seemed insane. It was over a hundred feet just inside the pillar, before the shaft cleared the height of the city proper.

Zeeto peered up the shaft. “There’s light coming in the sides. I think there are vents or something along the way. Shouldn’t be too bad a climb.”

“I’ll do it,” Shlan volunteered. They were the first words the Sunspear rogue had spoken, even allowing Gellar to handle his introduction. His voice was a gravelly whisper, the sort that delivered a message before slitting a throat.

“Stuff it, new guy,” Zeeto countered. “I’ve got climbing in my blood.”

That wasn’t, technically, a true statement. Halflings had a racial bonus to Dexterity but nothing specific about climbing. Nevertheless, Shlan allowed Zeeto the honor of going up first as the rest of them spliced sections of rope to make up the extra-long climb.

Meanwhile, Gellar and Corbin held the doorway against the lizardling army. At first they’d kept the door open to fight back but soon realized they just needed to keep the creatures at bay. Shutting the door left only the windows to defend. The thick oak door was dwarf-made, sturdier than the axe blades that thudded ineffectually against the outside of it.

Foot by foot, the rope disappeared up the shaft. With no knot-tying skills, climbing expertise, or combat prowess to boast of, Gary sang and strummed his lute.

“We didn’t set the fires. The forge was burning since the world’s been turning. We didn’t set the fires. No, we didn’t stoke them, but we recently broke them. Durrotek, Previn’s Mine, found the city just fine. Found the puzzle broken. Elven woman frozen. Visions. Wishin.’ Fountain’s not for fishin’…”

Inspire: +2 To Hit

Gellar chuckled from his defensive position at the window. “Is your bard always so clever with songs?”

A distant voice echoed from up the chimney shaft. “You like him? You’re welcome to keep him.”

23

Beldrak wasn’t the last one up the shaft. The final passenger, tied by the waist to the end of the rope, was the stasis-bound elf. Beldrak and Gellar pulled together on the rope, hauling her into the stone cupola at the top of the shaft that kept out the snow. As they’d hauled, the others had busied themselves digging out of the snowdrift that had closed off the exit to anything larger than a stream of warm, smoky air.

“Apologies, my lady,” Beldrak said, placing a hand over his heart. “Thy treatment of late hath been like unto a journeyman’s rucksack. I hope that in thine wisdom and mercy, thou may forgiveth mine transgression.”

Gellar looked at him dubiously. “Can this elf… hear you?”

“I knoweth not,” Beldrak said. “Until such time the enigmatic waters clear, I shall showeth every courtesy to this lady.”

Gary could have answered that. Miriasa was a piece of furniture. But he was too busy rubbing sore arm muscles from a climb he regretted every putting into the adventure to correct the paladin. Besides, it was yet another subject on which he didn’t wish to admit inside knowledge.

There was a faint murmuring from inside Gary’s pack. He’d nearly forgotten the wizard’s skull inside it.

“Be right back,” Gary said. “Gotta take a leak.”

Zeeto pointed down the shaft. “What’s wrong with saying a wet goodbye to our reptilian hosts? At least you won’t freeze your Shlan off.”

Gary ignored the halfling and squeezed out the opening that Braeleigh and Corbin had dug in the snowdrift on the cupola’s western side. The young fighter had been clearly smitten with the elven ranger, even going so far as offering to carry Caspian up the shaft—though Braeleigh had declined. All it had taken was for her to bat her eyes and bite her lip, and Corbin had leapt at the chance to help her dig.

The mountain air was biting, and if Gary had heard nature’s call, he’d have risked an unfortunate case of frostbite to answer it. Instead, he dug in his pack until he located the skull of Randal Vintner and extracted it.

“Ah, so much better,” the skull said with an affected sigh.

“You couldn’t have been suffocating down there,” Gary replied.

The skull quivered in his hand. “In that knapsack, no. But in those infernal mines, my soul was bereft of vital force. Not a suffocation of air but of some ethereal quintessence vital to sanity and peace of mind. I clung as long as I could, and I hope that I can last the final leg of this overlong journey to the afterlife.”

Gary wagged a finger at the skull, careful to keep out of reach of the teeth in case they had ideas of nipping at him. “We have a deal. I get you properly interred. You deliver a message to the gods that I want an audience.”

“You could just kill yourself,” Randal suggested so deadpan that Gary might have believed the ghostly wizard meant it.

“Then I wouldn’t need you, now would I?” He cocked his arm as if to pitch the skull down the mountainside.

“No! Wait! I’m good. I’ll be good. Just tell me, what message and which god.”

“I don’t care which god, frankly,” Gary said. “Preferably one not known for killing or destruction but take what you can get. As for the message? Simple. Gary Burns wants to talk to them.”

A chuckle emanated from the skull. “Gary Burns? Why would Gary Burns want to talk to the gods? And if he did, he could just command them into his presence or whisk them there himself.”

Icy hands gripped Gary’s heart, colder than the mountain air, stronger than the stone. “You’ve heard of Gary Burns?”

“Few have, I imagine,” Randal Vintner said primly. “But I have studied the origins of the cosmos. I was a wizard of some renown and considerable breadth of knowledge. And I know if you plan to pretend you’re the creator of the universe, demanding things of the gods is liable to get you smited.”

Gary could hardly breathe. He existed in this world—at least in its mythology. That had never been his intention, but neither was it untrue or completely implausible. He’d created a world where magic was real, where ancient beings of unfathomable intellect and power ruled. Why, within that context, would it be so implausible that someone would figure out who had created it all?

Stuffing the skull back deep in his pack, he muttered a warning to it through the leather. “Just deliver the message. I’ll deal with whoever answers.”

24

The hike back to Durrotek was blessedly quiet. A single encounter with a pair of hungry frost wolves hardly bore mentioning. The dwarves who’d created the city had also carved paths through the mountains’ lower reaches, leaving a network of walkable roads for maintenance of their vents.

Trekking down the winding snow-covered trail left Gary time aplenty to collect his thoughts. Howling winds limited all other conversations to a shout, and not even Zeeto felt his opinions so strongly to bellow them at the top of his lungs. And time was an ally Gary welcomed since the fighting had leveled him up again.

Presumably, everyone else in the party had leveled as well, but no one was discussing XP or the Paths of Power while the Sunspear Four was around.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B XP: 4,026/4,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 17 CHA: 17

To Hit: +1 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2) , Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate

Skills: Persuade (+6), Music (+6), Study/Search (+7)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

With an even numbered total level coming up, Gary was eligible for another stat boost. Leaning into Charisma felt like the right thing to do as a power gamer, but taking the edge off his abysmal Strength or Dexterity scores was so tempting.

What would it be like, Gary mused, not to be a liability in combat, a weakling klutz whom everyone rushed to protect out of some ingrained sense of camaraderie that wouldn’t exist if not for the game setting? Could he be a real hero? Beldrak and Braeleigh were so raw, yet their potential for heroism shone so clearly. Sira and Zeeto might not have been cut from that cloth, but neither were they as useless as Gary. His only real contributions had been slipping the party insider information.

There was also the matter of a choice along the Path of Music. The fourth ring was still completely available to him, but planning ahead, his choice could affect access to the fifth ring, which was wide enough that choice 4A couldn’t reach 5C, nor could 4B reach 5A.

The A choice on the fourth ring of the Path of Music was Historian.

Historian: Intelligence test to identify historical objects, events, and architecture 20-200 years old.

His other option was Gossip.

Gossip: Charisma or Wisdom test to identify relationships, glean truth from rumors, and know events from the past twenty years.

The problem was that Gary had both those abilities by default. There was nothing of consequence that he hadn’t written into the campaign himself. At best, the ability he picked would serve as an easy reminder if he forgot something. Not the most compelling of selections.

A lurking option tugged at Gary’s collar, perched on his shoulder like the miniature devil representing his conscience’s adversary.

Taking Path of Music Option B at level 3 had left him directly adjacent to the Path of Arcana. He could advance laterally to Path of Arcane 3A, picking up Spell Power +1 and a Lesser Arcane Spell.

There were a million reasons not to go that route. Not the least of which was the persecution of arcane spellcasters in the kingdom of Kovia. Even if he convinced his superstitious fellow party members that he was on their side, the populace at large would still be a danger to him.

And given their reaction to Randal Vintner, Beldrak, Sira, and Zeeto weren’t ready to have a mage in the group. Braeleigh, having grown up in an era before the vilification of wizards had gripped the cowards’ hearts of the kingdom and with a cultural grounding in elven mysticism, seemed likely to accept him.

The other pitfall was that without starting at 1 on the Path of Arcana, Gary wouldn’t learn the arcane language. Of course, he hadn’t paid any points at character creation to read dwarven, either, but that hadn’t stopped him. Still, the Path of Arcana was a dicey prospect for skipping around.

Biting the bullet, Gary picked Historian, a point in Charisma, and topping up the same 5 skills he’d been maintaining all along.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 4,026/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Rapier (1d6-2) , Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

All the XP he’d gotten thus far, and he’d have to double it before he’d level again. In that moment, Gary wondered whether his decision to make the XP thresholds exponential through level 10 was going to come back to bite him in the ass.

By the time Gary had squared himself away as a level 4 bard, the two adventuring parties were nearing the gates of Durrotek. It was time to part ways. The Sunspear Four left to follow their own adventures. For Gary and his unnamed troupe, it was time to take a respite from their wilderness foray and enjoy the comforts of city living.

While it lasted.

25

Durrotek had changed in the brief span of days that Gary and his friends had been gone. There were more people in the streets, but many were loading wagons with household goods and supplies for a long journey. Others were out in the brisk autumn air on scaffolds, enacting repairs on cracked masonry or rebuilding caved-in roofs.

“Pray tell, what hath befallen this fair city?” Beldrak asked, approaching a carpenter preparing to scale a scaffold with a fresh armload of planks for a residential roof. Though he carried Miriasa still, the elf woman was wrapped in a blanket tied on with ropes to the point where his bundle could have been nearly anything.

The carpenter paused to size up Beldrak and the others. “You just come from up north or something?” When Beldrak nodded his reply, the man shrugged. “Don’t know how you could’a missed it, even out in nowhere’s back alley. Earthquake. Big sucker too. Durrotek’s built on solid bedrock, but that don’t mean she can’t get banged up. Some folks are leaking a yellow trail all the way down to Ord Margid. Rest of us are just putting her back together.”

Gary cast a sidelong glance at Zeeto who had carefully averted his gaze from the carpenter and his fellow workers.

“Oh,” Braeleigh said. “That must have been right when—ow!”

Zeeto had kicked her in the shin. “Yeah, right about when ow, all right. C’mon. I’ll buy you a drink.” He headed off in the direction of The Uncommon Room.

Braeleigh followed, Caspian tagging along at her heels, looking bigger than ever. She wagged a finger at the halfling. “OK. But you know the rules.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zeeto grumbled. Braeleigh had made it clear that there was to be no funny business with any of them, and that getting her drunk was cheating and liable to result in a wolf mauling once she sobered up.

“Everyone meet at the Sleepy Inn for dinnertime,” Sira called after them. “Take care of any personal business before then.”

“Who gets to tell Arguile we didn’t get his payment?” Gary asked, deciding it better to kick the hornet’s nest himself and let someone else deal with the angry insects.

Beldrak and Sira turned to him in unison. “Thy tongue drippeth wisdom and solace both,” Beldrak said. “The task seem bespoke for thee.”

“Yeah,” Sira said. “It’s either you or Zeeto. You willing to put our good names in that grabby-fingered miscreant’s hands?”

Gary sighed. It sounded like he was getting stuck as the face of the party even without letting on that he’d just bumped his Charisma score. “All right. I’ll try to scream through the city streets if we have to go on the run.”

Beldrak chuckled softly. “’Tis a mercantile transaction. A man of Arguile’s station dare not offend the order of the land by chasing coin with blood.”

It was Gary’s turn to join Sira in an incredulous stare. “You do realize that importers are—by and large—criminally connected. Right?” Sira asked.

Beldrak shook his head. “Nay. I hath taken my measure of the man, and friend Arguile be no villain. Had I not a more pressing errand, I would act thy sentinel if only for thy mind’s ease. Alas, ’tis not the obligation that rests the heaviest upon mine shoulders.” He shifted his grip on Miriasa to make his point.

Gary held up both his hands in surrender as he parted from the pair. He’d little doubt that he could wrangle the importer to letting them off the hook. With no one else around, he had plenty of leverage on the crooked merchant.

But first, Gary had another task of his own, one that the rest of the party had happily put from their minds. Once out of view of his friends, he set a course for the temple of Ysotonir.

All the way there were signs of minor destruction from Zeeto’s triggering of the Gelzhearth trap. That deadfall had shaken half the region and collapsed more of the mountain than any of the others had probably realized. Gary wouldn’t have been willing to lay odds on any survivors at Previn’s Mine, closer to the epicenter and already of questionable structural ruggedness. Durrotek was old construction, by and large, bones built and rebuilt upon with modern flesh of wood and tin and brass but fitted granite blocks beneath. Wagons bumped over cracks in the cobbled streets, and laborers of every ilk set aside their daily trades to become roofers and masons.

Overall, the city was fine. It had taken its lumps and would heal with scars, but it would take more than a minor earthquake to ruin it.

Not that everyone shared that assessment. Plenty of residents were packing up all their belongings to head for firmer—and possibly warmer—lands. Not that Gary could blame them. Climatically, Durrotek could hardly have been less like the Bay Area of California. Palo Alto’s worst weather was still nicer than what Durrotek saw at any point in the year, and the colds that would set in with the coming winter would shame the local skating rinks back home.

The temple of Ysotonir was undergoing repairs of its own when Gary arrived. Two priests of the frost god caressed its entryway pillars with glowing hands, healing cracked marble much the way they healed torn flesh. Gary exchanged perfunctory greetings and headed inside.

“Have you come to pay respects to Ysotonir, young man?” an elderly layman of the temple asked. He was wearing a plain brown robe with no adornment or emblem. The cowl was thrown back, and he had his hands tucked inside the voluminous sleeves.

Gary shook his head. “I come on an errand of spiritual urgency. Might I speak with High Priest Blavess?”

“I’m afraid that with the recent disaster, the high priest’s time has been occupied excessively,” the layman replied.

Casting the old man a steely glare, Gary backed toward the temple entrance, dug into his pockets, and deposited 50 gold into the donation box.

The elderly layman didn’t say a word, just bowed and departed to fetch the high priest.

“Deplorable state of moral affairs,” the skull of Randal Vintner muttered from inside Gary’s pack. “Isn’t there some other temple whose mercy you could prevail upon?”

“Not after donating 50 gold,” Gary said without moving his lips. “Now shut up and let me handle this.”

Moments later, a middle-aged man in a white and gold robe came out to greet Gary. He was of average build, balding, and with the remaining hair a mix of gray and its original dark brown. He had the look of an insurance salesman or a bank teller. The smile on his face was thin-lipped and showed no teeth. “I understand you have a problem, my son?”

Gary bowed. “High Priest Blavess, it is not me who has the trouble. I come on behalf of this poor soul.” He reached into his back and took out the skull. “I came across this disinterred wretch in my recent travels. His spirit is unable to pass beyond this world. His only request was a consecrated burial to allow him to move on.”

d20: 3 + (Persuade +8) + (Guilting the Clergy +4) = 15

Gary was half surprised there had even been a roll for that. It meant that there was a possibility that High Priest Blavess wouldn’t accept the skull into his catacombs for burial.

“His… request?” the high priest asked dubiously. He shied at first when Gary presented the skull but steeled himself and took the remains in hand.

“You may speak with him yourself if you like,” Gary replied. “I have discharged my duty. All that remains is for you to discharge yours.”

Those words carried meaning meant for both the priest and the dead wizard. Before either of them could object, Gary bowed and backed away without making eye contact.

On the streets outside, Gary breathed fresh, cold air and felt free. He was on his own for the time being without creepy doppelgangers of his friends who didn’t recognize him or undead wizards riding along in his luggage. The only obligation clinging to him before Gary was free at last to explore his world at leisure was to pay a visit to a certain unscrupulous importer.

A tiny bell tinkled as Gary entered the Durrotek Import Consortium’s storefront. Arguile appeared from out back as if summoned by magic at the sound. “Aha! The lazy sons of bitches have finally returned with my money. I worried that even having the paladin along, I hadn’t gotten enough assurance from you about making that delivery run.”

“You sent us to our deaths,” Gary said with a voice that dripped blood. “Or tried.”

d20: 16 + (Persuade +8) + (You’re Not Exactly Mr. Intimidating -2) = 22

Arguile backed up a pace in the direction of the door that headed out back. “Now, Gary… Let’s not be hasty.”

“Hasty?” Gary asked. “Do you know who was waiting for us at the mine?”

“Previn, the buyer. Some slack-jawed bozos who dig for him. Should’ve been it.”

“The Talis Guild,” Gary said.

d20: 10 + (Persuade +8) + (Laying It On Thick + 2) = 20

“I… I… You still owe me for the payment,” Arguile said.

Gary shook his head, trusting that 20 was enough to keep Arguile on his heels, too intimidated to be a threat. “No chance. We got stiffed and nearly killed. You just get stiffed… unless you really want the full experience of someone trying to kill you.”

“B-b-but my—”

“You can thank Beldrak that I came here alone,” Gary said. “It was his call to spare you. Even the damn priestess was fine with putting your head on a spear and delivering it to Club Talis as a peace offering. Instead, you get a clean slate. Count your blessings, and be thankful you still have a roof over your head and breath in your lungs.”

With that, Gary turned to storm out of the shop.

On the streets again, he felt jitters. He’d just threatened a man’s life and walked away from it. Gary Burns in the real world would have pissed himself, gotten his ass kicked, or—more likely—both.

Fever dream, comatose hallucination, or something else, right then, Gary didn’t care. He felt more alive than his grill-cooking, garage-band-playing, game-running self ever had.

He carried that giddy high along with him as he headed for the Sleepy Inn to catch up with the others.

26

Zeeto held court with a chicken leg as a scepter, chewing as he mused aloud to the reunited group. They were gathered in the common room of the Sleepy Inn at a table set for five in a corner more shadowed by the hearth fire than lit by it. “I was thinking… what if we didn’t have to pay for a room at an inn every night?”

“Sounds illegal,” Sira said flatly between mouthfuls of stew.

Zeeto’s face lit in a chubby-cheeked grin. “That’s the best part! It’s not! There are so many warm-weather refugees heading south after the Great Quake that real estate is going for coppers-on-the-gold.”

Beldrak scowled, a loaf of bread poised halfway to his mouth. “I like it not. Be we vultures to pick the bones of ill-lucked lives left tattered by the thought-free acts of our own companion?”

“Act of nature,” Zeeto corrected with a wag of his chicken leg. “And we’d be doing these people a favor, whoever we buy from. They want to start a new life somewhere warm and geologically stable. We help them cut ties and supply them with capital to start the next chapter of their lives’ story. We’d literally be funding their hopes and dreams for a better future.”

Braeleigh finished a chicken wing and dropped the bone to the floor, where Caspian pounced on it. “I like it. We’d be, like, heroes all over again. First we rescue a lost elf princess—”

“There’s no evidence she’s a princess,” Gary pointed out.

“Now we’re chipping in to help poor, desperate refugees leave for safer places,” Braeleigh said. “Plus, you know, there’s probably a way to hide our elf princess until we can figure a way to thaw her out.”

Beldrak shifted uneasily in his seat. Miriasa was still wrapped in a travel blanket, locked up in their rented room for lack of any solution presenting itself for her predicament.

“Where would we buy?” Sira asked. “I doubt anyone’s compiling a list of properties whose residents are evacuating.”

Zeeto cleared his throat. “I imagine that if we wait a few days, we could get an even better deal from the city on abandoned properties.”

Sira snorted. “Whatever happened to funding hopes and dreams?”

“Well, it’s not like we don’t have hopes and dreams to fund, is it?” Zeeto countered. “If someone wants out of town so bad they can’t stick around to cash out, maybe they’ve got bigger hopes and dreams than mere money can provide.”

“Wow,” Braeleigh said with a mouthful of her next chicken wing. “I totally can’t believe I just heard those words come out of your mouth.”

Zeeto held up a greasy-fingered hand. “Don’t get me wrong; all my dreams heavily feature piles of gold and naked halfling women. Most of my hopes are for fulfilling those dreams without getting killed trying.”

“Doesn’t solve the question of how to pick a place,” Sira said.

Gary chewed silently. He’d been biding his time, wondering if whoever was running this game was going to steer the party or if he’d have to do it himself.

“I may know a place.”

27

The address was 14 Zephyr Street. The building stood three stories tall, constructed of flat gray granite with minimal embellishments. It was one of a dozen like it lined down the road, and despite having come through the quake undamaged, its owner couldn’t be rid of it fast enough.

Marliss Wauldertot was a clothier by trade, possessed of ample means to buy his way out of Durrotek and who—to all appearances—had saved the last of his haggling for the cloth he peddled.

“All yours,” he said, presenting Sira with the key to the front door. He’d already signed over the papers necessary to convince Lord Allard’s bureaucrats that they weren’t merely squatting in an abandoned structure. “May the ground stay quieter beneath your feet than it did mine.”

With that, the clothier climbed aboard the lead wagon of a convoy containing every scrap of furniture from the building, along with his wife and five children.

Gary felt his pockets lighter as the wagon trail plodded down Zephyr Street. The haggling had finally come to an end when they’d all turned out their pockets and emptied their packs, scraping together what few coins they’d hidden away along with stray gemstones and knickknacks. Marliss had basically taken them for all they had—not that Gary didn’t suspect Zeeto of managing to hold out.

The front door opened with a satisfying creak. Inside, a flight of stairs led upward from the foyer, with two rooms to either side. The party split up to explore.

While the others scouted the layout, Gary took the time to appreciate the old-world quality to the stonework. Leaded glass windows fit snugly into cut stone frames with smooth sills worn by centuries of occupation. The panes were lucky to have survived the quake, but of course that was deus ex Gary at work, having written the place that way. The combination of an intact structure and a skittish owner willing to take what he could get before tucking tail was all pre-planned.

How much of Gary’s fate was predetermined by those binders and notes back in the real world was anyone’s guess. So long as he kept poking and prodding at appropriate moments, Gary suspected he could follow the plot for months, at least.

This whole building was an Easter egg, a bonus cooked up just in case someone decided that a soft real estate market was a good excuse to lay down roots in Durrotek as a home base for future adventures. Gary had sketched the whole layout on three separate sheets of graph paper, detailing every room, stairway, and hidden passage.

The thought had Gary ignoring the upstairs bedrooms where the others were jockeying for position, comparing floor space and views like they were on one of those TV house-hunting shows, and heading for the basement.

The lowest acknowledged level of 14 Zephyr Street had all the trappings of a wine cellar without a single bottle left over from the previous occupant. By the general lack of dust, it was well stocked and well used prior to the clothier’s departure. Gary hadn’t written it so one way or the other, so he wondered whether Marliss ever knew he had a sub-basement hidden away below.

Gary’s hand traced along the edges of the wall, searching for a release. The basement level was ever so slightly smaller than the footprint of the house above that a careless resident could easily have overlooked it.

d20: 10 + (Search +8) + (Gotta Be Here Somewhere +4) = 22

For some reason, the hidden door eluded him. He kept looking.

d20: 14 + (Search +8) + (Seriously, You Know It’s There +8) = 30

Aha!

Gary’s finger slipped into a gap in the mortar of the foundation and felt the door release.

Footsteps scuffed on the stone stairs from above, accompanied by panting and the scratching of claws. Gary yanked his hand out of the crevice before anyone saw him pawing around in the walls. “Gary? Oh, there you are, silly,” Braeleigh said from the stairs. “You’ve got last pick of rooms, but this place has more than enough.”

“I’ll be right up.”

“Ooh,” Braeleigh said, stepping down the rest of the way into the wine cellar. “Anything left to drink down here? This feels like a day to celebrate, but I don’t think we have enough money between us to buy a decent grape-wine.”

Gary smirked that she felt the need to specify the type of wine when grape was the Earthly default option. Her own ancestors in-world would have been just as likely to have made their wine from elderberries, rice, or plums as grapes.

“You’d think so but no,” Gary said. “Fast as Marliss cleared out, he didn’t leave behind so much as a cork to sniff.”

Braeleigh sighed wistfully. “Too bad. I don’t think a place feels like home until you’ve passed out drunk in it.”

It was an odd insight into Katie that Braeleigh felt that way. That sentiment certainly hadn’t been included in Gary’s overview of elven culture—or human, for that matter.

“Well, I’ll pick something out later. I don’t mind having the fifth best room.”

“Sixth,” Braeleigh said. “Caspian got the room next to mine.”

Gary blinked. “Caspian got a pick before me?”

“Zeeto set the rules,” she explained, then cleared her throat. “I believe he called it ‘dibs.’”

“Lemme guess,” Gary said dryly. “Zeeto ended up with the lord’s chamber.”

Braeleigh snorted in unladylike fashion. “If you want to call it that. It’s barely bigger than the other rooms.”

It all made sense now. Zeeto had spoken with Marliss on the sly, thinking no one else was noticing. The shifty halfling must have been asking for intel on the best rooms in the house. Zeeto then laid down the guidelines for room selection on a first come, first serve basis and made a beeline for the clothier’s personal bedroom.

Gary did some quick math. “If five rooms are taken, does that mean the entire third floor is full?” He’d designed the place with five ideal bedrooms for a party of five, never imagining that he’d be one of the five, let alone competing with a pet for a full-sized room.

Braeleigh smiled and laid a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “It does. But some of the second-floor rooms are pretty great too.”

Gary could have put up a stink. Calling together the whole party, he could probably have forced a vote, and even Zeeto might have sided with him over the juvenile wolf for getting a room on the top floor. Instead, he threw out one last try at an amicable resolution.

“I’m surprised Caspian didn’t want to sleep in your room,” Gary said.

Braeleigh knelt down and ruffled the young wolf’s fur. His steady—and frighteningly quick—growth was a testament to Braeleigh’s rapid advancement in level. “Oh, he wanted to sleep in my room. But what if I have a gentleman caller? If I find my elven prince, I don’t want to have this lovable mop of fur watching us. Girl’s got to have space to herself. But don’t worry, I’m sure one of the second-floor rooms will be fine.”

Tumbler’s clicked into place. With the top floor filled, he’d have time and space aplenty to access the basement undisturbed. “You know what? I actually think I like that servants’ barracks off the kitchen.”

“The servants’ quarters?” Braeleigh echoed. “Really? Oh, Gary, you’re not a servant, even if we do appreciate the fact that you can cook. And hope that you make us breakfast tomorrow morning. Eggs… sausage… nothing fancy.”

Gary shrugged, fighting the impulse to look over at the spot where he knew the secret door lay. “Sure. I’ll run to the market before dawn.”

Braeleigh leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re the best!” Then she scurried up the stairs, not bothering to disguise her eagerness to explore the rest of the house.

Gary headed up after her. He’d take the servants’ barracks, all right. With two floors between him and the rest of the party, that would give him unfettered access to the sub-basement.

And the secrets it held.

28

That night, while the rest of the party slumbered two floors above, Gary slid out of his bedroll and lit a lantern. Without furnishings, 14 Zephyr Street was less luxurious than all but the saddest of inns, but at least it was theirs. Temporary poverty aside, it would become a warm, cozy refuge from the horrors faced by all successful adventurers.

But for now, it was a puzzle box with a hidden secret that Gary already knew about.

Tiptoeing despite the unlikelihood of anyone hearing him with so much solid stone architecture in the way, he made his way down the conveniently accessible stairway to the wine cellar.

He started at the sight of Miriasa Starlight laid out on the floor atop the blanket that had concealed her on their journey through the city. Beldrak had set her down there as a respectful hideaway from prying eyes and any visitors who might come calling. Still, the sight of a humanoid form gave Gary a momentary fright.

Pausing beside her, Gary studied the elf woman’s face. So human, yet so clearly not. Her staring eyes were amber, widened in a state of sudden surprise. The pale, nearly alabaster skin warmed at the cheeks with a flush. Her hair was a hue closer to real gold than blonde, and the delicate ears that peeked through the wild, stasis-bound tangle tapered to an acute point, longer than Gary’s hand.

For all his intent study, he dared not touch her. Neither the elf nor the world at large would have been the wiser had Gary traced those luxuriant ears with a finger or stolen a kiss from those gasping lips. But he would have.

Gary would sooner have played Black Sabbath in the Sistine Chapel than lay a fingertip upon that frozen form. Beldrak had borne her all the way from Gelzhearth with the grim, apologetic necessity of carrying a noble dame from a burning villa.

With a shuddering breath and a blink to force the hypnotic allure of Miriasa from his eyes, Gary sought out the place he’d found hours earlier, before Braeleigh had come along to interrupt. The catch hidden in the masonry hadn’t moved, but when Gary reached in and pressed with a finger, the masonry itself did.

The grinding of stone sounded like an avalanche in the self-imposed silence. Deep down, Gary knew that no secret door worth its hinges would make enough noise to give itself away. That didn’t stop a cold sweat from breaking out under Gary’s arms as he watched the stairs, waiting for the door to finish revealing the passageway beyond.

Dust-choked air greeted him, forcing Gary to cover his nose and mouth with a sleeve as he held the lamp in front of him and ventured in. There was no chamber beyond, simply a landing and a set of crude stone stairs leading downward.

“Funny. You’d think the craftsman who made the automatic door could have stuck around to make some decent stairs,” he muttered to himself. Steeling against the cloying darkness ahead, Gary appreciated the sound of his own voice. If anyone could hear him this far down, he should have been discovered long before now.

The stairs made a U-turn and ended at an oaken door with rusted iron hinges. With a quick tug, Gary confirmed that the door wasn’t locked. It creaked ominously but allowed him beyond.

A slow grin spread on Gary’s face when he saw inside.

The room glowed with pale yellow light from wall sconces enchanted to give the appearance of torchlight. The lantern was no longer required, so Gary shut it off. Inside, tables and bookshelves crowded around. A silver-inlaid diagram dominated the room, carved into a single, black marble slab larger than the other stones that comprised the floor. To the average fourth-level bard, it would have been merely a disquieting hint of magical experimentation.

To the one who’d drawn up the plans for 14 Zephyr Street, it was a little-used demon-summoning protective glyph placed there by a prior occupant with greater skill in carving than the arcane arts.

Nothing of value had been left behind, but that was fine by Gary. This was a refuge for a persecuted arcanist to continue his research in a city that would have hanged him had they known his secret. The room was equal parts laboratory, library, and study. There was even an emergency exit to the sewers, though it might not have been possible to conceal again once used.

Unslinging his pack, Gary took out Randal Vintner’s spellbook. Everyone had heard the ghostly wizard speak and being the only one willing to ferry the skull back for proper burial was a mark of bravery that flew in the face of common superstition.

Trifling with the wizardly trappings left behind was a different matter entirely. Daring to peruse it for the first time without fear of someone catching him looking, Gary held his breath.

The pages were gibberish.

“Fuck!” Gary shouted, slamming the cover shut. Sneaking, creeping, conniving plans of switching Paths to Arcana shriveled before his uncomprehending eyes.

It was one thing swapping from Warrior to Ranger. Different Path powers, new weapon skills. It was all part of the package. Failing to include a blanket understanding of the arcane language for the whole Path of Arcana was a game design oversight, the sort of thing that Gary would have corrected on the fly had anyone been in his present bind. But Gary didn’t want to wait four more levels to work his way back down the Path of Arcana to learn the lingo. He’d hoped that it would have been as simple as his ability to understand the dwarven tongue.

But dwarf speech wasn’t a Path power; arcana was.

Closing his eyes, Gary rested his elbows on the table with the book and tapped his fingertips together. “Think… think…”

There were plenty of things he could do as a wizard without being able to read magical script. He’d cross over at Arcana 4B, which would get him an Arcane spell, not even a mere Lesser Arcane Spell. The list of options he could learn for free would stand him in good stead in a fight, but he’d be a one-trick pony. Being able to read the spellbook in front of him, Gary would have been able to cast anything inside so long as he had sufficient power and the text in front of him to read aloud.

Shaking his head, Gary came to the conclusion he’d been hoping to avoid. “Not worth the risk. Getting burned at the stake for being able to cast a lightning spell… just can’t do it.”

Lighting his lamp and leaving the spellbook behind on a shelf, Gary closed up behind him and headed back to bed.

29

Morning came, and Gary provided his promised breakfast of eggs and sausage, paid for out of the proceeds from selling his rapier. No one asked where he’d gotten the money to stock their meager larder, but after breakfast, Zeeto revealed that he had, in fact, managed to hold out from Marliss’s demands for every bit of wealth the party could scrounge.

“Ought we find a courier and set to right our deal with fair-minded Marliss?” Beldrak asked.

Zeeto snorted. “He can sit on a unicorn’s head for all I care. He took everything he could get. You’re lucky I was able to hide these babies away, or we’d be camping in our own house every night from now until we come across a moneymaking adventure.” He fiddled with two pale yellow gemstones the size of a halfling’s knuckle.

“Ooh, beds?” Braeleigh asked. “It’s one thing sleeping on a bedroll on comfy forest soil, but on a cold stone floor? No thank you. If we can’t afford beds for everyone, I’d even be willing to share.” She must have caught Gary’s blush because she hastily added, “With Sira. Don’t you boys get any ideas.”

Sira eyed the perky elf up and down. “We’ve got enough rooms. Rather the floor.”

“Then it’s settled,” Zeeto said, thumping a fist on the floor where a kitchen table ought to have been. “Furniture shopping it is!”

The whole party spent the morning picking over the remains of refugees’ homes, bargaining with soon-to-be-former residents over beds, tables, dressers, wardrobes, and chairs deemed too bulky to travel with. Not everyone had the means of Marliss Wauldertot to pack up every twig and nail from their home onto wagons.

Gary was huffing and panting for breath with a dining room chair in both hands. The simple wooden seat had seemed light enough when they’d picked it up from the home of a widower rethinking his choice of retirement venue since the quake. Block by block, however, it had gained an invisible weight, as if some trickster god were piling it with pebbles for every step Gary took.

Arms burning, lungs aching, the house at 14 Zephyr Street was in sight. Up ahead, Braeleigh and Sira carried a bed frame while Zeeto balanced a chair identical to Gary’s atop his head by the seat, balancing it with his hand as the high back came near to tripping him by the heel at every step. Beldrak, in the lead, carried the table to match their set without any sign of difficulty.

“Huh?” Braeleigh said, cocking her head as she reached the top of the steps leading to their front door. “Did we forget to close it?”

Gary’s heart quickened.

With a flip over his head, Zeeto set his chair down, hopped the seat, and vaulted up to the top of the stairs. In an instant, his dagger was out, and he was peering inside. “Someone jimmied the door. I closed and locked it myself.”

Sira glanced all around. “We’re not in combat…”

So, Gary mused, they can sense Initiative, whether or not they can put it into words.

Beldrak drew his greatsword. “Would that it remain thus. I fearest therein lies the rub. ’Tis not we who might choose whether tea or blood is our noontime treat.”

“Ale for me,” Zeeto muttered. “Whoever’s robbing us is both stupid and unlucky. We’ve got nothing in there worth the trouble, and his lungs are going to be a new sheath for my dagger.”

“Ew,” Braeleigh said. “If you make his lungs into a sheath, I’m not rooming next to you. The smell would—”

“Shh,” Sira hissed. The priestess muttered a prayer and a holy aura enveloped her. Gary made a quick note that she’d learned Acolyte’s Aura at fourth level on the Path of Piety.

Acolyte’s Aura: +2 Armor Rating. Lasts until preventing 5 hits.

Nice for Sira. Not much use to anyone else, other than the fact that Sira was less likely to die and hence more likely to stick around a fight long enough to keep the rest of them up and fighting.

“Hey,” Braeleigh said. “Where’s your rapier?”

Gary rolled his eyes. “You all ate it for breakfast this morning.” He swung his lute around and gripped the fretboard, ready to play. “You get the performing bard today, not the swashbuckler.”

Zeeto crept inside, pressing a strip of cloth to the hinges to keep them from creaking. Lucky for all of them that the uppermost hinge wasn’t the noisy one or the trick wouldn’t have worked at all. Not for the first time, Gary wished he could see everyone else’s rolls to know what kind of bonus that maneuver granted him.

Gary tiptoed as carefully as he could while watching his footsteps.

d20: 2 + (DEX -1) + (Lute Gong -2) = -1

Gary saw the twenty-sided die tumble in his mind’s eye, cringing when he saw the 2 come up. Before he could begin to puzzle out the meaning of the cryptic penalty he’d gotten, his unwieldy instrument banged against the door.

The hollow body of the lute echoed like a drum. Only the hand resting on the fretboard kept the instrument from ringing out an open chord as well. As all heads turned toward him in shock, surprise, and disgust, Gary hugged the lute to his body to muffle it.

“Sorry,” he mouthed.

A voice carried from the basement, smooth and tinged with sarcastic disdain. “Finally, someone back to save me from this tedious vacant hovel. What? Burglars in your own home? One of you, speak up.”

“Present thyself, knave,” Beldrak ordered, bellowing down the stairs as he crept down, greatsword held ready. “State thy name and purpose. Name also thy next of kin should ye offer violence.”

The cackling from below held genuine mirth. “Oh, wouldn’t that be rich? My name I’ve already given you sorry lot once. If you need it again, come look me in the eye. I daresay your memory will awaken from its torpor.”

Gary had recognized the voice in an instant. They’d heard it up at Previn’s Mine. The traveler, Kurgath, who’d threatened the half-orc mine owner.

The party slunk down into the wine cellar of 14 Zephyr Street as if it were the next lower level of a dungeon adventure. Yet still there had been no roll for Initiative. Silently, Gary prayed that there wouldn’t be one.

Once downstairs, they all appeared to recognize the wandering seeker of justice. Kurgath was dressed the same as last they saw him. If nothing else, he was dirtier and more road-dusted than before. He lounged against and empty wine rack beside Miriasa, caressing the magically suspended elf in the most vulgar and familiar ways as if there were no one watching to expose his shameful behavior.

“Leave her alone!” Braeleigh shouted, knocking an arrow and aiming it at Kurgath.

The man with the long, greasy hair and nobleman’s bearing didn’t so much as flinch. “Or what? You’ll kill me? With that?” He inclined his head to aim his aristocratic nose at Braeleigh’s bow.

Caspian let out a low growl, less cute than it had been three levels ago. He sounded more attack dog than puppy, though not yet full grown into his body.

“A thief thee be,” Beldrak said. “And thou defilest yon maiden with thy blackguard’s touch.”

Kurgath chuckled, stood, and offered a sneer that almost passed for a smile. “No maiden is this one. Married, childborne, and widowed before any of you were born. Miriasa Starlight is her name, if you hadn’t known it before. And presently her body is harder than stone—than diamond even. Would that I were man enough to defile her in such a state. Alas. But finding a careless she-wizard elf was not my intent in coming. Merely a happy accident.”

“Then why did you come?” Zeeto demanded, brandishing his dagger. “You can see we’ve got pretty much nothing.”

“We already told you we don’t know where that thief of yours is,” Gary said.

“Ah, the ever-elusive Nethel,” Kurgath said, baring his teeth. “Believe you or not, there is a shortage of able bodies in this region. Simply having escaped through the dwarven ruins proves you possess some talent for self-preservation.”

Zeeto cast Gary a private glance. He saw the question clearly in the halfling’s eyes: How did he know we were in that city?

Sira scowled and hooked her mace back on her belt. “Are you trying to hire us?”

“Hire is too strong a word,” Kurgath replied. “I simply wish to offer you a reward for my thief’s return. I would tell you dead or alive, but you lot seem the noble sort—for whatever that’s worth. Alive is fine. In pain is better. Any objects, wealth, or other possessions about his person you will assume to be my property and treat them accordingly. My property is more important than revenge but make no mistake; I want both.”

Zeeto tucked his dagger away. “Hold on a minute. I don’t know the guy’s name, but I remember your description from before. Mr. Blandy Blando, pressed-from-the-copper-coin-mold-at-the-mint human. But there’s been a pretty average-looking human around Club Talis. You can find it in the back room of Treva’s Pawn Shop on the other side of town. Place is filled with thieves. Even if this Nethel character isn’t around anymore, someone’s got to know where he is.”

Kurgath frowned and stroked the patchy stubble along his jawline. “If your information turns out to be useful, I’ll make sure you are compensated… justly.”

With that, Kurgath breezed past everyone. He ignored Braeleigh’s arrow tracking his every step and Caspian’s increasingly loud growl as he drew close. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone, nor did anyone attempt to block his exit.

They waited in tense silence until their own front door slammed shut.

Gary wasn’t the only one to let out a held breath at the sound. “Glad that’s over with. Nice bluff.”

Zeeto shrugged. “Figured, we got enough people jamming the pointy ends of their business into our tender backsides that we might as well point them at each other.”

“Thou hast imparted falsehood to a hand that would don red without a heartbeat’s pause,” Beldrak warned.

Zeeto snorted. “Didn’t hear any objections while I was getting rid of him. And you’re welcome. Besides, never said I knew where that fella was. I just strongly suggested that if it’s a thief that Kurgath moron was looking for, Club Talis was where to find one.”

“Perchance, how didst thee know the nest whence those vipers came?”

“We had a map,” Zeeto said with a straight face. “I’m good with directions so long as we’re in a city. Don’t come at me with mountains and rivers and that bunk. But don’t try to get me lost in a sewer beneath a well-ordered city.”

For some reason, Gary wasn’t rolling Intuition checks against those lies. Was that yet another of his gaming credos come home to roost? If he let players roll their own Intuition checks, that was either as good as telling them someone was lying or liable to result in a time-choking number of pointless rolls in casual conversation.

Either way, the halfling had indeed gotten the better of Kurgath that afternoon.

“Hey!” Zeeto said cheerily. “I also just leveled up!”

“You’ve reached the fifth ring of the Paths of Power already?” Sira asked dubiously.

“No… fourth,” Zeeto said, suddenly on the defensive.

Sira snickered. “Who here wasn’t already on the fourth ring?”

Zeeto looked to his left and right, tentatively raising his little hand.

Poor, poor Marty. He was always coming up on the short end when it came to minor XP bonuses because he couldn’t immerse himself in the game without devolving into the comic relief. Gary hadn’t even wondered, when he barely inched over the threshold to level 4, if any of his friends had been left behind.

“Don’t mind me,” Zeeto said. “I just need to choose my Path. You guys can keep loading furniture into the house.”

Despite Zeeto’s obvious evasion, the halfling joined back in on the moving day efforts after a surprisingly short break.

By the time dinner crept up on them, most of the rooms had the bare essentials. Beds, tables, chairs… Zeeto had even gone so far as to procure a full array of kitchenware, eager for Gary to have the tools he needed to make them proper meals.

As the last load of dishes was being carted in for the day’s haul, Sira pointed to the northeastern sky. “That’s a lot of smoke, isn’t it?”

Everyone carried in their final loads and rushed up three flights of stairs to the roof of 14 Zephyr Street. Despite the presence of several taller buildings in the way, it was impossible to mistake the signs of a building fire.

“What do you think it means?” Braeleigh asked. “Did, like, one of the cracked roads split all the way to magma or something?”

Gary stared. Mentally, he plotted the city map in his head. Where was that fire? When he was fairly certain he knew, Gary fixed a stare on Zeeto until the halfling met his eye. “Zeeto… I’m taking bets on that being Treva’s Pawn Shop. How much you willing to wager against me?”

“No bet.”

They watched the bonfire smoke of the Talis Guild’s headquarters burn into the night. When dusk and then twilight hid the still-spewing plume of smoke from view, they ventured back inside.

From the somber tone of the evening meal, Gary could only imagine the thoughts that each was chewing on along with their mutton.

30

Morning came and with it a check of the northeast skies. The flames and smoke had died away. The polite rumors around Durrotek held that a pawn shop had been stocking some exotic liquors from Quay Shai that had caught fire and spread out of control. But as he toured the local produce and dairy markets for ingredients for their morning meal, Gary checked around for the true story.

d20: 13 + (Investigate +4) + (You Sent Him There +2) = 19

A greengrocer perked up at the way Gary worded his casual inquiry, setting down a crate of winter squash. “Yeah. Brandy they said. Hogwash. Way I hear it, some foreign wizard had a bee up his nose with those Talis buggers who hung out around there. Opened the gates of elemental fire and fed ‘em in like coals on a forge.” He spat on the cobbled street outside his stall. “Good enough for ‘em. Two less gold a week out of my pocket.”

“Protection money?” Gary asked. He’d never explicitly set up the underworld economics of Durrotek, not to that granular a level of detail, at least. It was fascinating how this place filled in the missing pieces between what he’d outlined, like mortar for a masonry wall.

“Some protection,” the greengrocer said with a grunt. “Best bet, it’ll be a week or two before them Talis boys get their act back together or someone moves in to fill the void. Just the way the world works.”

Gary offered a tight, commiserating smile before paying for a grapefruit and taking his leave. When he was out of earshot, he muttered a quiet “sorry” for writing the world that made life so hard for a common working man.

Later that morning, while everyone was enjoying the breakfast Gary had cooked, the topic of Kurgath rose, carefully avoiding the cataclysm across town.

“Something he said bothers me,” Sira said, setting down her fork to clatter on an empty plate.

“Really?” Zeeto asked. “You can narrow it down to one?”

“He knew Miriasa,” Sira said. “By sight alone. We didn’t bring the plaque with her name. And he claimed she was a wizard.”

Braeleigh was taking a third helping of eggs and spoke with her mouth full. “Nothing wrong with that. Elf wizards didn’t fall to darkness as easily as humans. You can see the goodness in her eyes.”

“Perchance thy fair-minded eye sees naught but its own reflection,” Beldrak suggested gently. The statement bordered on criticism, something largely reserved for enemies and law-bending halflings.

Gary stepped in. “No, she’s right. Wizards are a coin toss among our kind, but the elves weren’t as prone to shortcuts. Slow and steady, they kept their power corralled within their wisdom. It’s easier when you know you’ve got hundreds of years ahead of you. In the race against the swifter hounds of time, who can blame humans for seeking a shorter path?”

“Their victims,” Sira said bluntly.

Braeleigh slapped her fork down on the table. “Look. We said we wanted to help her. She’s an elf. My people. If you all want to get cold feet, fine. But I’m totally not giving up on her. I’ll unfreeze her myself if I have to, wizard or not. You know, I’ve always sort of wanted a big sister who wasn’t half my age or less. I’m not going to let some stupid human superstitions get in my way.”

“I’ll help.”

They all looked to Gary. It had become unusual for him to take a stand. He was their comic relief, alongside Zeeto, and occasionally a font of inexplicably on-point knowledge.

Beldrak fixed Gary with a stern, disappointed look. “Thinkest thou on the burden of loosing yet another sorcerous power upon the world. Stomp thy foot on the side of goodness and ye shan’t over-match the wizard’s lazy finger upon the balance of ill.”

Gary wasn’t going to let a paladin talk to him like that. “Makoy demands the faith of his servants in the cause of justice. The concept of justice precludes prejudice. You cannot judge someone on your own fears. ‘Let each be judged according to his worth of spirit and of action. No man shall suffer for crimes he hath not committed.’”

Beldrak shook his head slowly. “Nay. ’Tis true, the word of Makoy. But the practice of sorcery is the crime upon which the wizard be judged. ’Tis not a fickle decree or abdication of mine holy oath.”

“No, it was the fickle decree of King Dieter in 474. He had his own court wizards executed for conspiracy on flimsy evidence and ordered the murder of all others in the kingdom as pawns of the orcs’ demon god.”

There was silence around the table.

Sira was the first to break through the locked stare down between Beldrak and Gary. “Let’s leave aside the treasonous talk for the moment and—”

“Truth isn’t treason,” Gary said quickly. He was hammering on the doctrine of Makoy like a boxer with his opponent on the ropes, counting on Beldrak’s piety to overcome royal dogma. “You want to know why there are so few bards in the land? Because old stories and songs often contain an uncomfortable truth, like a burr in the metal of a crown where it sits upon a king’s head. Better to buff out the burr than let a callus form and bear it.”

The furrow of Beldrak’s frown deepened. At last, he tore his glance away and shook his head. “Thy study of lore never ceases its surprise. My mind was returned to a squire’s body, hearkening once more to the lessons of Grandmaster Hylleth. The armor of thy words hast no chink. In conscience, I cannot condemn Lady Miriasa to eternal vigil for the crime of a profession practiced ‘ere it came to disrepute. Thou hast shamed me, and in amends, I shall lend my blade to aught that aid in her release.”

Braeleigh beamed. “Have I ever told you how hot it is when you speak human with all those pretty words?”

Beldrak’s face went blank. Hidden well by the dark hue of his flesh, Gary still thought he caught a hint of flush on those strong cheeks.

“I’m in,” Zeeto said. “I’m not letting this beefcake armor mannequin make me look like a sissy. But I’ve got a condition. If she grants wishes or anything, I get first dibs.”

“I’m calling shenanigans on dibs,” Gary replied. “No more dibs-ing things.”

“Whatever,” Zeeto said. “But any wishes, spells, or favors she can grant—whatever kind they might be—I’m getting my share.”

With four of the five in accord, they looked to Sira. She sat, arms crossed in front of her like a shield wall awaiting a cavalry charge. The muscles of her jaw stood out.

“Mercy,” Gary said softly.

A finger shot out in his direction. “Don’t you start with me! I don’t know when you found time to study dwarven architecture, songwriting, and the litany of Makoy, but if you start pulling out Sevius doctrine against me, so help me Garrim, I will convert to a sect that will laud me for knocking your teeth out.”

Zeeto brightened. “You know, the priestesses of Garrim wear skin-tight black leather that shows the tops of their—”

The halfling’s words cut off abruptly when a no-look backhand from Braeleigh caught him upside the head and toppled him to the floor.

“’Tis oft said that the most fervent of objections precedeth surrender.”

“Whatever,” Sira grumbled. “I can’t let you lunkheads go off by yourselves. You’d be dead before your second random encounter. But like Zeeto, I’ve got a condition. When this wizard turns out to be an evil hag, I get unlimited I-told-you-sos and a double share of treasure that goes straight to the temple coffers.”

“Sounds fair,” Gary said, unconcerned. He looked away since Zeeto’s stray comment had planted the image in his mind of Kim cosplaying as a disciple of Garrim, right down to the black leather domino mask and corset.

“Anyone got ideas on how to thaw an elf lady?” Zeeto asked. “And don’t bother trying the Gem of Eternity. I tapped, rested, rubbed, and threw it at her, and nothing happened.”

“You what?” Sira exclaimed.

Beldrak pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thy judgment lieth at the fathomless depth of the sea. Wherefore didst thou liberate the cause of Lady Miriasa’s calamity? The rough handling thee tell could have left us a mismatched pair of statues instead of one.”

“I was careful,” Zeeto replied. “Gloves, cloth wrapped all over me. Wasn’t a chance of it touching skin. And you were going to have to suggest going back to Gelzhearth if I hadn’t taken it. Weren’t you?”

Gary took Beldrak’s silence as an affirmative.

“Then where do we start looking?” Sira asked testily.

Braeleigh lifted her head from feeding scraps to Caspian. The wolf pup ate noisily from a plate on the floor. “Oh, I have an idea. But we’ll need a map. Durrotek has a library, doesn’t it?”

31

Durrotek’s civic library wasn’t a threat to the Library of Alexandria for containing priceless pieces of history. It did, however, contain numerous hand-drawn maps of northwestern Kovia by a variety of cartographers during different eras including several that predated the founding of the city.

It was one of those ancient maps where Braeleigh found what she was looking for.

That afternoon, the party left the eastern gate of Durrotek behind them and ventured into the wilderness. None of them had any particular skill with art, so the copied map was badly scaled and childish in its rendition. Gary had picked up enough casual references in Braeleigh’s assurances of getting them to their destination that he worked out that the elf had chosen Overland Navigation as her Trick at third level. That alone was the only reason Gary agreed to go along with the venture without procuring help.

“So, why’s this place called the Temple of Twilight, anyway?” Zeeto asked, turning the map sideways, then upside down, as if some new perspective might force the squiggles and notations to make sense.

Braeleigh replied without turning back. “Because humans stuttered over trying to pronounce its real name. Château du Crépuscule sounds beautiful from elven lips but like a child vomiting when a human tries to say it.”

Footsteps crunching on fallen leaves amid an endless expanse of oaks, Zeeto trudged onward, unwilling to let the subject go. “No. I mean the name itself. If it’s in the middle of a forest, I doubt it gets a great view of the sunset. Or maybe it’s really tall? Maybe seeing the horizon over the treetops could be pretty, if you’re into that sort of thing—which I assume most elves were. Or maybe it was metaphoric since elves are a race in their twilight to begin with.”

Braeleigh whirled. “Elves are not dying out. We had a population crash since we were the ones fighting the orcs on the front lines. My parents, my grandparents, and every aunt, uncle, cousin, and neighbor I knew was killed so that ungrateful little sneak-thieves like you could live free and easy. But I’m not giving up. We’re going to find a cure for Miriasa Starlight, and whether or not she wants to help, I’m going to work on making sure my people have a future.”

Cowering under her glare, Zeeto raised a finger. “Point of order, any two can tango, but it takes a mixed pair for parenting.”

“I know that!” Braeleigh snapped. “One problem at a time. I am totally going to sort that out in due time. My future mate is out there somewhere, looking just as hard for me as I am for him.”

As the elven ranger simmered down and returned to leading the expedition, Sira came over and spoke in low tones to Gary. “Should we draw lots to break the news to her? Elves are notoriously romantic. Raised by humans, she probably expects to find a man and have him sweep her off her feet like a storm surge after a hurricane. More likely she’ll have to woo him for decades before he’ll kiss her cheek.”

“Since when are you an expert on elven romance?” Gary asked.

Sira flushed. “I… It’s just… It’s none of your business what I like to read in my own free time!” Their time walking side by side ended as the priestess veered wide of Gary’s path.

Times like this were when Gary wondered how much he was seeing of the player beneath the character. Somehow, he had a hard time imagining Kimberly Tanaka sitting curled up on her couch under a blanket reading steamy romance novels. She played Counterstrike. She blogged about whitewashing in anime. To the best of Gary’s knowledge, she’d had one boyfriend and one girlfriend in the eight or so years he’d known her and ruled out both genders.

Was Sira the woman beneath Kim Tanaka or an artfully constructed mask? It wasn’t until that accidental near-admission of reading elven romance that he’d even questioned it. Aside from possibly Beldrak, the rest of them were all so much like his friends that Gary didn’t bother drawing the distinction.

Although, for once, it was fun being able to make fun of Marty for being short.

Night fell, and the party set up camp around a crackling fire. Sira had lit it from a holy flame, yet another new power revealed from character sheets Gary couldn’t see.

“Need me to take a watch tonight?” Gary asked. He held up a quarrel for his crossbow, Hair Splitter. “I’m armed.”

“How about that Lullaby thing you can do?” Zeeto asked. “This frozen turf is made of horseshoes and doorknobs.”

“Thy heft o’er-match thy bedroll as thy stomach o’er-match thy sense,” Beldrak said.

“Easy for you to say, sleeping in a tin can,” Zeeto said. “You could sleep on a bed of nails and the nails would come out the worse for it.”

“Maybe you just need a friend,” Braeleigh suggested, squirming into her own bedroll. If her sly comment was enough to raise lewd hopes in the halfling’s mind, they were dashed as Caspian curled up for the elf to rest her head upon. The wolf pup was just large enough to make a proper head pillow and seemed to relish the role.

Sira sighed. “I’ll take first watch with Gary.”

As everyone else settled in, Gary and Sira sat side by side on a fallen log within close reach of the fire. Gary strummed out a makeshift lullaby to the tune of Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters,” hoping that he could at least get his heavy metal fix indirectly on a song that was anything but edgy.

d20: 4 + (Music +8) = 12

Sira sighed and rested against Gary shoulder to shoulder as the song finished. Yawning, she shook off her lethargy once freed from the bardic magic. “That one wasn’t so bad. You are getting better.”

“Thanks,” Gary said softly, though the chorus of snores suggested his caution against waking the others was misspent.

“I don’t read that tripe anymore,” Sira said. “It’s all written by humans, anyway, so who knows how accurate it is? For all I know, Braeleigh might be right, that every elf out there is looking to fill cradles and start a new generation, romance or not.”

“It gives her hope, either way,” Gary said. “Thanks for agreeing to come with us.”

“Mercy,” Sira muttered. “It’s hard, sometimes, following a credo when you know it’s leading you down a dangerous path. Thanks for reminding me that the challenges of the Path of Piety are the reason it’s worth pursuing. And thanks for not being like I thought bards all were.”

“What’s that mean?” Gary asked.

Sira fought back a yawn. “You know. Slick talkers. The kind who untie girls’ undergarments with their tongues.”

“Nice trick,” Gary murmured.

Sira elbowed him playfully. “You know what I mean. I expected you were all songs and seduction. You’re certainly pretty enough. I see the effect you have on Braeleigh. She wants full-blooded elf children in the worst way, but she’d fall like an autumn leaf into your bed if you half tried. And you haven’t made a single move on me.”

Gary tensed. “It’s not that I—”

Sira placed a finger over his lips. “Don’t ruin this. I’m not offended or jealous or anything. I wanted to adventure to shape the world for the better, not be a bedtime playmate for greater heroes. My elder sister dropped out of acolyte training to bear her first child. Now I have five nieces and nephews and no sister in service to Sevius.”

“It doesn’t have to be one way or the other,” Gary said. “Not that I…”

“No. I get it. You’re not good with women. That’s probably half the reason I’m willing to tell you this. Beldrak seemed safe enough when we first met. And who can’t blow off a halfling’s advances? Braeleigh seemed fine chasing fantasy men of her own kind. I was against you from the start because you felt dangerous.”

“Me? Dangerous?”

“You’ll get more dangerous as you progress along the Path of Music. One day you might realize that seduction is easy if you set aside your honor. I just wanted to let you know that your self-control hasn’t gone unnoticed or unappreciated.”

Gary tested the waters. “Maybe, to be safe, I should cross over to the Path of Arcana,” he said with a lopsided smile.

Sira stiffened. “Please don’t joke about that. I was almost never born because of wizards. My great grandfather died days after conceiving my grandmother. Wizards’ work. Roasted alive like a pitch-soaked torch. You’ve shown willpower, sure. But I’d take a boorish, groping Gary over a mind-raping, pyromaniac demonologist if you’re going to fall from that pedestal I just put you on.”

Gary swallowed. “Duly noted.” For a moment, he hoped for an attack to break the awkward silence that followed.

Then, with Sira’s weight heavy on his shoulder, Gary realized that he was the only one awake. He jostled the priestess as her snores threatened to summon bears from their hibernation.

A voice that reverberated through the forest caught Gary’s full attention. “Worry not. Their slumber is complete. I came in response to a curiously bold summons, Gary Burns.”

32

The figure that strode among the trees toward Gary was easily nine feet tall, completely human looking, and bare chested. It had the sort of physique that sculptors used to portray perfection of body, so idealized as to appear unattainable. Bathed in back-lit golden radiance, the god in mortal guise entered the campsite and trod among the slumbering mortals without leaving any footprints.

“I have given you your name, Gary Burns,” the god stated. Though his mouth moved, the sound of his voice came from every direction. “Now tell me mine.”

The omnipresence of voice alone wasn’t enough to awe Gary. He’d come from a world of surround sound and home theater systems with enough subwoofer kick to shake his ribs. He’d been to IMAX movies. This being in front of him was almost too unreal to intimidate.

As for the question, Gary knew it was meant as a test. But if that was the case, this god was going to have to do better. “You’re Makoy, god of all things noble, true, and honorable,” he replied. “I know you by the symbol on your amulet and the golden hue of your halo of divine radiance. May I presume that my message arrived via Randal Vintner?”

Makoy placed his fists on his hips. “The wizard’s claim was bold, as I have already stated. He came before my judgment as one unjustly kept below on Pellar. Normally, I would have allowed him to discharge his duty and ignored your entreaty. You hold no obligation over me. And yet…”

“Curiosity,” Gary said simply.

“Indeed,” Makoy replied. “The name Gary Burns is so obscure that few other than the gods have ever heard it whispered—at least until you took it as your own. Do you know that it is the name of the being that brought this world from the nothingness into the existence you see before you?”

“Yeah,” Gary replied. “That’s me.”

Makoy shook his head. “I do not understand. You are under no magical delusion, and your mortal mind appears intact. I grant to my paladins a fraction of my power to discern truth from lie. No mortal voice might slip a falsehood past my ear. I hear truth beneath lies, even the innocuous nothings that mortal society demands out of misguided politeness. I hear no falsehood in your words, and yet I still cannot believe them. Convince me that this universe is your creation, or I must spirit you away as an apostate to the true Gary Burns, lest he smite all of creation back to nothingness at his whim.”

“First off, I wouldn’t do that,” Gary said. “Second, give me a minute to think. Convince you… OK. How’s this. I know that Wegma tried to tempt you into an affair to make Jorambo jealous. You reported her actions, and the pair has been at odds ever since.”

“Gossip falls to mortal ears,” Makoy replied with a shake of his head. “You speak truth but nothing that couldn’t have reached mortal ears.”

Gary scowled. So, remembering all the Silmarillion-grade mythology he’d cooked up wasn’t going to be enough. Time to see how much Makoy knew. He climbed top his log seat to stand a hair closer to the god’s towering height. “I can see the whole Path of Power. Name a point along the nine rings.”

“Very well, mortal,” Makoy said. “But my humor has a finite end. Parlor tricks will have their limit. Name the first power on the ninth ring of the Path of Savagery.”

“Endless Rage,” Gary replied without hesitation. “No fatigue when a rage ends. Raging gives +4 To Hit and +12 Damage. It comes along with 1d12 hit points, a full +1 To Hit, and 4 skill points.”

The god fixed his eyes on Gary with suspicion. “Those terms. You should only have a vague notion of them. It was the will of Gary Burns that mortals not reduce their lives to numbers like a ledger column and lead lives as their senses showed them.”

“Well, that’s not working out great for me at the moment since my friends are oblivious to their real identities,” Gary said, scanning the ground where his sleeping companions lay. “Not that I dislike them in character, but I could be having a lot more fun if they remembered who they are.”

“If you are truly Gary Burns who created the cosmos and set it to motion at his whim, then simply will their minds to open.”

Gary had never considered that it might be that easy. He pursed his lips and stared. Remember… remember… remember, you dumbasses. You’re not really your characters. Don’t prove those nutjobs right that RPGs would make you lose all sense of reality. Darryl, you’re a CPA who drives a twenty-year-old Volvo, not a paladin. Kim, you work in human resources and earn money on the side reviewing PC games. Katie, you’re a part-time receptionist with a master’s degree and the cutest baby in the world. Marty, you’re my best friend and the only one who doesn’t treat me like a loser for being a college dropout. Zane, you…

Not here. Gary remembered that at the last second, just around the time he was realizing that willing stuff to happen just didn’t work.

“I don’t think I have that power while I’m in the world,” Gary said. “But hey, one of my friends is missing. We all should have appeared in the world at the same time, right outside The Uncommon Room in Durrotek. I never wrote how divine knowledge actually works, but is there an equivalent of a surveillance tape you can go back to look at to see if a guy named either Zane Fischer or Aster Hellcrack showed up around the same time?”

Makoy narrowed his eyes a hair. “It is enough that I acknowledge knowing the name. As you ought to be aware, it is against the divine covenant to provide direct aid to a mortal.”

“But you just said—”

“Do not question me!” Makoy boomed. “You may, indeed, be Gary Burns. And you may be merely testing my adherence to the covenant, as is your right. But in your present form, you are mortal, and I am divine. Do not seek to turn my own words against me like a confidence schemer. I will face my judgment from the Game Master for who I truly am.”

Gary held up both hands in apology. “OK. Got it. No helping mortals. Um, but can you maybe give me one piece of information that would theoretically only matter to an actual being from another cosmos?”

Makoy said nothing, merely crossing his arms and waiting.

“I know there’s a whole circular logic trap at work, but is this place really real? Did I actually create Pellar, or is it all just in my head as some overblown hallucination?”

Makoy backed away a step. “If you wished to strike fear into the heart of a god, the earnestness of that question succeeded. I have heard the philosophers bicker for centuries over the nature of the cosmos with no resolution. Fate alone may know the answer, if you do not. For my own part, I must believe that Pellar and the surrounding planes of existence are real. Without that belief, our lives mean nothing. If you wish to return to your own cosmos, Gary Burns, the only means I can imagine is death.”

With that, the god of justice, truth, and honor vanished.

33

When Gary was finally able to awaken Sira, the priestess was mortified for having fallen asleep on watch. Gary had to promise her that it had only been for a few seconds despite not knowing whether time even passed while Makoy had graced them with his presence.

And there was no sign that the god had been present at all.

Those surfboard-sized feet left no print. The divine light had faded. A whiff of incense and coconut oil had lingered in Gary’s nostrils after the god’s departure but hadn’t lasted long enough to even inquire whether Sira could smell it. The only thing Makoy had left was more questions.

Gary had created this universe. That much he knew to the core of his being. It existed in scribbled notes, spreadsheet printouts, and page upon page of graph paper, much of which had been scanned into PDF for the players to study. But inside the cover of the three-ring binder was one piece of information that the god Makoy had soaked in and taken as literal truth, written in block letters with a signature below like an artist.

Created by: Gary Burns.

He had been the one to outline the indirect interventionist policies of the gods. They held strict rules about how and when divine beings could aid mortals. Signs, portents, and omens had to be suitably vague to skirt those edicts. Clerical powers had to be earned according to the Paths of Power—no playing favorites. The meddling so rampant in the Greek epics of Homer and the Poetic Edda of Norse mythology weren’t meant to occur in Pellar.

Just as with the “no looking at each other’s character sheets” rule Gary had cooked up to focus on role-playing, he regretted tying a hand behind his back.

Makoy had believed him. The god of truth accepted that Gary wasn’t a madman and still wouldn’t lift a finger to help. Maybe he’d have been better off enlisting the aid of Deenee and taking his chances with the pantheon’s equivalent of the asshole genie in the lamp.

The malaise over Gary broke with the dawn.

He didn’t even remember falling asleep, but he woke to the sound of roasting rabbit over the campfire.

“Morning, lumberjack,” Zeeto said, carefully angling a skewered hunk of meat over the fire on the tip of his dagger. “Funny, but I think you snore on key.”

“Oversleeping’s no big deal,” Braeleigh said with a shrug. She was relaxing, propped against the trunk of a tree, hands folded across her belly. “We’ve got all day to get there and not that far to go.”

“Best then we be on our way,” Beldrak said, kicking dirt over the fire. “The diligent tortoise prevail over the indolent hare.”

“Hey!” Zeeto said, coughing over the cloud of dust from the paladin’s efforts to snuff their campfire. “Some of us take time to digest. I was going to have another helping.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Braeleigh said. “We either kill time here or at the temple site. It’s the Temple of Twilight, not the Temple of Whenever You Feel Like Getting There.”

Sira, who had been gathering her pack, paused with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“According to legend—which for context, is a firsthand account from my grandparents—the temple is only accessible during the time between sunset and the last light in the sky. Not counting the moon or stars, that is.”

Gary bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. He’d never created that legend. The rules about accessing the temple were true enough, but the background was Katie’s doing. He wished he could award roleplaying XP for expanding on his world’s history.

“Methinks I favor an early arrival,” Beldrak said. “Perchance the erstwhile habit of the place hath altered since the days of Braeleigh’s kin.”

“Fine with me,” Sira said. “If the rules have changes, maybe we get an early start. Worst case, we wait there instead.”

Gary didn’t object. The hike was the same either way. A belly full of breakfast or one full of lunch mattered little. The whole world felt different now with the coming and going of a god. Gary had seen minor magics in his time in Pellar thus far, but never until that nocturnal visitation had the place seemed, at once, both more and less real than Earth.

Not considering himself particularly religious, Gary had never felt the presence of the divine before. Makoy had been at once both awe-inspiring and—especially once he departed—disappointing.

The god could have torn Gary to shreds at a whim, frozen him awake in stasis for eternity, or banished him to another plane of existence. Gary knew all this because he’d written up the stats on Makoy and the other gods. The divine should have been incomprehensible, not, in essence, a level 50 multi-path paladin/cleric.

“Gary, for the love of Sevius, hurry up,” Sira shouted back to him. “I know Braeleigh says we’ve got no reason to hurry, but I’m not coming back for you if you get left behind.”

Realizing that he’d been dawdling while he mused, Gary quickened his pace.

Morning wore into afternoon. The party paused for a quick lunch and to refill their water skins in a stream. Then it was off again.

“Shh!” Braeleigh warned, hunkering low along a game trail they’d been following for the past hour. “Get down.”

The forest was uneven, featuring protruding roots and low hillocks that shortened line of sight to under a hundred feet in places. Gary pressed his back against a chest-high rock and slid down until his head was out of sight.

Brush rustled up ahead. A pale blue dress, ragged and plain spun, flashed across the path up ahead. Wearing that dress was a girl who Gary might have guessed at eight or nine years old if he hadn’t spotted the telltale long ears of an elf—or at the very least half-elf.

The girl hadn’t shown any signs of spotting them, bounding across the leaf-strewn forest floor like a startled doe.

Braeleigh wasn’t letting the girl’s presence go without comment. “Hello!” she shouted after the young elf.

The girl spun and held a finger to her lips, barely slowing. “Quiet! He’ll hear you!” she whispered harshly. With that, she took off once more.

Braeleigh had her bow in hand with an arrow nocked in seconds. “We’ve got to help her.”

No… no… no…

Gary didn’t want a fight here. “Maybe we should—”

d20: 1 + (DEX -1) = 1

The Initiative roll flashed across Gary’s consciousness, informing him that it was too late to avoid some form of conflict and adding that his contribution was going to be a long time coming.

Zeeto skulked back along their trail, circling around for a flanking attack. Gary lost sight of the halfling rogue long before he ought to have disappeared behind cover.

Braeleigh hopped a low mound and took cover behind the trunk of a gnarled oak. Sira headed to intercept the girl who’d continued her flight. Beldrak stepped out in plain sight, greatsword bared.

“Show thyself, knave!” the paladin bellowed. “Yonder lass shall either feel thy absence fully or gaze upon thy corpse.”

A string of angry words with a distinctly French accent came as his reply before the speaker switched to the human tongue. “Long way from home, knight. Turn back. Leave us in peace.”

Gary peeked over his boulder.

The elf who’d cursed and spoken looked old—quite a feat for an elf. His wrinkled brow fell into a warning scowl. Dingy gray hair hung in a braid that fell forward over his shoulder. The green, sleeveless tunic he wore appeared home-tailored and had seen better days—possibly better decades. The tip of one long ear was missing, and the other drooped with age. Somehow, for all the elderly trappings of his appearance, the bow held loose in hand managed to menace with the promise of death.

Braeleigh leaped from cover. “Who are you? Why are you chasing that girl?” Her tone held a mixture of wonderment and indignation.

The old elf narrowed one eye. “I am Luin Fernwind, once known as the Rainmaker. And I’m chasing Akota because no one else will do it.”

“Hast thou considered not harrying the lass at all?” Beldrak challenged.

“Of course, not,” Luin said, spitting on the ground. “Bumbling into city-dwelling oafs like you is reason enough why. Now get gone and leave us in peace.”

Gary spotted Zeeto. The halfling had circled around and come up on Luin’s blind side.

Without even looking back, Luin pulled his bowstring forward and fired it over his shoulder. The arrow stuck in the trunk of a tree just inches from the halfling’s nose.

“Zeeto, stop it,” Braeleigh warned. “Rainmaker isn’t here to—”

“I don’t go by that name any longer,” Luin warned. “I only gave it in case it might have held some meaning to you. The more I study that face of yours, though, the more I realize you’re young enough to have forgotten the war.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Braeleigh protested softly. “I lost my parents in the war. I was just twenty-six.”

Luin grunted. “Nearly Akota’s age. No excuse, then. But you walk like a human and speak their tongue without any accent. This isn’t your place any longer.”

“We’re here to find the Temple of Twilight,” Zeeto said. “For an elf.” He yanked the arrow from the tree beside him and hurled it back at the bowman.

“The Château du Crépuscule? No one has been there in ages,” Luin said. “Dark business there. None of you lot look like the sort who take advice to heart, so I won’t bother offering it.” He cupped a hand to his mouth and called into the deep woods. “Akota, the city-dwellers have earned you a reprieve. I’ll hunt and cook dinner. Let’s go.”

With a gentle shush of underbrush, the young elf slipped into view. She brushed hair from her face and used the gesture to hide the curious glance she shot Braeleigh before averting her eyes. Taking Luin by the hand, she allowed the elder elf to lead her away.

“I’m willing to take advice,” Zeeto called after them. “Look, one arrow of warning and I heeded right up. I can be taught! Hey! We’re doing this for an elf lady frozen like a statue by Orc War-era magic!”

Sira shushed him. “Let them go. That old elf could—”

Luin paused and looked over his shoulder. “Frozen, you say? Was this woman tall as my chin with hair like a wheat field beneath the dawn’s light and azure eyes with flecks of emerald? Did she have a cheek that curved to the palm of a lover’s hand and lips the shade of a blossoming carnation?”

Zeeto shook his head. “No. She looked like a regular elf.”

Sira backhanded him. “You knew her?”

Luin turned and strode away, taking his young charge in tow. “I thought so, once.”

Gary’s heart nearly broke at the pain and sorrow walled up behind those simple words. A complex, nuanced, and tragic relationship had sprung from a single sentence of backstory casually scratched on a sheet of notebook paper.

“Come on,” Braeleigh said gruffly, rubbing the back of her hand across one eye. “We don’t need him. I can find the Temple of Twilight without any help.”

Gary noted that she emphasized the human name.

34

Zeeto perched atop his pack, biting off hunks of jerky as quick as he could chew and swallow them. They’d been waiting as the sun set over the forest clearing, watching the warm light retreat up the trees on the eastern side until only the topmost leaves hung onto the day.

“Is there some weird magic effect at work, or do all sunsets take this long?” the halfling demanded.

“Thou hast never watched the sunlight fade and wondered that thy love hath beheld the same golden rays from across the wide country betwixt?” Beldrak asked. “Such a sunset vanishes in a whispered breath that fingers cannot clutch onto.”

Zeeto shrugged. “Don’t see how mooning over tavern girls will speed things up, but I’m willing to give it a try.” With that, the rogue closed his eyes and licked his lips lewdly.

All the while, Sira paced the clearing’s edge. “This feels like a waste of time. We ought to feel it if there were some titanic magic at work, shouldn’t we? Those stupid dwarven vaults had a faint buzz in the air around them. A missing castle ought to have more than that.”

“Temple,” Beldrak corrected mildly.

“I know a little elven,” Sira snapped. “It’s not a literal translation.”

“It’s true,” Braeleigh said.

Beldrak looked Gary’s way. “Thou hast been silent of late. Dost thy mind hang heavy on the words of that elder elf?”

“Does yours?” Gary asked, and Beldrak recoiled as if bitten.

“I thinketh not,” the paladin shot back. Then, turning away, he hung his head. “Fie! Thou hast untied the riddle of mine own mind. Let ill omen wither on the vine unharvested, but sound counsel spilled from elder mouth dost deliver the rot to thine doorstoop. Yet nor may we in hale conscience leave aside our duty and our quest.”

“Quit being a baby,” Braeleigh scolded, taking her eyes momentarily from the site where she promised the temple would appear. “Maybe it won’t be puppy piles and fresh-baked peach pie in there, but we’re going to prove to that crusty old Luin that we’re real elves.”

Zeeto raised a hand. “I intend to prove no such thing.”

They settled into an uneasy silence after that. Everyone found their own ways to pass the time. Sira paced. Beldrak brooded. Braeleigh kept her vigil as Caspian sniffed around the surrounding woods and marked trees. Gary played checkers with Zeeto on a board scratched into the dirt with a dagger.

The sun sank lower.

Gary glanced into the clearing, heart quickening in lock step with the sky as it darkened shade by shade. He caught the others stealing glances as well.

When the last of the daylight crept below the horizon, only visible in the upper reaches of the clouds, Braeleigh began to sing. The words were in French as far as Gary’s ears were concerned, a language he recognized more from fancy restaurant dishes than anything. But his failure to understand the lyrics didn’t make the melody any less haunting. Her rendition gave Gary pause, wondering whether Katie could actually sing in real life or if this was like her archery skill: learned in game.

At the conclusion of the song, a structure faded into view.

Five stories tall and carved from alabaster, the Temple of Twilight had the look of a European castle from the age when style took precedence over crenellations and murder holes. The lowest two floors had no windows at all, and of the three uppermost floors, only a single window glowed with eldritch blue light.

As the others stared in awe and wonderment, Zeeto brushed forest grime from the shins of his pants and strode toward the temple. “You guys hang here. I’ll climb up the outside, grab the glowing water, and be back in a jiff.”

“What makes you think it’s the water making that glow?” Sira asked suspiciously. “What do you know about this place?”

“That I don’t want to go through the inside, presumably fighting guardians that Braeleigh wants to pretend will be any friendlier than that bastard old elf. That no one ever hides the good stuff in the foyer beside the cloak rack and the rug to leave your wet shoes. That I’d like to be in and out of this place before twilight passes and we’re stuck in there for a full day—if we’re lucky. Need I go on?”

“I was entertained,” Gary said. “Sure.”

Zeeto made an obscene hand gesture.

Braeleigh looked up the side of the temple. “I wouldn’t recommend climbing.”

They all followed her gaze.

Several snake-like creatures with stubby legs twisted their way along the rooftop. Judging the distance, they had to have been longer than a man’s height and as thick around as an arrow quiver. Gary knew them instantly.

Name: Decapede Hit Points: 20 Damage: 1d6+3 (poison)

Cross between a centipede and a monkey. Prehensile hands with sticky fingertips make them excellent climbers on any surface. Carnivorous. Poison check against fortitude or paralyzed for 1d6 combat turns.

“Decapedes,” Gary supplied helpfully. There was no need for Zeeto to go up there and get killed to find out how dangerous they were. The guardian beasts were meant to harry a hasty exit from the temple. The idea of climbing up past them was bold, daring, and potentially a shortcut to the entire adventure—if the reckless climber survived. “They’re sort of a cross between a caterpillar and monkey. Those legs end in prehensile hands. The tips of their tails are barbed with paralytic stingers. Oh, and they’re carnivorous. They’ll eat you alive while you’re helpless to move.”

“New plan,” Zeeto said hastily. “Let’s stick together and try the front door.”

Beldrak unsheathed his sword. He shared a glance with Braeleigh. “Nay. I cannot abide such creatures at our backs. Thy arrow, my lady?”

d20: 17 + (DEX -1) = 16

Gary was shocked to find that he would be going early in the combat turn. Braeleigh’s arrow whistled off into the twilight gloom, striking her target. Gary fumbled Hair Splitter into position and took hasty aim at the same decapede.

d20: 3 + (To Hit +2) + (DEX -1) + (Partial Darkness -2) = 2

The decapedes charged down the wall just as Gary’s shot sailed over the temple roof to land gods-knew-where. But distance had its privileges as well. The creatures only made it halfway down the temple before the others in the party had a chance to act.

Zeeto vanished into the shadows.

Beldrak took up a defensive stance guarding both Braeleigh and Gary.

Sira chanted beneath her breath and raised her holy symbol of Sevius. A ray of amber light pierced the umber and scalded one of the decapedes with a hiss of purified flesh. It lost its grip on the wall, fell heavily to the ground, and lay still.

Braeleigh took another shot over Beldrak’s shoulder, plunking another arrow into a decapede’s meaty torso.

Reaching around behind him, Gary couldn’t quite grab his lute, spinning a full circle like a dog chasing its tail before giving up and trying an a cappella version instead. “These itsy bitsy crawlers came down to wipe us out. Arrows she loosed and shot them in the snout. Dawn brings the sun and resets the terrain, and the itsy bitsy crawlers won’t bother us again.”

Inspire: +2 To Hit

The decapedes reached the ground in a frenzy. Either they weren’t music lovers, they’d been inspired by the death of their comrade, or they were just trained to defend the Temple of Twilight without regard for their own well-being.

Beldrak stepped into the path of the first of the creatures as it headed straight for Braeleigh. He swept the Shard of Pellar down in an overhead chop that connected with a sickening crunch of bone.

Critical hit? Gary wondered. For the millionth time, he wished he could see their dice rolls.

Without warning, one of the decapedes shrieked in agony. Zeeto appeared as if blinking into existence with his dagger in the creature’s spine. When the shrieking ceased, the decapede lay still.

Sira’s Purifying Light prayer struck again, searing another of the decapedes but not killing it.

With the 4 to 16 Holy damage per prayer, Gary wondered how many of the creatures would have converted to the worship of Sevius on the spot if they knew it would render the spell impotent against them. After all, Sevius wasn’t known for combat spells in the first place, let alone to damage his own flock.

Gary reprised his nursery rhyme to continue adding the bonus as he carefully aimed Hair Splitter at the singed decapede heading for Zeeto.

d20: 11 + (To Hit +2) + (DEX -1) + (Partial Darkness -2) + (Don’t All Snipers Sing? +2) = 12

Despite rolling much better than his initial shot, even a 12 wasn’t getting the job done. The crossbow bolt whistled past, nearly clipping the halfling in the head.

Zeeto squealed. The decapede that Gary had attempted to shoot had grabbed him in two pairs of hands. A barbed stinger sank into the rogue’s belly.

Braeleigh’s arrow finished off the monster, and Beldrak pulled the carcass off before its weight buried the now-paralyzed Zeeto beneath it.

“Is that all of them?” Sira asked, jogging over with her eyes still turned toward the temple walls.

Caspian barked once. “Yep,” Braeleigh said. “Unless more are hiding on the rooftop, we’ve got ‘em all. Well, I suppose more of anything could be hiding where we can’t see, hear, or smell them. But Caspie doesn’t smell anything else out here; do you, boy? Do you? Who’s a good widdle boy?” She took the wolf’s face in both hands, ruffling his fur.

Zeeto lay on the ground, motionless. Sira’s hands glowed as she prayed to Sevius in words that strained credulity. Something about the halfling deserving a chance to redeem himself, of them needing him, of Sira wishing with all her heart for his healthy recovery.

Gary was skeptical top to bottom of the whole litany.

With a gasp, Zeeto sat up. “Oh, my gods! That was horrible. It was like being passed out drunk but wide awake. Did that thing plant larvae in me? Please tell me your healing spell checked for larvae.”

“You’re fine,” Sira assured him dryly. Her pious pleadings had boiled away to leave the put-upon world weariness of Kim Tanaka in its place.

Gary declined to comment on either the biology of decapede egg-laying or Sira’s casual hypocrisy. If Sevius kept answering her prayers, that was good enough for Gary.

“We about ready to head inside?” Braeleigh asked. “Because Zeeto was right about one thing. I’m pretty sure if dawn comes and we’re still inside, we’re stuck until nightfall.”

The halfling was nearly to the temple door before any of them started moving. “You all coming or what? Let’s get this heap of stone looted. Oh, and that water thing.”

35

The doors to the Temple of Twilight had opened at their approach. Weapons drawn, the party had crept in expecting another ambush like the decapedes. Gary had taken up the rear, trying to keep his eyes from rolling at their paranoia. It was his fault, after all, but he couldn’t help knowing that the tests inside were for the brain, not the sword arm.

Once all of them were fully inside, the doors swung shut behind them.

“No!” Zeeto shouted. “We’re trapped.”

With a scowl, Gary marched over, gave the door handle a solid heave, and opened it wide enough for a cowardly halfling to flee if he so chose.

The rest of the party all fixed stern glares on Zeeto.

“What?” the halfling asked. “You all assumed the same. I was just making the dramatic pronouncement.”

When Gary let go of the handle, the door slowly closed once more. “If you want out, the temple’s gonna let you bail. We’re here for healing water. Or dispelling water. Curse-breaking water? I dunno, water of some sort. Either way, I’m sticking it out.”

“Me too,” Braeleigh said, though no one had ever questioned her resolve on the matter.

The foyer of the temple was a closed room with two doors aside from the one by which they’d entered. At the center of the room was a marble statue of a unicorn on a pedestal, all carved from the same marble as the temple itself.

“Makes you wonder,” Zeeto said as if speaking to himself. “What would all this be worth if we just snagged as much marble as we could carry off?”

“Mission,” Sira snapped. “Quit trying to larceny your way around doing your job.”

“Larceny is an adjunct function of my current position,” Zeeto said, using the corporate double-speak that Marty often slipped into when making fun of something that sounded too important for its own good. “Besides, I’m thinking sideways at our current problem. We scratch up enough currency, we can pay someone to unfreeze the elf woman.” He cleared his throat. “Can probably pay someone to undo the magic on Miriasa too.”

Braeleigh shot the halfling a scowl and stuck her tongue out at him.

“There be mischief at yon portal,” Beldrak said, pointing. “Methinks we shall find the doors unyielding to our entreaties until their riddles hath been satisfied.”

The left door leading out of the room bore an inscription in elven, complete with French accent marks. Gary pinched the bridge of his nose, grateful that he could read it as if it were plain English. Below the inscription was a pair of numbers:

REALMS OF THE LIGHT

0 7

Between the numbers was a stone dial the size of a dinner plate marked with arithmetic symbols: plus, minus, multiply, divide. At any time, just one of them could line up between the numbers; currently, the minus sign was aligned.

“How many realms of light are there?” Braeleigh asked.

“Mind just translating the inscription?” Sira asked. “Looks like we’re going to be doing math today, and that’s sort of my specialty. Except I don’t read elven.”

“Priestesses learn math?” Zeeto asked incredulously. “Plus, I mean, you’re a—”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence,” Gary warned. Priestess or no priestess, Sira was still Kim Tanaka. She’d been their gaming group’s primary puzzle solver since they’d begun playing together. She could be a dockworker turned rogue or a pixie barbarian and she’d still be able to do matrix algebra in her head.

Braeleigh read the inscription aloud in human.

“Duh,” Sira said. “Unless the answer is a negative number or zero, the plus sign is the only way to go. This temple is starting us off on fluff riddles. But yes, there are seven celestial realms of light.”

Twisting the dial, Sira set it to the plus sign, and the door slid open softly. Silence lacked the gravitas of the rich, rumbling grind in the dwarven vaults, but this reverential pall suited the Temple of Twilight.

Beyond lay a short set of stairs that led to another, similar chamber.

“Forward, or see what’s behind the door on the other side of the room?” Sira asked.

Beldrak stepped past her and onto the first step leading up. “Breach not thine own redoubt. One path before and one behind and we might find ourselves betwixt hammer and anvil.”

“Right,” Zeeto said. “Er, correct, I mean. Let’s not go right until we find out what’s left. Then we can go back and open the door that’s left, which is the right door. Which isn’t the right door right now, of course. But when the right door is the right door, that’s where we’ll go. In the meantime, let’s do this the right way and go left.”

“Hast thou any notion of a ship’s command?” Beldrak asked in all seriousness. “We all might avail of port and starboard to untangle the natty knot of thy words.”

“Don’t get him started,” Sira said. “Zeeto did that on purpose.”

Gary took the lead, not needing to get caught up in the nonsense that so often plagued the gamers. Were they really like this? Was their table banter not just goofing around but a deeper character flaw endemic to the breed? If hardcore gamers couldn’t take a campaign world more seriously than this, how were they going to survive?

The next chamber contained a life-sized statue of a giant eagle with a wingspan wider than Gary’s outstretched arms.

Zeeto whistled as he circled it upon arriving. “Some sculpting work, huh? You think maybe some elf wizard gone bad turned this poor animal to marble?”

“No!” Braeleigh blurted. “Elf wizards weren’t like that.”

“For someone who last saw her own kind when you were younger than that girl in the forest, you sound awfully certain,” Sira said mildly.

“My mother was a wizard,” Braeleigh said. She looked over to the sealed door at the far end of the room and translated to change the subject. Including the numbers at the bottom, it read:

REALMS OF THE DARKNESS

6 3 7

This time, there were two dials breaking up the equation. With another metaphysical question, once more they all turned to Sira.

“The answer is nine,” the priestess said.

Zeeto frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be sixteen celestial realms if there are only twelve gods?”

“Twelve gods in your people’s pantheon,” Braeleigh said. “There are other religions out there. Get woke.”

Beldrak twisted the dials to divide and plus, respectively.

Gary smirked. For all their disparate backgrounds in-game, they were all math dorks to some degree. The seminary graduate, the meathead holy warrior, and the trail guide shouldn’t have been able to split a bar tab without pencil and paper. Their rogue shouldn’t have been an actuary or anything, but the ability to compound interest on protection money should have made him the only one with a working knowledge of basic math.

But as players, they averaged more than one college degree per person.

When the next door opened, there was no discussion of heading back. They all tromped up the next set of stairs.

This chamber was like the others. Its statue was of a wolf, fangs bared. Caspian whimpered and hid behind Braeleigh.

“It’s OK, little guy,” Braeleigh said with a reassuring pat. “He’s just stone. Can’t hurt you. Promise.”

Zeeto cleared his throat. “Those elven scribbles over the door aren’t going to read themselves.”

“Right. Sorry.” Braeleigh proceeded to explain the next puzzle.

TORTOISE TOES

7 3 2 6 2

“Woah,” Zeeto said. “That’s a lot of math to get some scaly-ass boot-fillers.”

“Hath not the tortoise flippers where feet wouldst find a turtle?” Beldrak asked.

“Other way around,” Braeleigh said. “Turtles are the swimmy ones.”

“Who cares? How many toes do they have?” Sira said.

Braeleigh shrugged. “It can vary by species.”

“Lame,” Zeeto singsonged. “Puzzle with no right answer. Let’s call it a night, crack these statues loose, and sell them back in Durrotek for money to hire a curse-breaker.”

Sira reached up and tried turning one of the dials. Braeleigh slapped her hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Braeleigh demanded.

“Solving the puzzle by brute force,” Sira said. “There are four answers on each dial and four dials. That’s only two hundred fifty-six combinations. Plus, I think it’s safe to assume they’re mostly not multiplication since turtles don’t have anything close to two hundred fifty-two toes.”

Zeeto held up a finger on each hand. “Yeah. You do that. The rest of us are going to go back and try the other direction. Right now is the right time for the right side. Right?”

Sira started in on the dials, but Braeleigh slapped her hand away again. “Stop it! That’s not how this is supposed to go. We’re here to prove ourselves worthy.”

“Slap my hand one more time, and I’ll ask for a little divine guidance on worthiness,” Sira warned.

Zeeto whispered an aside to Gary. “I so wish there was such a thing as popcorn right now.”

Gary could hardly believe his ears. “Marty?”

Zeeto’s sidelong, conspiratorial glance turned perplexed. “Huh? What’s ‘Marty’ mean? He some guy who knows what popcorn might be?”

Shit. Gary had offhandedly mentioned the spectator-friendly snack casually over dinner one night and forgotten.

“Never mind.”

“If I want to spend my time solving this puzzle with sore wrist muscles and boredom, that’s my business,” Sira said.

“We can’t risk the temple deciding we’ve cheated it,” Braeleigh countered.

“How about we all go back to the first room together,” Gary suggested. “If we get stuck on that side, too, we can try Sira’s way.”

“’Twould be best to remain together,” Beldrak said. “Neither trap nor fell beast hath trod our path hitherto, but let vigilance be our byword.”

“Loot,” Zeeto said. “Better byword. This place has been a bust so far. As least the dwarves put stuff behind their puzzles. If we don’t find something worth stuffing in our pockets I’m seriously going to consider hoisting these damn statues out of here.”

“I’m not helping you carry them,” Sira promised. The others nodded their agreement with the sentiment.

“Fine,” Zeeto said in a huff. “Let’s just get on with this.”

Back to the foyer and the unicorn statue they trekked. At the right side door to the room, Braeleigh relayed the riddle overhead.

UNICORN HOOVES

7 3

Zeeto glanced over his shoulder, pointed one by one at the statue’s feet, and pronounced, “Minus sign. Man, this one was dumb.”

Sira locked in the symbol, and the door opened. “You want hard, or you want loot? Because until we get to the heart of this temple, I doubt we’re getting much of anything.”

Stairs led upward on this side as well. Zeeto took the lead with an air of impatience, stomping his tiny feet on each marble step. “Oh, look. A fox.”

The fox statue was unremarkable compared to the more majestic or fantastical creatures depicted in the other rooms. It was also larger than life, scaled up to fill the room in much the way that the wolf or eagle had.

The halfling snapped his fingers. “Translate, bitch!”

Sira slugged him, sending the halfling sprawling.

“Thanks,” Braeleigh said. “Saved me the trouble.”

“Watch that mouth if you like your innards on the inside,” Sira warned. “Because I’m the only one here who can put them back if something tries eating you alive again.”

“Got it,” Zeeto replied as he gathered himself from the floor.

Without further snide commentary, Braeleigh read off the next puzzle.

SCHOOLS OF MAGIC

7 6 3 2

Sira folded her arms. “Well, we’re up for brute force either way. I suppose this one only has three dials to align, so we might as well try 64 combinations instead of 256.”

“Schools of magic where?” Zeeto mused aloud. “Elven schools? Worldwide? Leigh, is this something elves are supposed to know? You just said your mom was a wizard.”

“I was little. She didn’t talk work.”

Gary couldn’t take it anymore. Had Zane not gone off the reservation, Aster would be here to answer a basic question about the Path of Arcana. Instead, it fell to him. “A school is a discipline. Same as ballads or folk songs are sub-categories of music, magic is broken into eight schools—at least, according to the old scholars of Palo Alto.” He hastily amended the last.

Zeeto huffed a sigh. “Good a guess as any. How can you make eight out of that mess?”

“Plus, plus, divide,” Sira said, already working to enter the combination. “It presupposes that elven mathematics ignores the conventional order of operations, but it’s the only way the result can be eight.”

Gary’s cheeks warmed. Math wasn’t his deal. He could min-max with the best of them—well, maybe not the best—but he wasn’t the grind-it-out, Sorcerers-and-Spreadsheets kind of player. In his blunder in designing the puzzle, he may have doomed the elven people to a reputation for mathematical incompetence.

The solution worked, of course. It wasn’t that elves had their own mathematical stylings. This was just Gary’s screw up in action.

The door slid open silently, and Gary hung back at the rear of the group as they ascended to the next room.

“Okie dokie,” Braeleigh said when she was first to the next chamber. “We’ve got a tortoise statue.”

“Count toes!” Zeeto shouted.

They all scrambled to surround the statue—all but Gary, at least. He didn’t know a damn thing about tortoises aside from them being land turtles that lived a crazy long time and that some were great at kung fu. He’d looked up a reasonable number of toes on Wikipedia. The sculpting was all fill-in-the-blanks world-building by Katie’s French-speaking elves.

“Ten,” Sira stated firmly.

Beldrak nodded. “My count doth agree with thine.”

“Not it!” Zeeto said, tapping a finger to the side of his nose.

Sira yanked the hand away. “We’re all going back.”

“Awwwwww.”

“Want to try this riddle first?” Braeleigh asked, indicating the inscription above the tortoise-room door.

ONE MOON CYCLE

7 3 6 1 2 10

Zeeto snickered. “I’ll leave this one to the—” but he stopped when Gary shot him a warning glare. “To the lunar expert, our resident elf.”

“Twenty-nine,” Braeleigh said, ruffling Caspian’s neck. “This one likes howling. Hard to miss when there’s a full one.”

Beldrak tapped a finger to his lips. “So simple…” He wandered over and turned all the randomly set dials to pluses. The door slid open.

Up the next flight of stairs, they found a room with a bear statue and an inscription that Braeleigh translated as:

EAGLE FEATHERS

10 12

“Oh, the ever-loving…” Zeeto muttered. “We’ve got to go all the way back to the eagle now?”

Sira marched over, set the dial to multiply, and the door opened. “Really. Do you even imagine it’s possible for an eagle to have negative two feathers? What about 0.83 feathers? Twenty-two… OK, maybe. But this was two tries at the worst.”

The door slid open, and the party climbed onward.

Gary smirked.

Zeeto muttered under his breath. “I really hate this place.”

36

Five more puzzles like the rest had worn the party to the bone. It wasn’t that the solutions required great feats of logic, trivia, or mathematics. Mostly, it was the walking. Gary cursed himself for having the two branches of the temple wind up opposite sides of the tower-like structure. Would the place have felt any less special for having been a low, flat structure, maybe even equipped with magically propelled people-movers like the larger airports had?

“I swear I’m going to kill someone if this is another dead end,” Zeeto said when the second-to-last door opened to reveal yet another puzzle. On the opposite side of the temple, they’d opened one that was closed off with a lattice of silvery metal bars. They could see the final puzzle while still having to backtrack the entire circuit of the temple to pass through a door that wasn’t barred.

The lattice-barred door and the one with the puzzle that had asked about owl talons looked onto the same room with windows that looked out over the forest.

“If I’d climbed up, think how much less walking there’d have been,” Zeeto said.

Sira snorted. “Once those monkey-handed insects were dead, you were welcome to try again.”

“You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you? Get injured, and whatshisname demands that you heal me,” Zeeto said. “I get skewered brains-to-butthole by some roof demon’s spear, you’re off the hook.”

Braeleigh cleared her throat and read the last puzzle.

LIT BY STARS AND SUN SO BRIGHT, THE COUNTED SANDS OF DAY AND NIGHT

7 1 6 3 12

“Fie!” Beldrak swore. “Perchance not another inventory of wild game?”

Zeeto put up his hands. “I’m out. I don’t know where we were supposed to see a beach, but I’m not counting sand. Sister Sira can have fun dialing in every combination until her wrists fall off.”

“Hourglasses,” Gary said. “Twenty-four hours in a day.”

Zeeto cocked his head. “But how can you be so—?”

“Checks out,” Sira said, squinting at the numbers. “Minus, multiply, divide, plus.”

Braeleigh ruffled Gary’s hair the same way she did Caspian’s fur. “Look at you, being all smart.”

Smart wasn’t the right word for it. Gary had run himself ragged over the course of hours on a series of puzzles that could have been finished in a fraction of that had he not inserted pointless busywork in his puzzle design.

The final door opened, and a grand marble staircase led down into a central courtyard that they’d been running circles around all evening.

“Still think you’d have climbed past the puzzles?” Sira asked, pointing up to a crystalline dome that caught the faintest light from the twilight sky.

“Nah,” Zeeto said. “I’m over that. Let’s just get our butts in gear and get what we came for.”

Gary slunk along at the back of the group, chugging down the last of the water from his canteen. He had plans too.

Braeleigh jogged ahead, Caspian accelerating to keep pace with her down the stairs. At the center of the courtyard, a fountain burbled, still running after untold millennia of operation. The ranger unstoppered her canteen and poured the contents into the lush grass that had no business growing in a place that existed only at twilight.

“Shouldst we saveth any of this liquid balm that we might hedge against future calamity?” Beldrak asked.

“Why?” Zeeto replied. “We can always come back for more. Heck, now that we know the answers, we can just gallop up the left side straight to the end. Or I can toss a grappling hook and sneak in through the window, go… what was it…?” He looked vacant, and his fingers twisted in the air a moment. “Minus, times, divide, plus. Boom! Miracle water.”

“All good!” Braeleigh announced, holding up her canteen. The hand that had dunked it dripped precious healing water down her sleeve.

Sira looked up into the sky through the crystal dome. “Light’s fading. We ought to get out of here.”

“Anyone stopped to think what will happen to us if we don’t?” Zeeto asked.

“Stuck until tomorrow night, right?” Sira replied with a shrug. “Lousy place to spend a day, but we wouldn’t starve.”

“Who’d sing to open it?” Gary asked.

They were silent. Then, a beat later, everyone bolted for the stairs.

Perfect.

Gary made a quick check of his character sheet.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 4,326/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 18 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

Wow…

He’d made 300 XP even from those decapedes. There’d probably have been another lump sum upon escaping the Temple of Twilight with the sacred waters. But first, Gary had a little drinking to do.

Filling his own canteen, he took a chug from the fountain.

His head swam, but when the sensation passed, his thoughts cleared.

1d6: 3 (Permanent Intelligence Gain)

Damn. Of all the times for a mediocre roll…

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 4,176/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

It had cost him 150 XP—50 for each point of INT he’d gained—but never had there been a bargain so good. Even if he’d rolled max, the XP hit of 300 wouldn’t have dropped him back on the Path of Power.

But that sweet, sweet INT. Gary’s mind was like a carbureted muscle car that hadn’t been run hard in a while. Stepping down on the gas and spiking the tachometer had blown out the carbon gunking the cylinders. Gary’s brain felt clear, clean, and fast.

His legs, not so much.

Running up the stairs winded him. Gary trailed after the party with their massive head start. “Hey, guys! Wait for me!”

37

“Think it’ll work?” Zeeto asked sleepily as they finished setting up camp at the edge of the clearing.

Night had fallen, and with the last of them out of the Temple of Twilight, the building had faded from sight. No trick of mere invisibility, a hand passed right through where a wall had been only moments earlier. Now, only the corpses of the decapedes—kept well downwind of the campsite—showed any evidence that their adventure had been anything but a dream.

That, plus 750 XP for getting out with water from the temple fountain.

“Of course it’ll work,” Braeleigh said, lying against a tree with Caspian already sleeping draped across her lap. “It’s elven.”

There was no argument from Gary. Suspect logic aside, Braeleigh was right. This was the easy cure for Miriasa Starlight’s stasis. Had she succumbed to the magic of the Gem of Eternity among her own people, they’d have known just what to do. Instead, living among the dwarven defenders as they fought a rearguard action to evacuate Gelzhearth, she was left to the well-meaning yet inept ministrations of her hosts.

Gary sat first watch along with Beldrak. The two of them seemed most awake after the night’s activities. Beldrak, because of an innate hardiness and stalwart devotion to vigilance; Gary, because he was used to getting to bed at 2 AM and sleeping until noon.

The two didn’t speak much. Slumbering comrades were a guilty reminder that silence was the best gift they could offer after a harrowing day.

For his part, Gary passed the time with eyes cast upward. He’d mentally inventoried the monstrous encounters available for the woodlands surrounding the Temple of Twilight. Canopy lurkers were the worst of them.

Name: Canopy Lurker Hit Points: 28 Damage: 1d12+7

Nocturnal predator species of avian mammal. Body resembles a jaguar or panther. Wings allow gliding but not flight. Climbs into tall trees to wait for prey. Prefers to drop down on sleeping creatures. Bonus +10 damage against unaware targets.

So long as Gary kept watch for them, one shouldn’t be able to insta-gib him. Even if he knew his total hit points, he was pretty sure that on a max roll, one of those things could kill him in his sleep.

“What, pray tell, doth thee see?” Beldrak whispered.

Gary shook his head. “Nothing, for which I’m grateful.” He went on to briefly explain about the canopy lurker.

The paladin who looked vaguely like Darryl said the most un-Darryl-like thing Gary had ever heard. “Knowledge is a burden I envy not. Take faith that thine companions protect thee.”

When dawn came, Gary couldn’t recall falling asleep. He had taken comfort in Beldrak’s assurances. The spinning clockwork of his tuned-up brain had threatened to dredge up and analyze every threat within a dozen miles and cook up countermeasures for each. Reminding himself that this was still just an extended fantasy and that his friends had his back—even if they didn’t remember him from the real world—had reassured him.

With his newly buffed intellect, Gary took custody of the map from Braeleigh and plotted them a course back to Durrotek that avoided one planned encounter and the highest probability of random ones. Judging the differences between his graph-paper, scale-accurate map of the region against the shabby parchment sketch was the toughest part of the planning; conveying that route to Braeleigh with that cartoon rendition of the countryside as a point of reference came in a close second.

When Gary finished laying out their route, Zeeto just shook his head in bemusement. “What the hell kind of bard school teaches all that schlock but not music?”

“They taught music,” Gary snapped. There was an element of Marty that transcended the physical form. Whether six-foot-four and built like a water heater or three-foot-six with the chubby cheeks of a toddler, the guy knew how to get under Gary’s skin.

“Perchance thou couldst explain thy reason,” Beldrak said diplomatically, clearly unconvinced.

Gary sighed. “Animals need water. So do we, but we’ve got our own. Monsters all have their own needs. Valeskins lair in burrows under hills. Scipsies prefer to eat gold, but they live in tall grasses that they can subsist on between meals of the good stuff. Overwolves are nocturnal pack hunters, but their territory in the old growth forest here should be safe due to the full moon tonight.” Gary jabbed his finger at the point along their route that he expected to cross into overwolf territory.

“And in Palo Alto, thy school taught thee all this?” Beldrak asked.

“No. I invented overwolves while attending an athletic contest and jotted them into existence on a scrap of parchment,” Gary replied snidely.

d20: 4 + (Persuade +8) + (Technically, It was a Twitch Stream of League of Legends, but Who’s Counting +2) = 14

Beldrak furrowed his brow but said nothing further on the matter. Gary couldn’t tell if the paladin grudgingly believed him or just couldn’t bring himself to dig past the obvious lie to the deeper lie couched beneath it. Nuanced social deception wasn’t exactly a paladin’s steak and eggs.

Gary’s route took them two days to reach Durrotek at a leisurely pace when they’d made the trip out in just over one. The gamer in him wondered if some random encounter XP would make future battles easier, but the dungeon master in him knew better. A good game runner always kept the challenges proportional to the party. If he’d still been running things directly, any extra leveling done by the players would have resulted in behind-the-scenes tweaks to future monsters and villains.

But there was a simpler reason for Gary helping the party avoid monsters in the wilderness…

That shit was scary.

Adrenaline flooded his veins every time some fanged monster or lizard with a spear took a crack at ending his life. Even if he fully expected to wake up in a hospital bed or on the floor of his own kitchen, Gary couldn’t get over the horror of that state in between the Live-Action Role Play zone of Pellar and a return to the real world.

Death.

Wounds hurt in this world. Hangovers felt just like the real thing. There was every reason to think that, even if getting killed booted Gary back to the real world, it would be the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

Fortunately for Gary’s fear of death, the circuitous route back to town worked just as his freshly upgraded mind had predicted. The city hadn’t fallen to invaders or burned to the ground in their absence. The gate guards recognized them, and the five of them headed straight back to 14 Zephyr Street.

It was time for everyone to find out just who they had in their basement.

38

Five adventurers gathered around the kitchen table of 14 Zephyr Street, upon which the statue-like form of Miriasa Starlight rested. They looked to Gary like a bunch of new hires to the restaurant being hauled out back and told to prep dinner without any further instruction. Beldrak looked to Sira. Sira looked to Braeleigh. Zeeto looked into the pantry.

“How’s this work?” Braeleigh asked no one in particular, holding up the canteen of magic water. “Do we wash her with it, try to get her to drink it, or rub it in like moisturizer?”

“I’ll volunteer for the rubbing,” Zeeto replied over his shoulder as he searched for a snack.

“Well, she sure as sunrise isn’t drinking any,” Sira said. “We’d never get it past her lips.”

“I’ll volunteer for—”

“Can it,” Gary snapped, cutting off whatever rude suggestion the halfling was about to make. “Try sprinkling a few drops on her. Worst case, it won’t waste it all.”

“Hast thy legend no plainer guidance upon the use of this elixir?” Beldrak asked, wringing his hands.

Braeleigh pursed her lips and twisted them side to side in thought. Then, unstoppering the canteen, she dipped a finger inside like a quill. With that one wet digit, she traced a line down Miriasa’s forehead. Where the liquid touched stasis-bound flesh, there was a spreading glow.

“More,” Gary said quickly. “Use more.”

In a panic, Braeleigh doused the curse-bound elf. The amber glow spread like a flash flood across the lithe body, which writhed upon release from the Gem of Eternity’s grasp.

“She’s alive!” Zeeto shouted grandiosely, arms raised to the ceiling.

Braeleigh scooped Miriasa up and lifted her to a seated position as the freshly freed elf coughed and gagged. “Shh. It’s all right. You’re safe. We’re friends.”

Miriasa murmured something. Gary heard the words, but they were a pleasantly melodious gibberish, soft and nasal and flowing without clear separation between syllables. It reminded him of a bistro or sidewalk cafe.

“Sorry,” Braeleigh said. “They don’t speak elven. How’s your human?”

“Water,” Miriasa muttered.

“At once, my lady,” Beldrak said and offered up his canteen of day-old stream water.

After letting Braeleigh administer the drink, Miriasa collapsed back down onto the kitchen table. Only the rise and fall of her chest showed she was still alive, just fast asleep.

Zeeto inspected her critically. “I somehow expected more.”

“She couldn’t see,” Braeleigh explained. “She asked who you all were.”

“Hibernation sickness,” Gary said with a sagacious nod. “Understandable. She’s been mostly dead for eighty years.”

Sira shook her head. “Eighty years. Can you even imagine?”

“Uh, yeah,” Braeleigh said. “I’m a 106.”

“No,” Sira replied. “Not that. I mean waking up and eighty years have vanished in the blink of an eye. She probably remembers Durrotek as a thriving trade city between elven, dwarven, and humans lands.”

“More likely she remembers it from when this was all wilderness,” Gary said. “Keep in mind, Braeleigh’s barely old enough to live on her own. Miriasa was an elf of respect and esteem already before getting frozen. She’s probably more like six or seven hundred years old.”

Sira tilted her head to align with the sleeping elf’s. “I’d kill to still have skin like that when I’m thirty.”

Beldrak snorted. “Thy visage is comely and in no peril of fading. When the world doth etch its mark upon thy flesh, it does so with a master’s brush to tell thy life’s tale.”

Zeeto cleared his throat. “Um. Anyone going to acknowledge the fact that we’ve got a six- to seven-hundred-year-old elf sleeping off an epic hangover on our dining table? Or the fact that we’ve only got five beds in this place?” The halfling already had a finger to the side of his nose.

The rest of the party caught on quickly enough. Fingers went to noses in the classic “not it” gesture.

Gary sighed, having deigned not to rush in his effort to avoid losing his bed.

That was when Zeeto narrowed his eyes. “Hey… wait a minute…”

Sira scowled. “Gary, you didn’t just—?”

Braeleigh’s eyes widened. “No. I don’t think he—”

“Guys,” Gary said, putting up his hands. “It’s fine. My room is closest anyway, and we should probably carry her as little as we need to. I’ll use my bedroll and sleep on the floor right outside in case she wakes up in the night.”

“On thy honor?” Beldrak asked.

Gary rolled his eyes. “On my honor. Geez. It’s not like we enchanted her to fall in love with the first one she sets her eyes on.”

“She really is pretty,” Sira stated, shifting from foot to foot.

Gary pinched the bridge of his nose. “Beldrak, would you like to swap with me? I’ll take your bed, and you can sleep here on the floor in case she needs tending.”

The frustration and anxiety showed, unbefitting a holy warrior. It was, however, entirely in keeping with Darryl’s hopelessness around attractive women. He’d gamed with Katie for a good six months before being able to strike up a conversation when they were the only two in the room together. “Thy breadth of knowledge might serve the lady better. Proximity ought be thy ally.”

“How about you?” Gary asked, staring down Sira from a pace away. “Sevius probably has divine mandates about tending to the sick.”

Sira glanced away. “She’s not ill or wounded, in my professional opinion. Like you said, it’s more of a hangover.”

Or you can’t trust yourself to keep your hands off her, Gary added silently. Gary hadn’t written of Miriasa’s appearance in fine detail, but the world had sprung into existence with the frozen elf as the pinnacle of elven beauty. Sira wasn’t made of stone.

“You don’t have to ask,” Braeleigh said, clapping a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “I’m not afraid of her. You can have my bed tonight.”

Gary shook his head. “It’s fine. Really. I just wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t trying to avoid being the one on hand in case Miriasa wakes up confused. She spoke human. I should be fine.”

“One word,” Zeeto pointed out.

Gary glared down. “You think a prominent elven wizard from this region knows exactly one word of human speech? Come on.”

“Water, food, ale, bed, latrine,” Zeeto said, ticking the words off on his fingers. “Basics you should know for any land you travel. Every idiot knows that.”

“Ears,” Miriasa murmured from the table. “Not decorative.”

Zeeto stiffened. “No offense, ma’am. Don’t toad me!”

“No one’s doing anything,” Braeleigh said, taking charge, “except getting this lady to a bed for some proper rest.”

Beldrak and Braeleigh carried her. She was so frail and thin-boned that Zeeto probably could have managed on his own. But the two bearing her limp form took the greatest of care in settling the elf woman into Gary’s bed.

Then, after making sure she was comfortable, everyone headed off to their own rooms to recover from the long journey back.

Except for Gary.

When the footsteps faded, he sat at the foot of the bed, past where the petite wizard’s feet reached. “Do you remember who you are?”

The slumbering chest rose and fell three times before she answered. “Miriasa Starlight of Evenhall, emissary to Gelzhearth. Not… in Gelzhearth, am I?”

“No. You’re not,” Gary said. “This is Durrotek. It’s the Year of the Gods 954.”

Despite not opening her eyes, Miriasa’s brow knit. “That can’t be right. That would mean…”

Gary waited, but the math wasn’t coming together for the elf’s foggy thoughts. “Eighty years. Yeah. Gem of Eternity robbed you of eighty years. Well, not robbed, I suppose. But it deferred them.”

“I can’t… no. I had… But we…”

Gary put a hand over Miriasa’s. “Rest. You’re safe here. There will be plenty of time to fill you in on what’s happened.”

As he rose, a feeble hand reached out for him. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be just outside in the hall,” Gary promised her. “Sleeping on a bedroll.”

He spared a look back as he closed the door behind him.

She wasn’t even real, and his heart broke for her.

39

Sleeping on the floor wasn’t as bad as it sounded. The bedroll passed the hardness of the stone floor straight through to Gary’s back and neck, but that was the worst of it. The house at 14 Zephyr Street was warm, and there was little risk of monster attacks in the night. If Miriasa had awakened in the night, she hadn’t summoned Gary from the hall.

That reminded him.

Kicking the bedroll aside, Gary tugged the wrinkles from his clothes and opened the door. Miriasa stirred at the sound.

“It’s just me,” Gary said. “I’m about to make breakfast. Is there… anything I should know about your diet?”

Miriasa didn’t rise or even open her eyes. “Would wine be too much to ask for an invalid? I feel I’ve been chewed, swallowed, and disgorged. No hangover could compete.”

“You’re sounding better this morning,” Gary said, stepping into the room to check on her.

“By degree alone,” she replied without lifting her head from the pillow. “Much as a tumble down a flight of stairs feels better than being burned alive.”

“Well, maybe a full belly will help you gain back your strength.”

A dainty sniff preceded Miriasa’s reply. “A very human solution. Especially since, strictly speaking, you aren’t.”

Gary blinked. “What did you say?”

A shout from above forestalled any further discussion of the subject.

“Intruder alert!” Zeeto’s shrill voice shouted from the front of the house. “Intruder alert!”

Gary hesitated at the door, but at a shooing gesture from Miriasa, he dashed out and headed for the foyer.

This wasn’t written. He had no idea who or what might have come after them here in their little sanctum. 14 Zephyr Street was supposed to have been a place to rest between adventures, to take up crafting hobbies and store trophies. He’d expected it to eventually be decorated like a schizophrenic Caesar’s Palace of knickknacks and artwork from the tombs and towers they’d plunder.

It wasn’t supposed to be the sort of place that got intruders.

When Gary got to the top of the foyer, he skidded to a halt behind Beldrak, who barred the way with his sword drawn. The paladin was squared off against a familiar, sneering face.

Kurgath.

“What do you want here?” Gary demanded, leaning to be seen past the paladin’s bulk.

Kurgath stepped inside. His garments were no cleaner than on his last visit. If nothing else, they’d grown dustier and sootier. But the thief-hunter’s dishevelment failed to make him any less intimidating. For every step he took forward, Beldrak retreated in equal measure. Gary liked to think that the paladin was keeping the encounter distance a constant for some sort of sword-fighting disadvantage, but he feared that Darryl was shining through yet again.

“Ah, there you are,” Kurgath said, squinting into the shadows of the foyer, where even Gary hadn’t noticed Zeeto crouching, dagger drawn. “Little friend, you almost led me astray. The fine fellows of the Talis Guild denied until their dying breaths that they knew of Nethel. But at the last, one broke. That dying breath was enough. Lucky you.”

A faint creak of leather from Braeleigh’s glove made Gary glance over at her. The elven ranger stood with the north door of the foyer as cover and an arrow nocked and trained on the interloper. “You just go away. We don’t want you here.”

Kurgath sniffed the air. “Interesting. I tell you what. I’m going to pass along the last known whereabouts of my thief, the vermin Nethel. You’re going to find him and bring him back.”

“Make up your mind,” Braeleigh said, the tip of her arrow not budging from its aim at Kurgath’s throat. “Are you so tough you’re not worried about all of us stomping the poop out of you right here and now, or are you too much of a punk to chase down this so-called thief yourself?”

Kurgath smiled. “I don’t fancy a trip to Sillimar this time of year. The weather disagrees with me.”

“Sillimar?” Beldrak echoed, sword tip lowering a handsbreadth. “Thy thief hast fled to mine homeland?”

“We’re part of the same kingdom, ya dummy,” Zeeto snapped. “Kovia doesn’t end at the Temblin.”

Kurgath swept a hand aside, and Beldrak stumbled out of the way. Gary didn’t have to be told, he practically dove headlong to clear a path. There was no Initiative roll. This wasn’t combat. Gods help them all if it turned into one.

“You can’t go down there!” Braeleigh shouted. When Kurgath didn’t stop, she loosed her arrow. At such close range, she couldn’t have missed.

Yet she did.

No… no… no…

d20: 20 + (DEX -1) = 19

Of all the times to waste a critical roll.

Gary felt the world release him like a hunting dog off its leash. He stepped in front of the stairwell, throwing his arms out to the side. “Don’t! He’ll kill us all!”

Beldrak tried to oust Gary from his spot. “Harry not mine path! The villain mustn’t be allowed below!”

Gary sensed the grapple and had to decide whether to dodge Beldrak’s grip or try to stand his ground. If the paladin got past him, there was no telling how quickly the blossom of this battle might fall.

He attempted to resist.

d20: 13 + (To Hit +1) + (Strength -2) = 12

To Gary’s amazement, Beldrak failed to gain the leverage to lift him aside. He could only imagine how badly the paladin must have rolled.

“Gary, get out of the way!” Braeleigh ordered. She tried to force her way past as well.

d20: 15 + (To Hit +1) + (Strength -2) = 14

Braeleigh failed to oust him as well. Gary was beginning to feel downright Spartan if it weren’t for the fact that he suspected Kurgath’s motivation in heading to servants’ wing.

“Gary, what do you think you’re doing?” Sira demanded. At least the priestess had the decency not to attempt to manhandle Gary.

“We’re no match for him,” Gary blurted. “Can’t you see?” If he’d been running the game, this was the sort of place where he’d drop hints heavy enough to crack the stone floor that this guy was not one to mess around with.

“There’s five of us,” Zeeto said, nigh invisible in the shadows by a window curtain. “And he’s going to be missing a lung soon.”

“Please trust me!” Gary shouted. He was panting in desperation. “This isn’t the time. This isn’t the place. Kurgath wins today. OK?”

“Thy cowardice is unbecoming. A hero wouldst not yammer thus.”

“Heroes die doing one brave thing, even if they fail at it,” Gary pleaded. “Legends live. Don’t be the brittle blade that shatters on an enemy’s shield. Live to be the tempered, engraved, enchanted weapon of mass destruction that cuts that shield in half like parchment to deliver justice.”

Kurgath returned then, bearing a limp Miriasa in his arms. “Pretty speech. I do love a good dose of cowardice in my henchmen. Keeps the backstabbing and mutiny in check. I’ll be keeping the elf woman company until such time as you return with Nethel. I’ll make an even swap of them.”

“No!” Beldrak bellowed. His greatsword came down in a blur, humming through the air.

Gary winced and squeezed shut his eyes. But the paladin overbalanced. The iron blade of the Shard of Pellar passed right through Kurgath’s head as if the intruder were made of fog.

“Shit! Fog elemental!” Zeeto shouted.

“It’s a spell, you idiot!” Sira snapped. “He’s incorporeal. Not solid.”

With a laugh that burbled up from his belly, Kurgath strode onward, walking right through the closed door.

Braeleigh tore open the door just in time for them all to see Kurgath dissipate in a swirl of wind with Miriasa right along with him.

“Smooth move, plate-mail,” Zeeto said snidely.

“Better to fail in the attempt than to wallow in fear of what might come of heroism,” Beldrak said. He slammed his sword into its sheath and strode from the foyer.

“What do we do now?” Braeleigh said quietly. “He’s got her.”

“There’s only one thing we can do,” Gary said. “We pack. We’ve got a long way to travel and a thief to catch if we want Miriasa back.”

40

Sillimar wasn’t Rome, but in the kingdom of Kovia, all roads still led there. From up in frost Durrotek, there was a clear route to get there, if not a direct one.

Down the road that paralleled the Yellow River, travelers on foot could reach Ord Margid in a few days. A barge trip down the river could cut the time to a third of that. Horses were the more expensive option and slower than the river current, but horses were reusable, whereas river barge captains took their fare with but one trip paid in return.

Trekking overland, the party had the choice to head due east to Freezu or veer more east-southeast to Temblin. The untamed wilds would be slower than the roads, but the savings in distance was undeniable. But that speed would be bought with dangers posed by the beasts and monsters that roamed free beyond the reach of regular city patrols.

Either way, their journey would take the party through Evidge, the trade city whose eastern road faced directly toward the capital.

Gary laid out these options like a local travel agent, complete with the pros and cons of each. He tried to remain neutral, truly curious which way his friends would choose in character.

“Amongst us, we must possess coin sufficient for the purchase of equine transport,” Beldrak argued. “’Twould be the surest and quickest way. Foul hands wander while we tarry.”

“River barge,” Zeeto countered. “No point getting to Sillimar exhausted. Plus, we don’t have the money for horses. We’d be selling off stuff we need to accomplish our quest—like weapons and so forth. If you’re willing to invoke a temporary exemption to adhering to law and order, I could—”

Beldrak held up a hand and squeezed shut his eyes. “Nay! No thirst be slaked from a tainted river.”

“Just sayin’… two wrongs don’t make a right, but one and a whole bunch of good to make up for it might,” Zeeto replied.

“Overland travel is safer on foot anyway,” Braeleigh said. “Horses are great on roads and tame fields, but in the wild, tame horses can turn an ankle, get spooked by monsters, or—”

“We get it,” Sira snapped. “But the longer we debate this, the longer that fiend has Miriasa.”

“None of you even met her,” Gary said quietly. They all turned to look his way. These were the same friends who required pizza and beer to move a couch, who kept a Google doc chronicling petty loans for takeout food. “I spoke with her last night. It wasn’t long, but I got to know her just a little.”

“Art thou saying we ought hunt the villain Kurgath directly?” Beldrak asked.

Gary shook his head. “We don’t know where to begin looking.” Well, aside from me leading you straight to his lair and in the secret back way past all the guards and traps. It was hard enough letting the campaign play out without being a walking spoiler. Meeting Miriasa—a few scribbled lines of notes in a binder back in Palo Alto—was shaking the foundation of that philosophy. “Either route to Org Margid places us on the road closest to Abrax. If we want to avoid major trouble, let’s take our chances with the monsters in the wilds instead of the ones that rule renegade cities.”

Zeeto snickered. “About time you showed you’re foreign. Most of the time you know this kingdom better than the natives. Abrax is harmless. I wouldn’t go there, mind you. I like the idea of my immortal soul moving on to the Breakfast Halls of Nazdak when I die, swimming in pancake syrup and eating fifty meals a day. But it’s not like Abrax sends out press gangs the way the King’s Navy does in wartime.”

“Right,” Sira said. “It’s just a blemish on the map like an unsightly mole. Don’t pick at it.”

“I went there, once,” Braeleigh said. “I was little, so I don’t remember it much, but it wasn’t weird or anything. You just see skeletons walking in among the pedestrians. But still… overland is faster unless we steal horses.”

“All in favor of horse thievery?” Zeeto said. He and Braeleigh raised hands. Braeleigh whispered something in elven, and Caspian sat up on his haunches, holding up one paw as high as his canine anatomy allowed.

“Thy wolf hath not a vote,” Beldrak said. Before Braeleigh could object, he added, “Either way we choose, Caspian shall walk on his own legs.”

“Three to two,” Sira said when no other votes for thievery were forthcoming. “Not that I relish the idea of an extended camping trip, but it’s got to be days faster than following the roads, and if we wind up in the dungeons as horse thieves, we can’t do Miriasa any good.”

“A righteous man carries a prison in his heart when mortal law doth let transgressions slip.”

Gary checked his inventory.

Backpack

Belt pouch (x2)

Lantern

Lantern oil (x10)

Flint and steel

Canteen

Bedroll

Money: 3g

Well, unless he was willing to sell off Hair Splitter and leave himself unarmed, that was the end of any discussion of buying horses.

“Guys, let’s just suck it up and walk,” Gary said. “We can debate and vote and argue and preach, but nothing except moving is going to get us any closer to Sillimar.”

Half an hour later, they headed out the eastern gate of Durrotek. It was a warm morning by autumn standards, but Gary’s breath still made puffs of fog each time he exhaled. He looked forward to days of airships and flying mounts, of magical tents larger on the inside than appearances would let on, and of wealth to drop piles of gemstones on an innkeeper’s counter to take the finest of accommodations.

In the meantime, Gary looked forward—in only the most literal sense—to wearing down the soles of his boots and freezing his nuts off every night he slept on the ground, bedroll or no bedroll.

And with that hyped-up brain he’d earned, Gary reviewed the local monsters along their path. He knew it wouldn’t be long before one of them attacked.

41

d20: 7 + (DEX -1) = 6

No one enjoyed waking up to an Initiative roll.

Gary thrashed free of his bedroll and fumbled for his weapons. In that hazy moment between dreams and wakefulness, he scooped up his lute by the neck and held it like a baseball bat.

It was still nighttime. Stars hung in the clear Kovian sky like LEDs in a vast dorm room, barely giving light enough to navigate a floor littered with beer cans and dirty laundry—or in this case, camping cookware and bedrolls.

“What is it?” Sira asked groggily, mid-yawn.

“Something’s coming from the trees,” Zeeto said, his voice emanating from the darkness somewhere nearby.

There was an inhuman shriek from the forest.

“Pieces!” Gary shouted, pointing when he saw what was coming.

Oh, how at times like this Gary regretted his chemical-boosted imagination. He vaguely recalled the origin of the so-called pieces. It had been the three of them—Gary, Zane, and Marty—and it had been Halloween night. The trick-or-treaters had all petered out, and they were left to devour the glut of candy they’d purchased in full knowledge that the neighborhood couldn’t provide enough plastic-pumpkin-toting ankle-biters to claim it all. After that, it had been smoking up and watching horror movies.

Somewhere along that gory-splattered movie marathon, Gary had wondered why zombie hordes always started out as mostly-whole bodies even when the severed limbs kept moving when cut away. Maybe they were just slower. Maybe they fell behind the pack. Was there a group of stragglers behind the main zombie horde consisting entirely of… pieces?

Rotting arms clawed their way across the dirt like inchworms. Dismembered legs hopped, racing ahead of their peers only to fall and struggle back upright just in time for the other pieces to catch up. Severed heads rolled along by unseen necromantic forces.

The party burst into action.

Braeleigh twanged off a shot with her bow. The arrow stuck into the papery skin of a torso that was paddling along the ground with two stumps of arms for flippers. The horror showed no sign of impairment from the wound.

Beldrak took a golf swing at a disembodied hand that sent it sailing off into the tress, but its wiggling fingers showed that it was far from defeated.

One monstrosity that was little more than a skull with flaps of remnant flesh leapt at Zeeto. The halfling skewered it through the eye socket with his dagger. When its snapping jaws sought out the stubby fingers holding that blade, Zeeto yelped and flung the skull away.

Gary needed to help, but Hair Splitter would have fared no better, and the lute, though possibly a better weapon for melee combat, had far better uses. He flipped the instrument around and slung the strap over his head in one smooth motion, then strummed.

“They send the left foot in; you kick the left foot back; they send the left foot in, and you use a blunt attack. You do the pokey pokey, and you’ll end up just like that. That’s what it’s all about.”

He added a second quick verse for the right leg and advised that fire damage also worked.

Inspire: +2 To Hit

“I have neither fire nor hammer,” Zeeto said, backing away from a hopping leg that was about to kick whatever it could find, ass or otherwise.

“Thy boot!” Beldrak said, stomping down on a skull and grinding his weight onto the bone with a crunch and crackle.

“Drop it!” Braeleigh scolded, shaking a finger at Caspian, who was shaking a desiccated arm clenched in his jaws. “Drop it! Bad wolf! That’s yucky!”

Sira, whose mace had crunched the bones of a snake’s ribcage—some large constrictor by the size of it—lowered her weapon and prayed.

Searing golden light brightened the night. Dead flesh burst into flame it its touch.

“You go, girl!” Zeeto cheered as he shimmied up the trunk of a nearby oak.

There was little Gary could contribute beyond his song. There was no other secret to fighting pieces or avoiding them.

Name: Pieces Hit Points: Varies Damage: Varies

Leftover fragments of corporeal undead still able to move. Immune to sharp damage.

And so Gary sang. The heavy metal rocker pent up inside him balked at plucking out children’s songs, but this was one case where the rest of the party needed a tutorial. Music cut through the squabbling and indecision to lay out exactly what it took to finish off these undead abominations.

With a high-pitched war cry, Zeeto plummeted from a branch. The halfling landed on a chittering skull and crunched the bone.

“I thought thee fled from our battlefield,” Beldrak said as he brought the flat of the Shard of Pellar down to mash an arm that continued up to a detached shoulder blade.

“Yo, land-whale. I’ve gotta get me some oomph to squish hopping skulls,” Zeeto replied. “I’m more the light, sporty model.”

There was no count of the undead amid the chaos of battle. When everything stopped moving beside the five living beings—six, if one counted Caspian—they all took stock of their wounds.

“Gary, you know everything,” Sira said. “Do these things turn us into more of them?” She asked this as she tended to a bite wound on Zeeto’s shoulder.

This was dangerous territory. Gary could continue laying out the way of the world at every turn. He could become a legendary bardic sage, able to spout obscure divine lore, expound on the economics of far-flung kingdoms, and even predict broad strokes of the future.

But he couldn’t allow that.

“Not that I know of,” he replied with a shrug. “The combat advice was general undead protocol. Weapons designed to draw blood don’t help against things that don’t bleed and wouldn’t care if they did.”

Braeleigh offered a quick hug. “See? This is why we need him. Told you he wasn’t useless.”

Zeeto shrugged. “For a non-combatant, I guess. But if this Miriasa chick can shoot fireballs out her fingers, I’d be willing to have a debate over the merits of having a wizard along.”

Gary’s cheeks warmed. He could barely recall the last time he’d been a legitimate boon to the party’s fighting efforts. Miriasa, once fully recovered, was level 14 and easily capable of incinerating the party at her leisure. The only fact that kept Gary from worrying over his job was the fact that she’d never join an adventuring party of noobs like them.

“Should the lass’s profession indeed be the dark arts,” Beldrak said, “we ought consider ourselves lucky to enter the lady’s good graces. Be that the width and breadth of the matter. Let us not talk of allying ourselves with such practitioners.”

“Call her ‘lass’ again,” Braeleigh said with a scowl that couldn’t help looking cute. It was probably the crinkling of her nose. “To her face, next time.”

The bickering signaled a return to normal. Gary used the opportunity to check on his XP gain.

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 5,766/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

Some quick math suggested that there had been twelve of the monsters. Divided five ways… yeah, that worked out to 350 XP apiece, which was probably more than they ought to have been worth.

For some reason, Gary still considered making a tweak to the stats of the pieces once he got back to Palo Alto—or woke up, or recovered from his trip, or whatever was ultimately going on.

Zeeto scuffed the dirt with a toe. “So… anyone up for an early start on the day?”

“We can make breakfast once we find a new camp site,” Braeleigh said, agreeing implicitly.

Sira took a long breath. “Yeah. No point staying around this spot any longer than we have to. No way I’m falling back asleep.”

And so, by the light of a billion distant stars, Gary and his friends packed up and headed onward, hours before dawn would warm the horizon.

42

The days that followed felt like a montage slowed to glacial speed. It was almost as if whoever had taken the reins of this campaign world had wanted to test out every monster native to the region.

At the fording of Saphex Creek, they were ambushed by a school of furry, amphibious eels. Beldrak had barely survived, stunned into unconsciousness by electrical attacks that not only ignored his armor but found it an ideal conductor. Braeleigh and Zeeto had to finish off the eels as Sira and Gary rescued Beldrak from drowning face down in two feet of water.

They’d been worth 220 XP each, and there had been six of them. Gary kept tabs and watched 264 XP inch him on his way to level 5.

Traveling the open plains, they’d been stalked by a pack of wheat hounds. Gary hadn’t liked their odds, and the territorial hunters had given up the chase after an hour of pursuit. Somehow, despite fleeing for his life, Gary had been gratified that his friends had been willing to retreat at his advice.

After that, there were encounters with a beetlebear protecting her egg sac, burrowing iron mole, and a small flock of vampire geese that ended up becoming their night’s dinner.

“Honestly,” Zeeto said, picking the meat from a roasted goose leg with his teeth. “When you said they were vampire geese, I never expected to be eating one. But these things are tasty!”

“They’re carnivorous hemophages,” Gary said. “They’ll drink blood from their prey, but they’re living creatures. You’re just lucky I was able to snag some honey for a good glaze before we left Durrotek. Just wait, once we get some money flowing back home, I’ll get ingredients to make buffalo sauce.”

Braeleigh choked. When she cleared the morsel from her throat with a fit of coughing, she said, “Your people make sauce from buffaloes? Ewwwww.”

“No,” Gary explained. “We’re just ass at naming foods. Our buffalo sauce is butter, salt, garlic, and spices. We also have fish sauce with no fish in it, duck sauce that doesn’t contain duck, and don’t get me started on Rocky Mountain oysters.”

“I wouldn’t,” Zeeto said. “Never been fond of seafood.”

“Not a problem,” Gary replied flatly. “They’re fried bull testicles.”

Zeeto spat out the bite he’d just taken. Then he used his fingers to wipe the remnant off his tongue. “All right. Who’s with me? All in favor of not letting Gary and his nut-snarfing barbarian tribal rituals near our food again?” He raised his hand.

Sira tentatively raised hers, along with a guilty look of apology in Gary’s direction. Beldrak folded his arms pointedly. Whether that meant he enjoyed a good bull testicle now and then or simply didn’t jump to conclusions as nimbly as the halfling, Gary had the paladin’s support.

Braeleigh continued chewing her dinner. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, obviously raw, just about anything is gross. But if they’re cooked well by someone who knows how, I’ll try just about anything.”

This was Katie, coming through unvarnished. She’d once claimed that she didn’t judge a boyfriend by how well he cooked but rather whether he was willing to try. She’d shared horror stories of guys making everything from Cajun shrimp to goat cheese pizza to try to impress her. Katie had survived more cases of food poisoning than anyone Gary had ever known, but that never stopped her from giving the next guy a try—not that there had been a “next guy” since Derek.

“I haven’t given you guys anything to eat without you knowing what it is,” Gary said defensively, realizing that his cooking was one of the firmest hooks he’d sunk into them to keep his spot on the party roster. “And I won’t. If I make you a surprise meal, you’re welcome to ask and ruin the surprise if you’re worried. Plus, I’m really careful.”

It was true. While he’d never wow them taking the standard roll, Gary had been using the no-variance journeyman rule that allowed him to add +10 to his skill check instead of rolling. On average, he’d be slightly worse off than the 10.5 a d20 worked out to over enough rolls, but neither would he ever bomb a batch of cookies and kill everyone.

When Zeeto finally put his hand down, knowing the vote was lost, the meal resumed.

To break the tense silence that followed, Gary pinged them on a subject that had been nagging at him as they’d been hunted by monsters. “So… anyone feel the Paths of Power sneaking up on them?”

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 6,400/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

It was weird when XP worked itself out to a round 100. But working the math backward, it had seemed natural. Still, Gary couldn’t help but be suspicious that someone was still pulling the strings from a world beyond, and he had his suspicions who that might be.

It would have been just like Zane to hijack his setting and try to do it better.

“Gettin’ there,” Zeeto said, picking his teeth with a dagger tip. “My dad always had this theory though. Never wanted to go adventuring because once you start down the Path of Power, danger chases you. Can’t ever get ahead. Can’t ever take it easy. By his logic, if we were to advance on the Path, this Nethel bozo would be farther down the Path himself by the time we got to him.”

“Thine father speaks heresy,” Beldrak said firmly. “To each man his own fate, and to fate and the gods alone he is beholden. Doth Kurgath gain as well with each of our victories? What of his other enemies—for surely one such as he hath others? When would it end? Fie, I say. Those words reek of the sty.”

Zeeto put an arm over Gary’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Just between you and me, if you want to cross over to the Path of Shadow, I can show you the ropes. You can keep the stringed, shrieking instrument of yours around as a cover, and you’ll be able to hold your own in a fight.”

Gary nodded and whispered back. “Thanks. I’ve been considering hopping Paths. Haven’t gotten up the courage to do it.”

Zeeto patted him on the arm. “Just do it. You’ll feel better not being the weak link.”

If only Zeeto knew that the shift tempting Gary wasn’t the shadows but the way of the wizard.

43

Temblin was a tiny, dusty frontier town only notable because its timber industry supplied the fine carpenters and artisans of Sillimar. Though the capital was a scant three days’ journey south, Temblin sat on the wrong side of the divide between what most humans considered civilized versus untamed. The road from Sillimar went off a figurative cliff in that regard, though the terrain itself was easy traveling.

Gary and his friends stopped there only long enough to purchase fresh provisions with their meager cash reserves and set out on the south road without even taking a night in a real bed.

44

All the way to Sillimar, Gary had expected an attack. He’d written in an ambush if the party had come this way, and as the days of the footsore journey wore on, the dread only built. Having the expectation hanging overhead was worse than the ambush would have been. After all, it was only a three-headed jackal that had escaped into the wilds years ago from a wizard’s laboratory. If Braeleigh rolled well, she might even have reassured it that they were no threat.

Instead, the worst thing possible happened: nothing.

Gary passed through the gates of Sillimar with Zeeto doing the talking for the group.

“Yeah, my friend here’s just a small-town sort of guy,” the halfling explained as Gary lost his shit silently within the confines of his own mind. “It’s the crowds. He’ll be fine. We’ll keep an eye on him until this bumpkin adjusts.”

“Gary, snap out of it,” Sira chided him quietly, taking him arm in arm as they departed the gate. “What’s come over you?”

How could a creator of worlds explain the terror of realizing that the planet-sized vehicle he piloted had just veered off course? The answer was: nothing. Same as the ambush. Nothing to see here. Move along. Come up with a story.

“I’m fine. This is just so… big.”

d20: 10 + (Persuade +8) + (Zeeto’s Idea +2) = 21

“Palo Alto a little more pastoral?” Sira asked, relaxing the arm interwoven with his.

Gary coughed. “Um. A little. Yeah.”

Yeah, just a measly three million or so people in the Bay Area. Nothing like mighty Sillimar’s hundred and fifty thousand.

d20: 1 + (Persuade +8) = 9

“Are you making fun of me?” Sira demanded.

Shit. One chance to fix this.

Fast Talk: on a failed Persuade check, roll a secondary check to make up a plausible excuse that the target can believe.

“No… I’m just… look, I’m trying to not come off like some small-town foreigner who’s never seen a city this size before. Mind not continuing to draw attention to it?”

“Sor-ry,” Sira said. “Maybe stop pretending you don’t have character flaws and we’ll stop pointing them out.”

Gary stopped in the middle of the street. Sira slipped off his arm and kept going. Kim had always played her cards face down. Was Sira exposing what Kim really thought of him back in the real world?

Worse, if this was really all Gary’s imagination, why was he revealing this to himself now?

For the first time since arriving in the campaign world of Pellar, Gary regretted deceiving his friends. By hiding his inside knowledge, he’d alienated them somehow. He hadn’t brought himself down to their level; he’d come in below it and stuck there. Now, mucking down the Path of Music, he was weaker than them and continuing to fall behind.

Gary had the same combat bonuses from his Path as Zeeto did from his own, but where Zeeto was optimized from character creation, Gary was stuck with a physique cultivated over a lifetime of cheese curls, cutting gym class, and drinking beer. A proper bard wouldn’t have dumped his secondary stat rolls into Intelligence and Wisdom. A little Dexterity or even Constitution might have gone a long way.

“We should split up,” Zeeto said, taking command of this decidedly urban adventure. “No offense, but you four are going to cramp my style. Beldrak, you ask around in legit circles. Old friends, church officials, anyone who might know this Nethel clown from before he started pissing off kidnappers.”

“And if our fair thief hath not been bred from Sillimar’s stock?” Beldrak asked.

“Then you’re in for a long, boring day catching up on old times with the boring people you left behind to come hang with us,” Zeeto replied. “This isn’t magic. It’s not science. This is hard work. Footsore, thirsty, purse-wrenching work. Don’t be shy making donations if you think it’ll jog some memories.”

“Donations require a coin I do not carry,” Beldrak said. “Our fortunes put us closer to beggars than philanthropists.”

Zeeto ignored the paladin’s complaints and turned to Sira. “You, go minister to the poor and needy. Those poor bastards are chock-full of information if you can convince ‘em to cough it up. Greed doesn’t work as well as you might think. Give him a few gold coins and his best friend might knife him for it. Cure his groin pox, and maybe he’ll decide to repay with the only currency he’s got.”

“Despite your crude cynicism, I’ll do it,” Sira said. “But I won’t withhold curative magics for anyone lacking information.”

“Suit yourself,” Zeeto said with a shrug. “Leigh, you’ve got it easy.”

“Oh, great!” Braeleigh said cheerily. “I was worried you’d want me to whore myself out for secrets.”

Zeeto scoffed. “Hell, no! Don’t give it up. Hang around the bars and let ‘em try, though. Don’t pay for a single drink. Make it clear you’ve got to meet with Nethel before you can do anything else. Got it?”

“Got it,” Braeleigh replied glumly.

“All right,” Zeeto said. “Get a move on.”

“What about me?” Gary asked.

“Since when do I need to tell you how to get information?” the halfling asked with a frown. “Pull it out of your magic ass for all I care. But if you need your hand held in the big old scary city, then go check around for inns. If Nethel’s a local, it’ll be a dry well, but if he’s bunking down, he’s got to sleep somewhere. If he’s loaded with coin, it won’t be in the streets.”

“And where will you be looking around?” Sira asked. “The whore houses? The gambling dens?”

“Everywhere else,” Zeeto said with an air of authority. “Look. Maybe this is all new to you but figuring out where a guy’s at is sort of a basic skill in my line of—well, I learned it growing up. OK? I can cover a lot of ground, and I won’t get my time wasted by clumsy attempts at soliciting bribes or false trails.” He clapped his hands sharply. “Now, scoot!”

They dispersed into the city.

Gary had seen Sillimar before but only in his imagination. He’d sketched a map of it on blue-lined graph paper, marked key locations with a numbered legend and everything. None of it did justice to the vision he’d had of the place itself. Glass-working was the city’s hallmark. Glazed windows were a rarity in most cities. The wealthy could afford a view without letting in flies or icy winds. But in Sillimar, every building had glass. Tubes of colored glass lit shop windows at light like primitive neon. But most stunning were the spires of the city’s finest structures—gleaming, crystalline glass that withstood the years and elements thanks to enchantments placed in bygone ages.

If he said so himself, Gary had outdone himself.

“Screw you, Marty,” Gary muttered under his breath as he meandered the streets. They all thought he was dead weight, a liability whose occasional flares of insight kept him just useful enough not to jettison.

Gary was going to catch Nethel, and he wasn’t going to need to ask around, rough up lowlifes, or pay informants.

Gary was going to cheat.

45

Pretending to conduct a city-wide search of the hospitality industry was surprisingly relaxing. Sillimar was renowned for its accommodations, and Gary had his pick of places that Nethel wasn’t and Zeeto was unlikely to check. On the off chance that the halfling was going to keep tabs on him, Gary dutifully spent the day in common rooms around the city.

With his lute.

While there was little enough money among the party members, it was largely due to demanding tastes in food and a general lack of free time to earn cash on the side. Their adventures had yet to turn lucrative aside from the funds used to purchase 14 Zephyr Street. Cooking wasn’t going to make much coin in a hurry, but there was a fine tradition of wandering troubadours earning a living playing inns and taverns.

At the Black Barrel, Gary tested the waters with a little Bob Dylan. A five-song set and a Perform check result of 18 had earned him enough in tips to rent himself a nice room for the night.

Moving along to Juggling Mug, Gary settled in amongst a clientele of foreign merchants and local sycophants for some Beatles and had to flee when he rolled a 1. Turned out that one of those merchants was a retired army captain in his kingdom’s military, and his nickname had been Pepper. Singing Sgt. Pepper had come off as demeaning, and Gary only escaped an honor duel by pretending not to speak the language.

Lucky for him, a Persuade check of 22 was enough to confuse his audience—who’d heard him introduce the songs in perfectly clear human—for long enough to duck down several alleys and cut through a cheese shop.

But that was the worst of his luck. Touring through the Brick Alehouse, the Thirsty Statue, and Orzin’s House of Suds over the course of the evening, Gary got to shake the rust off his Rolling Stones, Who, and Van Halen. None of it sounded right on the lute, and he was paying for it in tips with a -2 “Acoustic Power Chords” penalty. But it made him a little money and, more importantly, helped him feel a little less homesick.

Pellar was a fun place to visit, but without his friends around for the day, it was just reminder after reminder that this wasn’t Earth.

No tacos.

No flush toilets.

No internet.

No electricity to power an amp.

It might have been different as a mighty hero like Beldrak, standing at the fore and cleaving heads with the fury of righteousness behind his blows. He could have dealt with channeling divine power and feeling the touch of a god in his daily life—except maybe Makoy. Even having a cool pet wolf that grew as he leveled might have been nice.

But Gary was a bard. It didn’t work out any better in Pellar than it had in Palo Alto. He could scratch together a few more coins here playing taprooms than he could at nightclubs back home, but at the end of the day, he had to cook to earn his keep.

With 27 gold in his pocket, Gary headed for the rendezvous with the rest of the party.

They met at an outdoor tea shop with sight lines down two major roads. Gary would have opted for something shadowy and discreet, but Zeeto was the one calling the shots here.

“So, who came up with workable leads?” the halfling asked as soon as their waiter had taken everyone’s order.

“Not I,” Beldrak said with a shake of his head. He cast his eyes downward in shame.

“I spent most of the afternoon at the city detention center,” Braeleigh said offhandedly.

Sira reached across and took her by the hand. “What happened? Are you all right? Are you in trouble?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Braeleigh insisted, extracting her hand from the priestess’s. “One of the barflies I was stringing along got a little handsy. When he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, I agreed to head up to his room, where I—” she made a throat-slitting gesture at crotch level.

Beldrak, Zeeto, and Gary crossed their legs in unison.

“And the guards arrested you for it?” Sira asked.

Braeleigh blinked. “Me? As if. I screamed my throat raw. The bleeding lecher limped away in a panic. I pressed charges. There is a lot of bureaucracy in this city.”

Sira sighed. “As for me, I served Sevius well today. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

“That’s all right,” Zeeto said. “Nethel’s a slippery bugger. I barely scraped together that he’s been spotted around town as recently as three nights ago. That’s OK. We know he’s here. We’ll close around him like a noose.”

Gary cleared his throat.

Zeeto rolled his eyes. “Fine. You can report too.”

“Nethel hangs out at an unlicensed casino run by a local smuggling ring called the Crosstown Shippers. They run it in the basement of a distillery called Cask of Thousands. Players’ entrance is around back. Password is ‘omen’ worked into an innocuous sentence. High rollers ought to give the doorman a tip, but we’re short on cash for that. Speaking of, I did manage to scrape together enough to rent us a couple rooms for the night. Korver’s Nook, rooms 3D and 3F.” He slid one of the keys over to Sira. “This one’s got the better view of the palace spire.”

They all stared at him.

“What?” Gary asked. “Let’s enjoy a nice cup of tea and head over to find our guy.”

Gary failed to mention that Nethel was staying at that same inn, and his room was 3E.

46

Cask of Thousands reminded Gary of the exclusive underground clubs he was just barely cool enough to hear about back home and nowhere near cool enough to get into. The alley it backed onto had one of those split-level entrances with stairs along the building wall that brought visitors just below street level.

Knocking three times on the steel door, Gary waited. A panel the size of a playing card slid open, revealing a pair of narrowed eyes.

“Private establishment,” a gravelly voice said through the panel. “Come back during business hours.”

“Saw a lucky pigeon fly over this place,” Gary said. “Took it as an omen and decided to check it out.”

“They with you?” the voice asked. The eyes seen through the panel glanced at the rest of the party.

“Saw the same omen as me,” Gary replied, laying the password on thick to make sure it covered everyone.

The panel slid shut with a metallic clack. From inside the door, there came the scrape of a bolt sliding back. The steel door opened without a squeak, however. Metallic creaks in the night were the sort of thing that got an illicit establishment busted.

“Enjoy your evening,” the bouncer said as he stepped out of the way to allow them in. He turned out to be a scrawny, gangly gentleman with a knife belted openly at his hip and no doubt several others hidden about his person.

The party filtered in. The fact that they were armed did nothing to set them apart from the rough clientele inside. If anything, Beldrak’s armor was what stood out most. Light blades and dark ensembles were the dress code. Some wore fancier attire indicative of noble birth or excessive mercantile success and had blades to match. Zeeto was far from the only halfling in the room, and to Gary’s mild surprise, Braeleigh was not the only elf.

Dwarves rounded out the motley assembly of races in the cosmopolitan capital. Politics could shunt the non-human races to the outskirts of power, but in the criminal underworld, meritocracy reigned.

“You see him?” Sira whispered as they filtered through the surprisingly large gathering of gamblers and drinkers.

Beldrak shook his head. “Our villain’s portrait was painted with a horse-tail. By name alone shall we know our—”

“There,” Gary cut in. He didn’t point or angle his head to give away that he was singling out a man from across the room. “Sitting at the corner table with the serving girl in his lap.”

Beldrak squinted. “Art thou certain? What dost yonder thief thinketh to do with that hand on the lady’s… oh, my.” The paladin averted his eyes.

Zeeto leaned over to Braeleigh. “Take him outside. Keep an eye out.”

“What’s the plan?” Braeleigh asked.

“Flush him,” Zeeto said. “Chase him into a trap. Knock him out. Rob him. Use his own money to buy horses and a wagon. Simple as a dimple.” He reached up and tapped the spot on Braeleigh’s cheek where her dimples formed with each smile.

And right on cue, smile she did. “Got it! Thanks, Zeeto. Miriasa and I will owe you for this.”

“How you propose to chase him out of this place?” Sira asked once the paladin had been sheep-dogged away from the casino.

Zeeto headed for the table with a knowing grin. “I think I can find a way. You two keep clear and be ready to back me up.”

Gary bought a pair of drinks for himself and Sira. They sipped at them and chatted. “Try to flirt with me,” he suggested. “Should keep most of the rabble from bothering us.”

Sira raised a glass of whiskey to her lips and let the liquid slosh against them without drinking any. “Is that all, huh? That trick work back in Palo Alto?”

“Yes,” Gary replied.

d20: 1 + (Persuade +8) + (Like Hell It Did -2) = 9

Sira raised an eyebrow, and Gary just chuckled. He didn’t even bother using Fast Talk to try again.

At the card table, Zeeto was gambling with funds heretofore unseen by the rest of the party. It wasn’t a surprise, really. The halfling had never let money come between them and anything but creature comforts so far. Plus, he’d been left unattended all day in a city home to a fair amount of Kovia’s wealthy elite.

Meanwhile, Gary talked to Sira about her family. The parallels to Kim’s personal life were both transparent and telling. Sira had been shipped off to the clergy at a young age, as soon as her predilection for chastity became clear. She had a mother who did accounting work for the Kovian Royal Bank and a father who was a veteran of the Kovian army, on pension since a knee injury suffered in a border skirmish with Quay Shai. Kim’s family was reversed. Her father had been CFO of a series of tech startups, and her mom was the Purple Heart recipient who competed in wheelchair races into her late forties.

Kim was the black sheep of her family. Sira played that role in hers.

Gary found himself playing matchmaker in his head as he listened. If he could convince Kim and Katie to get married in some sort of Platonic civil arrangement, they’d probably make both their families a lot happier. With two incomes, they could afford daycare, and Katie could work full time at a job where her master’s degree would matter. Kim would provide a grandchild to her needy, overbearing parents.

“Cheater!” Zeeto’s voice carried across the room. The halfling was standing on his chair, leveling an accusatory finger at Nethel.

The casino fell into an expectant hush that lasted only until Nethel began a stammering self-defense of his actions.

Gary pushed back his chair. “I’ll go get the others ready,” he whispered to Sira. “You watch his back. This is going to get rough.” She nodded her reply.

Pushing his way past the crowd being sucked toward the poker table at the back of the casino, Gary found himself joining a small number of other savvy cowards. No point in seeing the violence if you didn’t want to take part in it.

Out on the street, Gary found Beldrak and Braeleigh. “There you are! Get ready. Non-lethal attacks only. We need him alive. I’m going to get in position to head him off. Be ready for any trick or ruse.”

“Right.”

“Understood.”

Gary ducked around a corner and burst into a run. Korver’s Nook wasn’t far, but he had a lot to do and no idea how much time.

The common room at Korver’s Nook was still serving when Gary arrived. He caught one of the servers by the arm as he headed back into the kitchen with a platter piled with empty bowls. “Can you grab me one of those raspberry pastries?” he asked, pressing a gold coin into the young man’s free hand.

“Sure, mister!”

A minute later, Gary was cradling the morsel in his hand as he visited the front desk. The elderly innkeeper was polishing his spectacles on the front of his shirt and squinted across at Gary.

“Excuse me, sir,” Gary said. “I locked my key in my room somehow. Can you let me in to retrieve it? Room 3E.”

“Wait. Wasn’t that—?”

“No,” Gary insisted. “I know I’ve got room 3E. I know just where I left the key too. Top drawer of the dresser.”

“Very well, sir,” the innkeeper replied. He took a jangling keychain from his pocket and headed up the two flights of stairs with Gary trailing in his wake. The floors creaked beneath their feet—an excellent early-warning system for a paranoid guest.

The innkeeper fumbled with the ring of keys until he got the one for 3E and unlocked the door. Gary slipped inside Nethel’s room and went straight for the dresser. Reaching inside, he withdrew his own room key, which he’d palmed while the innkeeper wasn’t looking.

“Aha!”

d20: 4 + (Sleight of Hand -1) + (Innkeeper Wasn’t Looking +10) = 13

Gary held his breath and his smile. Was the dotty old key-renter the suspicious sort? Would he suddenly remember which room he’d rented to Gary versus Nethel?

“Very well, sir,” the innkeeper said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Gary replied. When the door closed, he slumped against the wall. He had work to do.

47

When Nethel appeared in room 3E in a puff of smoke, Gary had Hair Splitter aimed at his forehead.

“What the—? Who are—? How did you—?”

“Take off the boots,” Gary ordered. “Unbuckle your sword belt. If you want to see what a critical hit looks like, you can see the aftermath from the afterlife.”

Nethel’s face was awash in sweat. The simply cut mop of sandy brown hair was darkened as it plastered itself to his scalp. A flush of both exertion and booze reddened his cheeks. The look in his eyes was of a man struggling to piece the world together from a jigsaw puzzle that had been solved just a moment ago and scattered suddenly onto the floor.

“Hey now, friend,” Nethel said, holding up one hand in front of him while the other fell behind as he retreated slowly. “No need to be hasty. Just put the—”

“Boots. Off. Now. Or I pry them off your cold, dead feet.”

d20: 16 + (Persuade +8) + (80’s Hollywood Action Line +2) = 26

Nethel unbuckled his sword belt first and kicked it aside. Then, with trembling hands, he worked the boots off his feet. “Who do you work for? Whatever they’re paying you, I can double it.”

Gary considered whether telling him they were working for Kurgath might help or hinder the situation. Then he caught Nethel glancing over at the window.

“Don’t even think about it,” Gary warned. There was a crudely drawn geometric pattern smeared onto the glass in raspberry pasty filling. At a glance, it looked close enough to blood that Gary hoped it would dissuade the thief from trying a daring escape out the window.

“Listen,” Nethel said. “I—I—I can make you rich. Your days of lurking in strangers’ bedrooms with crossbows can be over. Finest foods. Women at your beck and call—men if you prefer. Can—can you point that somewhere else? It might go off by accident. I’m not going to run.”

“You’re not going to run because I have it pointed at you and it might go off by accident if you startle me,” Gary said. His own pulse was racing. If Nethel collected his courage, Gary was no match for him in a fight. Kurgath’s nemesis was level 7 down the Path of Shadows, and Gary wouldn’t have bested Zeeto in hand-to-hand combat with the two of them both level 4.

Gary just had to keep the ruse going until backup arrived.

“Sit,” Gary ordered.

Nethel sat on the end of the bed and folded his hands in his lap. “My morals are completely for sale. Whatever it takes to get me out of this alive, I’ll do it.”

Silently disgusted with the thief, Gary lowered the crossbow a hair. “You really are a self-serving piece of shit, aren’t you? I might be doing you a favor if I put you out of your misery.”

Nethel nodded amiably. “Piece of shit. Yessiree! That’s me, all right. Thanks for thinking about my well-being, but I’m quite happy in my misery. I’d like to stay in it as long as possible.”

Creaking footsteps approached from the stairs down the hall. The party was returning from their frustrating chase of the rogue.

“In here,” Gary called out when the steps drew near.

He only took his attention from the thief for the blink of an eye, but that was one blink too many.

d20: 8 + (Perception +4) = 12

Not good enough. Nethel acted before Gary could even roll for Initiative. Scooping his boots from the floor, Nethel dove through the glass of the inn’s window, completely ignoring the false blood rune Gary had painted there.

With a crash of glass, Nethel was gone.

Beldrak burst through the door, sword drawn, just in time to see the shattered glass where once a window had been.

Gary rushed to the window, only slowing to make sure he didn’t step on broken glass. On the street below, he saw Nethel tug on his boots and vanish.

“So,” Zeeto said, strolling into the room. “Practical joke or an attempt at heroism gone wrong?”

“I had him!” Gary snapped. He threw Hair Splitter down on the bed. “I had that slimy bastard.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you knew what room he was staying in?” Sira asked, putting the pieces of the puzzle together more easily than the shattered window would ever be reassembled.

Gary hung his head. “You guys don’t seem to need me. You think I’m a fuck-up. Maybe I am. But I thought if I could catch Nethel and hold him until you all got back, I’d show what I’m worth.”

“Mission accomplished, compadre,” Zeeto said.

Braeleigh came over and wrapped Gary in a hug. “It’s OK.” She sniffled. “We’ll catch him. Miriasa won’t have to—”

The elf stiffened. When Gary pulled away, the pupils of her eyes had gone unnaturally wide. Staring. Unseeing.

When Braeleigh spoke, it was in Miriasa’s voice. “Being held on Cloudspire Peak. Underground Cavern. Kurgath patient but giving me no food. Strong magic. Abysmal swordsmanship. Will trade me for Nethel. Beware guards.”

As the message ended, Braeleigh shook her head as if to clear it. “I… did everyone else hear that?”

“Yeah,” Zeeto said. “What was that?”

“Sending spell,” Gary said quickly. “You’ve got a few moments to compose a reply. Same length.”

“How long was—?” Sira began to ask.

“Twenty-five words,” Gary said. “I counted.”

d20: 8 + (Persuade +8) + (No One’s Listening For Lies +4) = 20

If anyone questioned Gary’s accuracy, now wasn’t the time to bring it up.

“What do I say?” Braeleigh asked.

“Shut up,” Gary snapped. “She’s hearing this. This is counting. You’ve used… ten words already.”

Braeleigh made a “hurry up” motion with a continuous wave of one hand, summoning speech-writing help via charades.

“This is your ball game,” Zeeto said to Gary. “You wanna be useful? Be useful.”

Gary pinched the bridge of his nose. There was a certain exhilaration in reacting to a contingency he hadn’t written. This was new ground, some combination of factors he hadn’t anticipated and scripted. In his head, he wrote and rewrote his reply, counting the words in each.

“Tracking Nethel. Stay strong,” Gary said to Braeleigh. She echoed his words. “We’re on our way. Contact us again when possible.”

Sira had kept count on her fingers. “One word left. Anything else we can add?”

“Think that’s got the essentials,” Gary replied.

Zeeto caught Braeleigh’s eye. “Cunnilingus,” he told her earnestly.

Dutifully, Braeleigh echoed him, then realized what she’d just sent. “Hey! What’s the idea?”

Zeeto was overcome with giggles. “Oh, man. I can’t believe you said it. I can just imagine the look on her face. Come on. It’ll all be funny once she’s rescued, and Gary said we’d told her everything we need to.”

“I like nothing of this matter,” Beldrak said. “Thy lady’s peril is the only hook in my moral flesh.”

“Good enough,” Sira grumbled. “Now can we get out of this room before someone comes up to investigate?”

48

There was a hubbub over the scuffle in Nethel’s room at Korver’s Nook, but Zeeto took point and parlayed it into a refund of one night’s lodging fee for the disturbed sleep. After that, the five of them found a bakery and made their morning meal a planning session.

“Well, last night was a real shit show,” Zeeto said with far less sugarcoating than the puff pastry in his mouth. “Not only did we not catch Mr. Cheat-and-Poof, we tipped him off that we’re after him. Now it’ll be ten times as hard to nab him. No, a hundred times.”

“What value the thief when our aim hath clear and true been laid before us?” Beldrak asked. “Would, by chicanery, the blackguard Kurgath stand to gain aught? Nay! ’Tis the villain’s only aim to recompense his loss and rip justice from the flesh. And with the narrow knowledge of our errand, it can only hold that Miriasa hath sent for succor.”

“Even if we believe her, what chance do we have breaking into Kurgath’s stronghold to rescue her?” Sira asked between sips of morning tea.

Zeeto held up a finger on each hand. “Let’s put this out there. What do we really know about Kurgath? I mean—”

“He’s holding a competent elven wizard against her will,” Gary pointed out. “Braeleigh missed him at point-blank range. No accident. Not anything she did wrong. Magic. Miriasa herself warned that he had powerful magic in her message. He also completely destroyed the Talis Guild—or at least their headquarters—in, as best we can tell, a fit of pique.”

Braeleigh sighed. “So… no valiant rescue attempts. Back to finding Nethel.”

“I never said that,” Gary replied, drawing a raised eyebrow from Beldrak. “We just can’t take him on. Whatever we’re going to do to get Miriasa back, it’s going to be a heist, not an assault.”

Braeleigh’s eyes lit. “You mean it? We’re going to rescue her?”

Gary got solemn nods of confirmation from Beldrak and Sira. Zeeto scowled and held out. “Yes. We are. To hell with Nethel and his stolen magic boots and his thousands upon thousands of gold.”

Zeeto emitted a faint whimper. Gary had to do a double-take to confirm it wasn’t Caspian.

“No,” Gary continued. “We’re going to find our way to Cloudspire Peak. We’re going to find where Kurgath is hiding Miriasa.” Gary sighed. “And then we’re probably going to spend the rest of our natural lives on the run from his vengeance.”

“I’m in,” Braeleigh said. “If the right thing to do was easy, everyone would do it.”

“I was with you up until the last part,” Sira said. “But I can’t in good conscience not help rescue Miriasa, wizard or not.”

Beldrak placed a hand over his heart. “Mine answer hath not altered. Though I am loath to give free roam to such a creature as Kurgath, I shall not stab out mine own eyes for justice over mercy.”

Zeeto put a hand over his eyes. “Someone, please convince me that Miriasa is some sort of uber-treasure that’s worth more than all the stuff we could snag by mugging Nethel and keeping it. Just those magic boots of his would be worth the effort to track him down.”

“And let him get away from us again,” Sira added.

“And again… and again,” Braeleigh said. “Besides. There’s more value in a human life than all the gold a scruffy scoundrel like Nethel could carry. For an elven life, like, double that, at least.”

“Thanks for devaluing our species,” Sira said dryly.

“Fine,” Zeeto grumbled. “I’ll treat this like a business investment. You bleeding hearts are going to pay off in the long run. I’ll keep telling myself that as we blow the last of my poker money on fast horses for the trip back.”

Braeleigh hefted Zeeto out of his chair and spun him in a hug. “I knew you’d come around.”

“Put me down!” Zeeto shrieked, drawing amused chuckles from nearby patrons of the bakery. When Braeleigh complied, he dusted himself off. “I’ve got a condition, though, and it’s a practical one.”

“What condition?” Gary asked, knowing that if anyone were to argue against the halfling’s petty demands, it would be him.

“We all get ourselves to the next step down the Paths of Power before we go barging into any fortresses.”

Sira snickered. “Thought your old man didn’t believe in outrunning the Paths.”

“Well,” Zeeto said with a huff. “The old man’s been wrong before. Maybe this Kurgath chap has hit a dead end somewhere. Either way, rather unlock some of the juicy power I can see coming.”

Gary checked his stats.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 6,800/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

Just 1,200 XP more and he’d be there. Whatever the rest of them had in reserve, the amount must have been similar. A few good encounters along the road and they’d be good. If they’d managed to actually catch Nethel, instead of letting him escape, they might have made it. Gary had earned 200 XP just from the failed attempt.

The Path of Arcana beckoned. Gary had taken the wrong side of the Path of Music to cross right over, but if he planned ahead, he could be across to wizardry by level 7. Without Language (arcana) and without all the little bonuses to spell power picked up along the way.

Still, the Path of Music was disappointing thus far, and Gary wasn’t able to adjust the Path balance from inside the game. Until he could get back to Palo Alto and access his binders, he was stuck with the rules as written.

“I can live with that,” Gary said. “But it means we should probably travel overland on the way back.”

Despite grumbles of objection and a general wish not to encounter any more of those undead pieces, they all agreed. With no desire to lose horses to wilderness monsters, they decided to forgo spending the last of their money on the beasts and departed before noon.

49

At times, the party seemed to be Gary’s friends. Not the friends he left back in his kitchen in Palo Alto, but actual in-game friends who liked him for his in-game persona—which, technically, was pretty much the same guy. Some of it might have had to do with his cooking ability, which turned the promise of trail rations and wild game into an expectation of honest-to-the-gods cuisine.

They were easy to impress. None of them were accustomed to properly spiced food or anything that felt outside of a fantasy-generic range from medieval European to Middle Eastern fare. If he could ever find a trader selling ginger, Gary was going to blow their minds.

It was as dusk set in on the second night out of Sillimar that Gary’s mind turned over ideas for how to make burritos. The tortillas were the major problem, as was a good way to grind up the meat or slice it well enough to pass for a filling. His musings were interrupted by a casual comment from Braeleigh.

“Anyone else feel like we’re being stalked?”

Oh, wonderful.

“How long have you noticed this?” Sira asked. “Has it been all day? Because if it’s been all day, we’re going to have another talk about what’s appropriate to keep to ourselves versus sharing immediately.”

“Does Caspian smell anything?” Gary asked.

“We have a headwind,” Braeleigh pointed out. “Nothing with a scent is going to lie in wait for us up ahead. Well, I mean, they might, but we’d know about it. But something trailing us would smell us without us smelling them.”

“This is why intelligent creatures invented cities,” Zeeto said. “Screw this Davey Crockett nonsense.”

“Who?” Gary asked, genuinely curious where Zeeto had gotten that name.

“The famous halfling explorer,” Zeeto replied as if Gary had just asked who Lewis and Clark had been. “Don’t tell me of all the random crap history you’ve learned since getting to Kovia, you’ve never heard of Davey Crockett.”

“Um, real frontiersman, wears a raccoon hat? That the guy?”

Zeeto scoffed. “Should have known better. Figures it’s the foreigner who learns all this stuff. You ask ten humans and eleven of them won’t have any idea who I’m talking about.”

From the shrugs around the party, Gary was indeed the only one, and that meant that the ignorance also dipped a toe into the elven community.

d20: 19 + (Perception +4) + (Friendly Chat -2) = 21

Gary whipped out Hair Splitter just as the howl echoed across the countryside. “Overwolves!” he shouted. For once, his instincts had prickled, warning him of the danger just in time. That’s what had Braeleigh’s hackles up.

d20: 14 + (DEX -1) = 13

Gary had earned the right to act in the ambush turn. He hadn’t, however, out-rolled the wolves.

Black-and-gray tiger-striped canines barreled in among the party, snarling and slavering. If there was a pattern or animal cunning to their attack, it was lost amid the raw fury of the initial assault.

Two of the beasts tore at Gary with their teeth. One sank its fangs deep. The other ripped a shred from his shirtsleeve.

Damage Taken: 5 (sharp)

For sharp damage, it sure felt like fire. Pain seared Gary’s arm where the muscle had torn, but the injury didn’t impair him at all. With jittery fingers, he let the crossbow fall from his hands and plucked the first notes of a song from his lute.

“Rockabye overwolves, ‘neath the treetops; when the song flows, your sleepy heads drop; when the spell breaks, the hammer will fall; and down will go hit points; we’ll take them all.”

Lullaby: Test Willpower against Music check
d20: 10 + (Music +8) + (Classic Lullaby of Your People +2) + (Music Soothes Savage Beasts +4) = 22

Gary wasn’t sure how much of a classic a song about a baby stranded up a tree and falling when the wind picks up should be, but it was true that pretty much everyone knew it. Either way, most of the overwolves’ eyes glazed over. Those affected by the song wobbled on unsteady legs before collapsing into slumber.

“Nice work, twinkle-fingers,” Zeeto cheered. With none of the wolves awake within arm’s reach, the halfling took a free hit on one of the sleeping ones, killing it instantly.

Braeleigh yipped. “Don’t kill them! They’re hungry. We can just feed them.”

“A preference for man-flesh doth seem an impasse,” Beldrak said, hacking into one of the beasts still on its feet.

Sira came over and healed Gary’s arm. The warmth of the divine touch was more soothing than any hot tub, more cleansing than his ex-girlfriend’s exfoliating cream.

Damage Healed: 5

“Thanks,” he said to her quickly between verses.

As Gary’s turn came around again, Zeeto’s eyes drooped. This was one of the downsides of the Lullaby skill and a major reason Gary didn’t consider it more often. To his surprise, Braeleigh yawned and collapsed beside a slumbering Caspian.

The rest of the overwolves succumbed as well, however. All but the pain-frenzied beast squaring off with Beldrak. When the paladin finished off his adversary, he turned to the two remaining wake companions.

“I calleth a vote,” Beldrak said. “Whosoever thinketh it prudent to—”

“Finish ‘em off,” Sira said. “Sevius looks after sentient creatures foremost, and these things are a menace.”

Gary’s nod as he continued the song preceded Beldrak’s systemic butchery of the remaining creatures. Then Sira saw to some minor wounds the paladin and Braeleigh had received. Then they woke everyone else up.

Braeleigh put a hand to her mouth. “You… you…”

“’Twas us or them,” Beldrak said. “Betwixt the two, no other way.”

Gary let the white lie pass. Maybe in Beldrak’s black-and-white world, there was truth to what he said. Indeed, even if they got away without killing those overwolves, some other poor travelers might have died to those fangs and seen the insides of those bellies.

Zeeto rubbed his eyes and surveyed the carnage. “Aww, fuck. Missed the good part. OK. Two questions. First, are these things edible? Second, was that enough for anyone to level up?”

Gary counted bodies. Eleven. He rolled his eyes but checked anyway.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 7,196/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

“Yeah… not close,” Gary confirmed. 396 XP sounded about right for that mess. Overwolves weren’t individually very dangerous. Even then, packs of low-level monsters never seem to add up to all that much. It would have taken a pack of thirty-four of the beasts for Gary to have leveled up right then, and the odds of them surviving against thirty-four overwolves would have depended heavily on someone cheesing them out, possible cheesing them out more than Gary’s Lullaby.

“Shitcicles,” Zeeto swore. “Nobody?”

They all shook their heads.

“And… edible?”

Braeleigh scrunched her nose. “I mean, I wouldn’t eat them.” She ruffled the fur at Caspian’s neck.

“I’m not cooking them,” Gary said. “We have enough real food. I don’t need to be butchering wolves in the wilderness.”

“Well, so we didn’t level up and this isn’t food, so what are we hanging around this vulture buffet for?” Zeeto asked. He clapped his hands. “Chop, chop. Let’s move.”

Gary fell in as the party moved on. Somehow, his attempts to concentrate on planning the party’s dinner failed to win him an appetite.

50

They’d ended up eating chicken stew that night, then sleeping under the stars with the night sounds free of howling wolves.

The next morning, Zeeto melted a candle over some wadded scraps of cloth to fashion primitive earplugs. “Next time you play your snoozic, I’m ready for it.”

“Snoozic?” Gary asked. He had an idea, but he didn’t want to draw any unflattering conclusions.

“Snooze music,” Zeeto said. “Boring enough to dig a mine. Dull enough to let a toddler play with. So slow it would change 10 gold for a silver if you asked like it weren’t nothing.”

“Ooh,” Braeleigh said. “Make me some. And some bigger ones for Caspian.”

“Sorry,” Zeeto replied a bit too loudly. “I can’t hear you over the super-effective noise-blockers I just invented.”

“You’re not even wearing them,” Gary pointed out.

Zeeto cupped a hand to his ear. “What?”

Braeleigh scowled. “I hope something eats you and you survive long enough to get pooped out the other end.”

Zeeto blinked a few times, then suffered a full-body shudder. “I just had the most vivid image.”

“Serves you right,” Sira said.

Shifting gears so fast he would have burned out a transmission, Zeeto called ahead to Braeleigh at the front of the group. “Hey, can you maybe zigzag us a little? Maybe get us attacked by something. We’re making great time back to Durrotek. Maybe a little too great. I don’t want to risk not having enough oomph when we get there to rescue Miriasa.”

Braeleigh sighed. Even from the back of the group, Gary could tell she was rolling her eyes. “I don’t know where monsters might be, or I’d happily run you into some. Maybe you can just butcher some innocent forest creatures trying to survive.”

“I would, but I don’t see any of those either,” Zeeto shot back.

“What is it you’re so looking forward to?” Gary asked. “It’s got to be something in the fifth Ring of Power that’s caught your eye like a cheap whore at last call.”

Gary knew the rogue skills coming up, but he couldn’t guess which of them was the apple of the halfling’s eye. Was Zeeto looking to dish out damage or protect himself with stealth?

“Throwing Stab,” Zeeto said without hesitation. “I love me a good knifing but damn me if getting close enough to smell the viscera of some nasty bugger isn’t my favorite thing in the world. We start running into more monstrous monsters, and I can only imagine how bad the smells are going to get.”

“Are we really looking for monsters so Zeeto doesn’t have to smell dead people?” Sira asked. “Dead people he kills himself?”

Zeeto heaved a melodramatic sigh as he walked. “Maybe I just need nose plugs.”

“Or… hear me out on this,” Braeleigh said. “A profession where you don’t kill anyone. Maybe you’re just not suited to this line of work.”

Zeeto snarled wordlessly in reply.

“Guys, cut it out,” Gary scolded. “The odds of us making it to Cloudspire Peak without a few more monster attacks are almost nil.”

“Thy expertise cometh whence?” Beldrak asked, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Shouldst not we suffer a fate akin to most travelers hereabouts? Woodsmen and trappers haunt these lands without their numbers thinned overmuch by strange predations.”

Gary threw up his hands. “It’s just the way the world works. We’re outliers. Get used to it. The gods, fate, or whoever you want to think is running this show is going to make sure our lives are never easy, never safe, and always push us to the very limits of our abilities, endurance, and morals.”

Sira approached gingerly and put a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “Maybe we can help you find a little peace in the grace of the gods.”

Gary clenched his jaw. The gods? Those posers? Those fabrications? Those puffed up healing spell vending machines? He wanted to scream the truth until his lungs turned inside out. He wanted to claim the divinity that Makoy feared in him.

“I’m fine,” he said instead, exhaling a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. “I just see the world a little more clearly. That’s all.”

He stalked off with the morning sun at his back. “Come on. We’re not going to get attacked by any more or fewer monsters standing around.”

And that much was as plain a truth as he could spare them just now.

51

It was lunch break by the time Gary’s prediction came true. Not that there was any way to prove that their encounter was independent of all their precautions or desires either to find monsters or avoid them. Gary knew this was random chance because the table of random encounters for the region was the only place they were liable to run into this particular creature.

Name: Dread Badger Hit Points: 35 Damage: 2d6+6

A descendant of a breeding pair of mutant badgers created by wizards circa YG 225. Roughly the size of a horse with fangs like tent stakes.

Caspian’s barking alerted everyone as Gary was struggling to start their camp fire. The dread badger looked just like its non-dreadful cousins but scaled large enough to make meals of humans. It was already in a frenzy when they first caught sight of it.

d20: 19 + (DEX -1) = 18

There were times when Gary wished he had a magical battery that could store good dice rolls. He’d gladly go last in the Initiative queue to have a 19 like that tucked away for an attack roll or Persuade check.

Now, with the crazed behemoth bearing down on Zeeto—the most bite-sized of their contingent—Gary found himself wishing someone else bore the responsibility of saving him. Already in a frenzy, there would be no soothing the beast to slumber or distracting it with Fascinate.

Gary slung Hair Splitter into hand and took aim. He squeezed the trigger. The string release clicked.

d20: 4 + (To Hit +2) + (DEX -1) = 5

The bolt whizzed off into the distance, lost in the forest. A thock seconds later revealed that he’d struck something solidly. Unfortunately, that something was a far-off tree.

The badger got its turn before anyone else could act. Gary’s lone attack registered in the creature’s tiny, addled brain as a threat, and it closed the distance with terrifying speed.

Gary yelped and shielded his face with his arms. Next thing he knew, a crushing grip took hold of him. Stinking, carnivorous breath washed over him. With a painful, stabbing jerk, he was borne aloft and arced through the air to land heavily on the forest soil.

Damage Taken: 18 (sharp)

Damage Taken: 3 (blunt)

Just before the darkness took him, simple math passed through Gary’s head.

I have fewer than 21 hit points.

52

Gary woke to the ecstasy of Sira’s healing magic. He shuddered a gasp of relief from pain his body had experienced without a waking mind to evaluate and appreciate its horror. The near-fatal injury was healed before Gary could fully experience its agony. All his body had left was a rapidly fading soreness where teeth had punctured his flesh.

Before he said a word, Gary scanned the vicinity. He was right where he last remembered. Well, perhaps a few dozen feet away, where the beast had hurled him. However, he found what he was looking for. The dread badger lay motionless, bloody, and very clearly dead. Beldrak was tugging to free the Shard of Pellar from the creature’s skull, where it had lodged, presumably upon the fatal blow.

“Everyone accounted for?” Gary asked.

“You took the worst of it,” Sira said. “And here you are.”

“It didn’t even try to eat Zeeto,” Braeleigh said with an air of disappointment clear in her voice. “It was definitely big enough. I’m calling this oh-for-one. Better luck next encounter.”

“Stop wishing for things to eat me,” Zeeto griped as he wiped his dagger clean on the dread badger’s fur. “Hey… you think this thing’s pelt is worth anything? Best washcloth I’ve used in months. Dagger’s looking good as new on one pass.”

“Stop trying to eat, skin, or sell everything we kill, and maybe I will,” Braeleigh countered. She scanned the woods. “There must be a shortage of prey animals in the area for these large carnivores to risk attacking us like this. It’s unusual behavior, for sure.”

Gary didn’t bother trying to explain an encounter table. He wasn’t sure if he’d get as far as explaining the dread badger existed solely as a listing of stats on a sheet of paper in another universe. Trying to assign random dice rolls to essentially pick it out of a hat when there was need of a battle was too meta for Braeleigh—or any of the others, for that matter—to understand.

Of the topics Gary had to keep to himself was his character sheet. He took a quick check to verify that he’d received XP for a fight during which he’d been unconscious.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 7,346/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

Yeah. 150 XP since last check. He wondered whether the XP payouts across the campaign were maybe a bit low. Either that, or the rewards always seemed a bit harder earned when it was pulling triggers, swinging swords, and getting bitten instead of just rolling dice and jotting down battle results in pencil.

Still, progress was progress. Whoever was in charge of making sure Gary and the others all leveled up before their next major plot battle was pacing the XP gain to make it dramatic, no doubt. That’s exactly what Gary would have done if it were him in charge.

He froze.

Am I in charge?

The pieces fit. Gary had long suspected that this was all taking place within the confines of his own unconscious. The insights from his fellow players would probably seem childish and obvious once he woke up—like much of logic contained within a dream. Unknowable facts would turn out to be incorrect. His inferences about their personalities would wind up reflecting on his own id and ego.

If Gary was the one pulling the strings, the constant failures were likely a symptom of self-loathing. The sudden insights were the enforcement of his will masquerading as a near-flawless memory of this world he’d created. Which was more likely: that he’d retained detailed information about monsters he’d jotted down on paper and solutions to puzzles he’d designed months ago or that he’d been making it up as he went and imposing reality on his fellow adventurers?

Sira shook him gently by the shoulder. “Gary? You in there? Snap out of it. You’re alive. That thing didn’t eat you. Get your mind back here with the rest of us.”

Gary blinked a few times, struggling to focus on Sira’s face, just inches from his. Their noses nearly touched. He looked into those deep, rich brown eyes before pulling back to a less intimate distance. “Right. Fine. Sorry. Getting a little philosophical in there. Thanks for reeling me back.”

“That’s the old Gary for sure,” Zeeto said. “Half the words are just shoveled into a nonsensical pile that I’m not going to bother sifting through. Just like his song lyrics.”

“We hath retrieved thy belongings,” Beldrak said.

d20: 5 + (Perception +4) = 9

While the words seemed helpful, Gary picked up on a note of regret and guilt that Beldrak was ill equipped to hide from even a shitty roll like Gary’s.

“What happened?” he dared to ask.

Braeleigh had her hands behind her back. When she showed them, they were holding the shattered remains of a lute. If not for the strings being attached at both ends, it would have been little more than a sounding board and a neck as separate entities.

“My lute,” he whispered. There was an unexpected sense of loss at the instrument’s destruction. He’d all but stolen it in the first place, barely knew how to play it or any songs appropriate to it and had never grown to appreciate the feel of the instrument in his hands. And still, for some unfathomable reason, he was saddened to see it ruined.

Beldrak came over and clapped him on the shoulder. “My friend, if thee needeth accompaniment, mine order doth train us in certain chants that might serve a counterpoint to thy melodies.”

“Let’s just moving,” Gary said, holding up a palm to ward off any further offers of help. He could go a cappella if he had to. It wasn’t like spellcasting, where there was a need for a focus item. Worst case, he might get a skill penalty for a song that didn’t work well without accompaniment.

As the party traipsed through the woods and the day wore long, Gary felt both naked without his lute and a curious second sensation that he struggled to explain.

He felt free.

53

Over the remaining journey back to Durrotek, Gary adapted to life without a lute slung across his back. Hair Splitter was his weapon, paltry though the crossbow was in his hands. Unfortunately, “practice” wasn’t a thing in this campaign world. Getting better with his aim would only come with level advancement, better equipment, or loaded dice.

But leveling up came with XP, and they came across enough of that on the cross-country expedition back to their mutual adopted home. None of them was from Durrotek but buying property there had made it into a newborn home, still weak and whiny but growing on them by the day.

In their tracks, the party left the carcasses of another half dozen overwolves, a few dozen more undead pieces ground to dust and ash, a canopy lurker, and a half dozen scipsies that Zeeto had ghoulishly cremated to recover the gold from their bellies.

Now, Gary stood with a bottled-up level waiting to burst forth.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A XP: 8,106/8,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian

Skills: Persuade (+8), Music (+8), Study/Search (+8)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

All that remained was to find a quiet time to review his options and plan out his next advancement.

Durrotek looked emptier than when they’d left. The gate guards allowed them in without comment. They were known, now. Familiar faces in a shrinking city. Those with the means to flee south had done so by now. Anyone remaining was liable to be in for the long haul.

How long that haul lasted, Gary could only surmise. Durrotek was the epicenter of an RPG campaign, which was never a good thing for civilians.

When they reached 14 Zephyr Street, everyone headed off to their bedrooms to collapse. Road travel was exhausting. Overland doubly so. But while the rest of them climbed two flights of stairs to the luxurious upper floors, Gary shuffled through the kitchen to the servants’ quarters.

He was the one adjacent to the room where Kurgath had stolen Miriasa. He was the one who put back the cookware their intruder had scattered in careless handling of the limp and barely conscious elf.

Two hours.

They’d agreed that a two-hour recharge was all they could spare before hitting the road once more, this time bound north for Cloudspire Peak, the tallest mountain and namesake of the entire range.

With a sigh, Gary sat at the end of his bed and closed his eyes. He’d only meant to envision the Paths of Power, but soon he found himself lying with his head on the pillow.

Next thing he knew, a bucket of water splashed over his face.

“Rise and shine, buddy-boy,” Zeeto said, still holding the bucket over Gary’s head and shaking it to dislodge the last few clinging drops.

Gary sputtered and coughed out a mouthful of water. “What the hell, man?”

“Time’s up,” Sira said from the door. “Rest of us are ready. I don’t suppose you took the time to advance on the Paths of Power before dozing off.”

“I… uh,” Gary said, struggling to account for the two hours he’d been promised.

“Sounds like a ‘no,’” Zeeto proclaimed. “C’mon, doofus. Leigh and Drak are outside waiting for us. Go ahead and tell choir boy you’re late because you had to take a leak. Love hearing that dung-shoveling tongue of yours in action.”

Doofus? Gary echoed in his head. I’ve got twice the brains you do, small-fry. But that same intellect reasoned that insulting the halfling gained him nothing. Gary no longer felt the speed of his thoughts careening ahead, but that was more to adapting to the quicker wits than any slowing of his cognitive powers.

Closing his eyes, Gary took one deep breath, then opened them. “Good to go.”

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A, 5B XP: 8,106/16,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian, Befuddle

Skills: Persuade (+9), Music (+9), Study/Search (+9)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

He’d passed up Ancient Historian at 5A and couldn’t cross from A to C to reach Confidante at 5C. His route was locked in ahead of him. Next level, he’d have to take 6C, which was Golden Tongue. Not a bad power compared to many of the others, the bonuses it gave to social skills alone was worth it. Befuddle, for all its basic utility, was merely a necessary stop to cross over to 6A on the Path of Arcana at level 7.

Befuddle: Perform check against a single target. Test willpower to resist. Victim unable to form coherent thoughts for as long as performance is maintained.

Sira narrowed her eyes. “What’d you do?”

“Advanced.”

“That quickly?” she asked skeptically.

Zeeto waved off the notion. “Nah. You missed where I just told him I liked watching his bullshitting in action. You fell for it, but I’m nobody’s fool.”

“I take offense at that,” Gary said. “You’re our fool.”

Sira snickered. “You two just keep it civil on the trail, OK? I don’t want to get caught in the middle of an alpha male comedian war.”

“No risk of that,” Gary promised, unsure whether he’d just insulted Zeeto, himself, or both of them in the process.

Still, it felt good having a plan. Because once they got to Kurgath’s lair, being quick on character sheet upkeep after leveling wasn’t going to impress anyone.

54

Gary’s tips from a lazy afternoon playing in Sillimar’s taverns went to purchasing provisions for the trip north. Salted meats, spices, and root vegetables would feed them better than jerky and stale bread. Furred cloaks would keep them warm enough on the hike to higher elevations. A sixth cloak drew raised eyebrows until Gary reminded everyone that they were planning on adding a member to their journey home.

Then it was back onto the trails.

North of Durrotek, the Yellow River—named for the gold once panned there—wound its way up into the mountains, shedding tributaries along the way. The mighty trade waters made their way to the Tumul Sea filled with cargo barges and sailing trade ships became a trickle of an overflowed sewer drain in a rainstorm.

Aside from the wind and the crunch of footsteps on the frozen soil, the wilds were silent and still.

“Any more messages from Miriasa?” Gary asked, calling ahead to Braeleigh, whose task as guide was merely to keep track of which tributary they followed on their northward march.

She stopped. “No. And I’m getting worried. I mean, what if Kurgath killed her? Or… or worse?”

“That brings up a good point,” Zeeto said, taking advantage of the pause to chew on a trail bar. “We’re trying to save the elf lady’s life. Heroic, right? But what if she suffers a fate worse than death, but…” He raised a finger. “We still save her life? That counts, right? Still heroes?”

Braeleigh stormed up the trail, not looking back.

Sira followed close behind.

Beldrak shook his head at the halfling. “Betimes I boggle at thy notions. Ofttimes, I remember thy wit’s edge be poisoned. If thy talk of heroism ring true in thine own ear, practice thou valor among thy comrades.” With that, Beldrak’s long stride carried him off in pursuit of their guide.

“Not cool, man,” Gary added before joining the paladin.

Zeeto shot Gary a glare, cast a quick look ahead to the departing members of the party, then lowered his voice. “I’d have thought you’d get the humor in it. All this talk about ‘save her, save her,’ and she might be past the point of wanting to be saved. Those prissy, spoiled adventuring hobbyists think being a hero fixes everything. I got the impression that where you’re from, you got it.”

Gary kept silent. For the first time, he saw real depth in Zeeto, more even than maybe Marty had in him.

“Wonderful stuff, saving lives,” Zeeto continued. “Until they have to go back to living. Save a girl from the gangs, and her pa beats her for losing her virtue. Drag some wretch out of the dungeons after a month without sunlight, and some of ‘em never see the sun again even in perfect weather. I don’t want these clean-handed buddies of ours getting their hopes up. Odds are, this delicate flower will never bloom again after what that madman’s done to her.”

Gary sighed quietly. “Miriasa is no delicate anything.” He beckoned for Zeeto to get moving with him and hurried to catch up to Braeleigh’s lead.

…and Kurgath is no madman.

55

They were halfway up a winding mountain trail when Braeleigh called a halt to their ascent.

“Does anyone else feel that?”

Shivering, Zeeto replied. “The cold? Damned straight, I do!” Teeth chattering, he tugged his cloak tighter around him.

Winds whipped icy spray from the permafrost above the tree line. Gary could hardly feel his fingers or toes.

“Eyes,” Braeleigh said over the wind. “We’re being watched.”

Gary cupped a hand to his ear and angled his head until the howling gales didn’t resonate like notes played across the top of a half-empty beer bottle.

d20: 16 + (Perception +4) + (You Can’t Hear the Feeling of Being Watched -4) = 16

“I don’t see anyone,” Sira reported, using her hand as a visor to scan back down their trail.

“M-m-my eyes are frosted over like w-w-winter w-w-windows,” Zeeto added.

“Fine statues we shall make, standing hither,” Beldrak said. “I favor a chance of ambush o’er the gallows certainty of exposure in this clime.”

The five continued on. Only Caspian seemed happy in the morbid cold that clutched Cloudspire Peak in its fist. Gary’s thoughts raced the closer they got to the summit. The entrance they sought wasn’t all the way at the mountain’s highest point—far from it—but he knew the time was fast approaching for a plan that only he could devise.

Sooner than he would have liked, the party reached a gaping maw that yawned from the rock face of the peak. The opening was large enough to drive a truck through, but the scratch marks crosshatching the entryway hinted at a more sinister traveler passing in and out.

“Don’t worry,” Sira said, stepping in front of the markings. “I took our break in Durrotek to stop by the library. Don’t look at me like that. It was time well spent. This place was once a dragon’s lair, but the dragon was slain, and its horde looted over three hundred years ago.”

“Th-th-that book doesn’t happen to mention whether there’s a fireplace in there, does it?” Zeeto asked through spasmodic shivers.

“No, but it gave a general layout of the place,” Sira said. “The former occupant had servant creatures and underlings housed in a series of chambers along a side tunnel that branches off from the main one a short ways in. Miriasa is probably being held there.”

Beldrak nodded curtly. “Then let us onward.” He took one long stride to lead the way.

“No! Wait!” a voice cried from behind them. All of them whirled to find Nethel clad all in white, including a hooded cloak, and wearing a mask. But the voice was unmistakable.

“You!” Braeleigh snarled, drawing her bow.

d20: 16 + (DEX -1) = 15

To his utter shock, Gary’s 15 had come out on top of the Initiative. He stumbled into the path of Braeleigh’s arrow and threw his arms wide. “Hear him out! He didn’t have to reveal himself.”

Gary didn’t know what was going on. None of their interactions with the thief had gone exactly according to plan, and this was out of scope of his notes back home. But something told him that there was more to gain from parlay than collecting a belated bounty.

Especially since there was a good chance Nethel had an escape already plotted.

“You can’t go in there,” Nethel said. “You’ll all be killed.”

Braeleigh stepped aside to clear her shot but didn’t take it. “Why would you care? We were trying to capture you.”

“You’re not bad people,” Nethel said, keeping his hands where everyone could see them. Though, for a level 7 thief, there was only so far a dagger would ever be from his reach. “Some of the stuff I heard in Sillimar gave me second thoughts about picking you all off in your sleep, so I tailed you.”

“All the way from S-s-sillimar?” Zeeto asked dubiously.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Sira asked bluntly. “What’s the cost of a few deaths to a selfish thief like you?”

“He killed my friends,” Nethel said. He pulled back his mask. Tears welled in his eyes. “We were adventurers. Like you. We came here to rob the place, and I was the only survivor.”

Zeeto snorted. “That’s wh-wh-what you get robbing a w-w-wizard.”

The sudden fury on Nethel’s face had Braeleigh pulling her bowstring back even farther. “He’s not a wizard, you chatter-tongued little oaf, he’s a—”

“Dragon,” Gary said softly. But every eye turned toward him.

“You knew?” Nethel asked. “And you came anyway?”

Beldrak gaped. “I knew not.”

“Me either,” Sira replied.

“Um, no clue here,” Braeleigh said. “Why didn’t you tell us if you suspected, Gary?”

“I don’t suspect. I know. I know a lot, and I can’t explain how in any way you guys would accept. I don’t know everything, but I know that Kurgath is a guise he puts on to leave this place. Nothing changes our plan though. We go in, grab Miriasa, and get out without raising the alarm.”

“Um, nothing changes until an angry dragon flies down from the mountain and torches the house at 14 Zephyr Street like he did Club Talis,” Zeeto said, his anger warming his words, so they flowed from his tongue without chattering.

“Miriasa will be strong enough to give him pause, once she fully recovers,” Gary swore. They all stared at him as if a stranger had donned his skin. “What?”

“Who the ever-loving hell are you?” Zeeto asked. “And I don’t want to hear an answer that involves being a quirky foreigner from mythical Palo Alto.”

“Where’s that?” Nethel asked. “Never heard of it? And I’ve traveled.” Then he added in an undertone. “Being on the run from a dragon incentivizes wanderlust.”

“None of us have heard of it before,” Zeeto said. “Beginning to think it doesn’t exist at all.”

Gary sighed in the face of the anger and distrust suddenly turned his way. “I’m beginning to as well,” he admitted. “I’ve been here far longer than I imagined possible. Let me just say that I see and experience this world just a little bit differently than all of you. It’s like seeing a puppet show from around the back. I can see the hands at work sometimes.”

“What do we do now?” Braeleigh asked Sira. “Miriasa still needs our help.”

“Nab this clown and make the trade,” Zeeto said. “Screw Gary’s plan, whatever it really was.”

Nethel backed up a step. “Wait! Don’t do it. I’m willing to help rescue your friend. It maybe a little bit my fault she’s in this mess, and I wouldn’t sleep well for weeks if something happened to her.”

“Whole weeks?” Sira asked dryly.

“If your friend has inside info, you’d be fools not to use it,” Nethel added. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Perchance explain how our wizard plan transformeth into a trick fit for dragons? ’Twas a weak and mewling plan from the first and only shows itself weaker against more formidable opposition.”

Gary looked down at Nethel’s boots, the ones he knew to contain a short-range teleportation enchantment. He stepped nose to nose as the thief held his ground. “You’re about my height. Those magic boots will resize, but I bet mine would fit you just fine.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Nethel warned, resuming his backward retreat. “This is my insurance against betrayal.”

“Your insurance against betrayal is the fact that we need you,” Gary said. He looked to his friends. “Whether you believe me or not, think back on all that we’ve been through and all the times I’ve been of aid. I’m at my best when words and knowledge are my weapons.

“So… if any one of you want to be the one to walk alone into the dragon’s lair to buy time for a rescue mission, step forward. Otherwise, hand over those boots before I come to my senses.”

56

Nethel’s feet fit easily into Gary’s work boots. The trade felt lopsided. Gary might have consoled himself if he’d come to Pellar in tennis shoes. Any self-respecting thief with access to Earth footwear would have preferred rubber soles over even the softest of leather.

Acquired Farjump Boots: Teleport up to 1,000 feet. Cooldown 5 minutes.

He wondered if he ought to warn their borrowed thief about the squeaking noise they made when scuffed. But Gary had bigger problems right now.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, making eye contact with everyone in turn. “The five of you are going to work your way through the lair without raising the alarm for as long as possible. Nethel’s been here before, so he’s going to lead the way.”

d20: 7 + (Perception +4) + (He’s Hoping Someone Overhears +10) = 21

“Into a trap,” Zeeto muttered.

Gary dropped a scolding finger into line with the halfling’s face. “Knock it off. Don’t start it back up. You two are going to be working in tandem. Stealth Attacks should be taking out as many targets as possible unaware. I want things dead before they can even roll for Initiative.”

Nethel cocked his head. “Roll for what, now?”

Gary held up his palms to forestall questions. “Hands up the puppets’ backsides. Forget it. Just kill before anyone can react. Braeleigh, I need you to work with Caspian to sniff ahead and make sure no one gets the drop on you.”

Braeleigh scowled at her companion. The wolf sat beside her, tongue lolling, oblivious to her displeasure. “He didn’t tell us Nethel was following us.”

“To be fair, I was sneaking him pork jerky as a reward for his silence,” Nethel replied.

“Sira, your main role, assuming nothing’s gone wrong by then, is to focus on healing any injury Miriasa has suffered in captivity. She hasn’t contacted Braeleigh again, so who knows what Kurgath did to her to prevent another attempt.”

With a nod, Sira acknowledged.

“Beldrak, this whole mission really isn’t playing to your strengths,” Gary said.

“My all and my every be yours to command,” Beldrak replied. “Thy strangeness excuseth not thy omissions, but thy worthy deeds tip Makoy’s balance in thy favor. A rope can but be pulled in one direction, and I pulleth on thy mark.”

“Hang back. Stay as quiet as that armor allows. Once you reach Miriasa and Sira gives the all clear to move her, it’s very likely she’ll need to be carried from the lair. On the way out, you’re the key to this rescue plan. Until then, you’re a liability.”

“What’s your plan, Gary?” Braeleigh asked. “I don’t like that you’re going in there alone to talk to him. If he’s really a dragon, he might just eat you.”

“He might,” Gary admitted, trying to project nonchalance.

d20: 9 + (Persuade +8) = 17

He cleared his throat, unable to tell who was buying the act. Faced with the prospect of delivering himself empty-handed to a dragon intent on hunted bounties was a recipe for adventurer flambé. “Look. Your part’s plenty dangerous. I’ve got Nethel’s boots. If things go to shit, I’ve got a good chance of getting away. Nethel’s done it once already. But if I fail, he’ll come for the rest of you.”

Braeleigh came over and wrapped Gary in a hug. “Please don’t fail. I don’t want your poor reflexes standing between you and getting eaten.” She squeezed a little tighter. “Or us getting eaten.”

Zeeto’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Gary’s gonna be fine. Just fine. He’s full of enough shit to choke a dragon. Sure he is.”

Swallowing back his pride, Gary knew the halfling felt betrayed. All through their adventures, he’d been making everyone’s life a little easier—but not as easy as he could have. Gary had allowed them to struggle through puzzles, wander through underground cities, and pull a certain landscape-altering level… all without providing the answers he possessed.

How long would it be before a reckoning? How much would they piece together for themselves? Would they even believe him now if he tried to explain it in terms they could comprehend?

“Look, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it,” Sira said, pulling her cloak close around her. “It’s freezing out here, and night is falling. At least inside the lair, it’ll be warmer.”

“Right,” Gary said. “I’ll be sneaking around to a secret passage Nethel used his last time here.”

“But I—” Nethel began before Gary cut him off with a glare.

They hadn’t discussed any secret escape routes. Gary knew how Nethel had escaped because he’d annotated it on the map of this dungeon. The human-sized secret back route directly to the treasure horde was marked “Nethel’s escape route.” It was in there that the thief had hastily donned every bit of stolen magic he’d grabbed from the treasure pile in the hope that something had the power to save him.

As Gary watched his bone-chilled friends depart into the dragon’s lair, he didn’t envy them the warmth they were about to experience. Despite having a twenty-minute hike through snow ahead of him, Gary knew that the next open flame he felt might roast his flesh from the bone.

57

Gary stomped to knock off the snow from his Farjump Boots. It had taken him longer than he hoped to find the entrance. Strange how different a snowy mountaintop looked compared to a sheet of gridded blue lines and black gel pen describing it on a map. Nowhere had he documented the deplorable lighting, the wind-driven snow reducing visibility, or the treacherous footing.

But to serve as an effective hidden entrance, he supposed it couldn’t have been easy or obvious.

The passageway was rough-cut, almost natural-looking in its absence of straight lines or plumb floors. Hacked gouges in the rock told a tale of fear-driven slaves working under a deadline whose ominous euphemism had no doubt turned literal the moment they completed the tunnel. Gary backtracked it, feeling the warmth of the mountain seeping in to return feeling to his extremities. He muttered to himself to make sure his lips and tongue were loose enough for the task they shortly faced.

Scale was another matter that graph paper failed to adequately convey. Even his enhanced intellect struggled to parse one grid being fifty feet and what that came to represent in footsteps.

Luckily, the extra walking gave Gary time to collect his thoughts. It slipped from the fore of his mind that he needed to get to Kurgath quickly so as to occupy the dragon’s attention. All would be for naught if the tale he spun came across transparently. A slip of the tongue and he might as well announce that he was there as a distraction.

As the tunnel twisted and turned, Gary came to a wider section with a row of mannequins. Each was different. All were in disrepair. There were dummies made of wood and ones of wire. Some had arms while others had limbs that were nothing but stumps. Only a few had heads. One was merely a cruciform pair of bars that hung its garments like a scarecrow. For that was the function of each mannequin in Kurgath’s secret exit; each held one human-sized outfit.

Every garment in the lot showed some sign of dishevelment or damage. Some were in better shape than others, notably the ensemble that Kurgath had recently worn to visit 14 Zephyr Street and kidnap Miriasa. But there were others there as well. A noblemen’s finery. A black jumpsuit fit for skulking in the shadows. There was a lady’s ball gown as well among the finer pieces.

Several articles of clothing had been stained with blood.

Gary swallowed. Details. Sometimes the little details of the world struck him with the casual horror of the things he’d written offhandedly as scribbled notes. He’d designed this corridor with the most barebones of descriptions: “two dozen mannequins with plundered clothing to wear in human disguise.” The rest was filled in with details that made that all work.

Kurgath had stripped victims of his attacks and the corpses of dead adventurers he no doubt ate shortly thereafter. How many tailors had he killed over the centuries to have collected so many display racks for all his attire? How many fates had Gary sealed with an arbitrary number on a page?

It was time to turn that casual power into something with teeth.

Or against something with teeth, he supposed.

As he stepped out of the crack and into the dragon’s treasure room, he was greeted with a pair of slitted reptilian eyes narrowed directly at him.

“I thought you’d be in there all day,” the dragon rumbled. Its voice was deeper, rougher, but still clearly the same being that had run roughshod over Durrotek’s underworld of late. “I was worried I’d have to transform to oust you manually.”

The creature was magnificent. A work of natural art. One hundred feet long if he was a dozen, the long sinewy body snaked across a slapdash mountain of gold and silver coins. Two pairs of clawed feet on stubby legs broke up the serpentine uniformity at roughly a third of the way from either end. Its head was a trap-jaw of sword-sharp teeth and nostrils like the nozzles of flamethrowers. Tentacle-like whiskers writhed and twitched like a living mustache.

Gary steeled his nerves. “Greeting, Zebaxkurgath. Yes, don’t look so surprised. I know your name.”

The dragon slithered past and regarded Gary from a new angle, still looming. Still poised to strike. “The thief didn’t know it, far as I could tell. And you’ve met him, I see. You wear the boots he stole from me.”

“And I know how to use them,” Gary warned, trying not to piss himself at how close he stood to being devoured. “I’m here to set the terms of a bargain you’ve kept intentionally vague.”

“So… you have him?” The ground vibrated beneath Gary’s feet.

“My friends have him,” Gary corrected. “They’ve sent me to strike the deal, since… frankly, I’m expendable.”

The dragon’s laughter hit Gary’s chest like the bass at a dubstep show. It wasn’t Gary’s cup of coffee, but he liked to keep the local music scene friendly. And Zebaxkurgath could have blown out the speakers at any nightclub in town.

“You’re a self-aware little piece of meat, now, aren’t you?” the dragon taunted. “Well, I’m willing to keep my bargain. The thief for the elf woman. That includes all that was stolen from me, as well.”

Gary held up a finger, hoping the gesture wouldn’t be taken as one of those “sudden movements” that set off hair triggers. “There’s the problem, see? Nethel still had a couple trinkets on him, but he spent nearly all the cash and hawked a bunch of the less fungible treasures to fuel his partying and whoring. That’s actually how we finally tracked him down; we staked out his fences.”

“I don’t care about your methods! Bring him to me!”

Gary backed up a step, but he’d ventured farther into the vast chamber than he’d realized. Something hypnotic in the dragon’s manner had lured him forward unwittingly. Now, the creature slithered past and encircled him with its bulk.

“I’m… I’m not prepared to leave here without a deal,” Gary said, cursing himself for betraying his fear.

“Leaving here is your reward for obedience and humility,” Zebaxkurgath growled. “Defy me, and I’ll swallow you whole, track down your friends, and vomit up your carcass as a promise of the fate that awaits them if they don’t give me what I desire.”

“Hey, I’m not saying we won’t hand over Nethel,” Gary said, forcing himself to go through with playing hardball when he could so clearly envision the scene where the dragon barfed him at Braeleigh’s feet and the terrified shriek that would ensue. Zeeto would be equally horrified but find some dark humor in the matter. Beldrak would throw down a gauntlet along with all caution and reason and launch a suicidal attack. “We just need to agree on terms first.”

“You try me,” the dragon grumbled, though some of the steam had vented from his teapot. “If not for the troubles catching the wearer of those infernal boots, I’d incinerate you where you stand. But rest assured, if you flee, I’ll hunt you down as well.”

“Master,” a voice called from the main entrance. “We have—”

“Silence!” the dragon bellowed. “Another word from you and I’ll eat your family while you watch.”

Something snapped inside Gary. He was tired of the threats, the weakness, the fact that he was the butt of jokes and the anchor around the party’s neck. They needed him, and even if he didn’t care about the life of the lizardling guards who haunted the caverns, he needed the dragon to care about nothing but the conversation right in front of him.

“Hunt me? Hunt me? The hell you will. The boots will give me a head start. I’ve got friends in every city from here to Quay Shai. I speak a dozen languages, know all the customs, every religion. I’ll blend in and disappear; you’ll never find me in a hundred human lifetimes.”

d20: 18 + (Persuade +9) + (Worked for Indy +2) = 29

The dragon loomed closer as Gary stood motionless except for the heaving of his chest. “Maybe you even could. You smell foreign, yet you speak the tongue like a local. There’s something… very odd about you.”

It sniffed, and Gary’s unbound hair streamed toward those deadly nostrils.

“Yes, something strange indeed. And yet, you look so human. You’re not foreign at all; you’re otherworldly.”

The lizardling voice called out once more. “Master, I beg your mercy, but there are intruders after the elf!”

Zebaxkurgath reared up, not onto his hind legs but off the ground entirely. Despite being wingless, the dragon simply treated gravity as optional and air as valid terrain. “What?” it boomed.

It twisted and writhed until its face came in line with Gary’s. “Remain. If you wish to bargain for you wretched life when I return, you may yet keep it.”

“Wait!” Gary shouted after the dragon as it deftly uncoiled from around him and shot toward the exit to its treasure hoard. He scrambled across rolling dunes of coinage—enough to buy a palace—not caring about the wealth he trampled. None of that mattered. This was DEFCON 1 of crazy schemes gone wrong. “Don’t kill them! This is all my fault!”

Zebaxkurgath paused mid-air and turned. “And thanks to those boots, you’ll flee while I kill them. Can’t be helped, I suppose. But I can’t be letting my only hostage escape.”

This was a disaster. Gary hadn’t created Pellar for the villains to win. He’d wanted to push his friends to the brink of disaster time and again to see how they’d prevail. Because he trusted that they’d never give up, that they’d always find a way out no matter how stupid, brave, or underhanded. But this was a dragon. This was a dragon designed for them to maybe kill sometime around level 10 or 12. Right now, Zebaxkurgath was a Total Party Kill waiting to happen.

Gary was going to have to be the brave, stupid, underhanded one.

“Take me!” Gary said, pulling off Nethel’s boots and flinging them into the pile of treasure to splash with a pecuniary clatter. The dragon cocked its massive head. “Miriasa was some elf we took pity on and pulled from a dwarf ruin. I’m their friend. They’ll hand over Nethel to get me back.”

“How very interesting…”

Gary’s breath came deep and quick. Makoy had hinted that death was the way out of this world. While Gary didn’t want to die, he told himself that being bitten in half would only hurt for an instant.

His churning guts weren’t buying that argument.

But his argument seemed to be working.

The dragon coiled back into the room, encircling Gary once more. The sinuous bulk created an impassable barrier to Nethel’s boots—presuming Gary couldn’t dive down and swim through the lake of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck.

“Do… do we have a deal?” Gary asked. He kept looking over his shoulder, both to check the blocked exit back down the secret tunnel and to avoid meeting those horrible eyes.

The dragon’s chuckle shook the pile of coins beneath Gary’s feet, causing him to fight for his balance. “Deal? You’ve given yourself up. At best, you’ll wait and find out how your friends fare against my minions. Perhaps they’ll even escape. Doubtful, but adventurers are nothing but wellsprings of surprise. Some unpleasant. Some—such as yourself—quite welcome indeed.”

“But… there’s no reason to hurt them. You’ve got all the leverage you need. They’ll turn over Nethel.”

“Perhaps. But time will tell. Would you like a word of advice, human?”

Gary nodded, not trusting his words just then.

“Your kind bargains too readily. Never give up anything. You had your freedom and laid it upon the chopping block like a farm-bred chicken. Speaking of which, if you have dietary preferences, make them known. I do not starve my prisoners, especially ones I’ve promised to eat. I prefer plump, flabby meals. You’ll receive rich foods and no exercise.”

Gary forced a chuckle. “Sounds homey.” Junk food and no outdoor activity described the high school experience he, Mary, and Zane had shared.

But as he withered beneath the dragon’s glare, Gary also struggled to come up with a plan. Remaining as a hostage was intolerable. Sure, the party might come back for him, might exchange Nethel for his life, might slay Zebaxkurgath half a dozen levels from now.

What about the meantime?

Sloppy, greasy medieval food cooked by a dragon’s minions? A cramped cave prison, probably with a bucket to shit in? Hobgoblin conjugal visits? Gary shuddered at the mental picture he’d accidentally painted.

Quickly, he checked his character sheet for anything that might help him pull a rabbit out of his hat.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A, 5B XP: 8,106/16,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian, Befuddle

Skills: Persuade (+9), Music (+9), Study/Search (+9)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

He wasn’t going to lull the dragon to sleep with a song. Fascinate and Befuddle were equally unlikely to overcome the willpower of a dragon. Hair Splitter was more likely to annoy the dragon than harm it—and Gary was no Bard the Bowman, just a regular old bard. There was also an old text computer game where the player attempted to kill a dragon with his bare hands and prevailed. But Pellar wasn’t written quite so tongue-in-cheek.

He’d entered this lair as a diversion. The only way he was getting out was as a con man. Or, in the local parlance: a bard.

“So, care to place a wager on my friends getting out of here without either of us interfering?” Gary asked.

The dragon growled at the back of its throat. “I already plan to take all you own. What could you possibly offer?”

“I can tell you where Nethel is stashed,” Gary replied.

To his surprise, there was no need of a Persuade roll. He supposed it was because, as soon as Gary discovered the party’s fate, he’d have the information he promised.

“I’ll squeeze it from your little mind, vermin,” Zebaxkurgath replied. The wingless, serpentine body coiled closer around him, still not touching but no roomier than the space between sets of automated doors at a grocery store.

“Quicker if I give him up willingly.”

“Why would you?”

“He’s not my friend. Why wouldn’t I?”

d20: 12 + (Persuade +8) + (Well, He’s Not +2) = 22

“I meant, why would you honor the bargain if you lose? I warned you once about giving up your leverage. Are you dim-witted or merely brash?”

“Look, I’ll even take a one-sided deal,” Gary said.

Keep the dragon talking, he told himself. Every combat turn he delayed Zebaxkurgath was one where the dragon wasn’t aiding its minions in hunting down the party. Also, it kept him from pissing his pants. Talking was a distraction from letting his mind ponder the details of being bitten in half, swallowed whole, engulfed in flames…

“If my friends make it out, I’ll give up Nethel’s location,” Gary continued. “In return, I’m hoping that in your magnanimity, you allow an up-and-coming bard to go free to sing your praises—literally—all across Kovia and into lands beyond.”

Zebaxkurgath chuckled. “A bold presumption. Let’s see how that works out for you.”

They waited together. Patience, it seemed, came easily to an ancient beast. More easily than to a 25-year-old guitarist and short-order cook whose days were so packed with activity—if not excitement—that he hardly knew how to hold still anymore.

The dragon’s breath and the shifting of coins each inhalation and exhalation brought were the only sounds for what felt like hours.

At long last, the silence broke. “M-m-master… the prisoner…”

“Yes? What?” the dragon bellowed, partially uncoiling to face its minion at the entrance. “Just say it.”

“Has escaped.” With a yelp, the creature ran off, its screams and pleas for mercy growing distant by the second.

Zebaxkurgath slithered around. “So… time for you to keep your promise and beg for clemency. In that order, if you please.”

Gary’s mouth was suddenly dry. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was a towel. “Or… not.” The words came out as a croak, barely audible.

“How DARE you defy me! I shall devour you a piece at a time; you’ll divulge the thieving Nethel’s location to stop the pain. Only then will I grant the mercy of death.”

“Thought of that,” Gary said, feeling dizzy but fighting through it. “I didn’t come here without a contingency plan. If I die or go missing, there’s a letter that will be sent.”

“A letter?” the dragon echoed with more bass than Gary could ever have imagined. “You expect a letter to dissuade me. Write to kings and wizards for all I care. None would dare set foot upon my mountaintop.”

“Rainmaker would,” Gary said. The rambling plan took hold. There was no going back, no veering aside. It was plunge forward or die in a dragon’s jaws. “You know Luin Fernwind, I believe. Oh, by that look in your eye I can tell that you do. I wanted a rescue, you see. Trade the thief for Miriasa Starlight. Barring that, sneak past your stooges and take her from under your nose. But I hadn’t intended to kill you. For all your vile deeds, dragons are a part of the world. I’d as soon burn down a forest or demolish a standing spire as slaughter one of your kind. But I don’t think Luin Fernwind is the sort of elf who’ll take kindly to what you’ve done, Zebaxkurgath, son of Ninkantomaya, to a girl he looked after as a niece. I can picture your hide growing a fur made of black arrow shafts.”

d20: 10 + (Persuade +8) + (Historical Details -2) = 16

The dragon widened its eyes. Its teeth gleamed. “Black shafts? You think me a fool to believe the Rainmaker would use any but his famous green arrows? You’ve plainly read his name from a book and seek to frighten me.”

Fast Talk: on a failed Persuade check, roll a secondary check to make up a plausible excuse that the target can believe.

“Shows what you know of the world outside these caverns,” Gary spat back, throwing caution to the wind. “Luin the Rainmaker switched his shafts to black in mourning of his wife’s death in the Battle of Icerend. He’s never stopped grieving her, and he’s never short of black shafts for an enemy of elvenkind.”

d20: 17 + (Persuade +8) + (Suspicious Reptile -2) = 23

Was it good enough? Would 23 cow Zebaxkurgath into thinking twice before either eating him or leaving him unattended to chase the others?

The dragon bared his fangs and issued a low growl that jingled the coins of his stash.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” Gary said, plowing forward into the darkness where any step might be the one that put him over the cliff’s edge. “You’re going to call off any minions still chasing my friends and let them take Miriasa away from this place. Then I’m going to walk out the way I came. You’re not going to have us followed, send assassins for revenge, or attempt any retribution against us or Nethel. Otherwise, my contingency goes into effect, and you can spend the rest of your short life running from the greatest ranger the elven species has left.”

The dragon’s breath seethed, washing over Gary like waves of carrion-scented air. Those giant eyes bored into his soul for some answer that would allow him to eat Gary and survive the aftermath.

“Bargain struck,” the dragon answered with grudging reluctance. It slithered through the air and left the passage behind Gary open. “But first tell me this: how did you know all that? The bards of this land know nothing and teach less. I have told no one the tale of my relation to the lair’s previous occupant.”

“I let you off easy,” Gary said calmly. And he felt that calmness in his bones. He’d stripped back the beast from this monster and left it a sullen and resentful being capable of rational thinking. “I could have brought up the painful memories of hatching among humans, being trained for tricks and obedience like an overly smart attack dog. I might have brought up the decades you spent searching for answers after you slew your captors, unable to discover your origins and regretting the search once you had. If I were truly a villain, I’d conjure in your memory the half-recalled songs that your mother sang through your eggshell and the fact of your own name being the only clear memory you have of her voice. I set the elf to be your executioner as a kindness. He’ll only destroy your body. Cross me again and let me live, and I’ll first lay ruin to your mind.”

“Begone!” Zebaxkurgath ordered. “Still your loathsome tongue, human—or whatever you are. Take your bargain and may the taste of ash follow for the rest of your days!”

As he was turning to depart, Gary couldn’t help letting his eyes scan the treasure horde. He’d used a random loot generator to round out the odds and ends without giving it much thought. But one item caught his eye.

He veered back toward the pile of coins and extracted both Nethel’s boots and a mandolin, studiously shaking loose coins that stuck among the strings and body of the instrument. “And these. I lost my lute on the hunt for your stupid thief. I’m taking this as recompense. You can’t even play it, even in human form. And… well, I guy can’t walk outside in this snow without a warm pair of teleportation boots.”

Acquired Mandolin +2: +2 to all skill checks using an instrument.

Acquired Farjump Boots: Teleport up to 1,000 feet. Cooldown 5 minutes.

Gary sauntered out the secret back door of Zebaxkurgath’s lair. As soon as he was out of the dragon’s sight, he broke into a run.

Suddenly, a curious feeling came over Gary.

Acquired Fate’s Blessing.

Oh, gods above. He’d gotten defeat credit for Zebaxkurgath. It was meant to have been a major campaign milestone, maybe somewhere around level 10 or 12 for the whole party. Fate’s Blessing was a bonus reward meant to give them a little something above and beyond the (by then) modest XP gain and loads of money.

For Gary to have gotten it meant that he’d…

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A, 5B XP: 18,106/16,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian, Befuddle

Skills: Persuade (+9), Music (+9), Study/Search (+9)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

Special: Fate’s Blessing

Yes, he’d gotten the full 10,000 XP for the dragon on top of the blessing.

Gary’s head spun. The blast of cold wind when he reached the outside air barely registered. Not only had he leveled up in a single encounter, but he also had a one-time chance to break the game rules.

58

Stumbling around the mountainside in a delirious haze, Gary finally caught up with the party, with Miriasa bundled in blankets in Beldrak’s arms and Nethel looking smug.

“Look who’s nice and clean,” Nethel said, showing the back of his hands where blood was caked around the fingernails.

Zeeto held up a hand. “Wait a sec. That’s not your old lute.”

“That one broke,” Gary explained. “Remember? I needed a new one, so I made Kurgath throw it in as part of the deal. C’mon. Let’s get off this mountain.” Shivering, he tugged his cloak close around his collar and started down the trail that would take them to the relative warmth of the barely freezing valley below.

“Agreed,” Beldrak said. “The lady needeth the warmth of fire and tent, and I daresay taking either hereabouts wouldst be an error best to avoid.”

As they fell into a rough procession, Sira and Braeleigh took up flanking positions on either side of Gary.

“What was he like?” Braeleigh asked, eyes wide. “I’ve never seen a dragon before.”

“Be glad of it,” Nethel called out from just within earshot.

“Was he magnificent?” the elf persisted. “Did you get to see him breathe fire?”

“Forget all that,” Sira snapped. “What deal? What kind of deal did you make with that monster?”

“Oh,” Gary said. “Nothing much. I just traded our freedom, Miriasa’s, and Nethel’s in exchange for allowing him to live.”

Zeeto wiggled a finger in his ear and turned to look back at Gary and the two women. “I musta heard that wrong. You bargained to let him live?”

“Nope. You heard me. As he was trying to get rid of me, this mysterious beauty caught my eye. I’ve got some plans for what to do with it too.” He held out the mandolin. “So, I made old Kurgath throw it in as part of the deal.”

Zeeto snorted. “Well, to each his own. Knew you had a mouth like the back end of a cow, but that’s pretty impressive. Me? I’d have wanted gold.”

“Only so far you can push a dragon,” Gary mused. “Didn’t think he’d throw a hissy fit over a musical instrument. Start threatening the gold, and maybe some emotional decision-making steps in.”

“Well, while you got an oversized banjo, the rest of us murdered our way through a fortress and saved a princess. Got nearly halfway to the next step on the Path of Power.”

“She’s not a princess,” Braeleigh corrected. “The elven royal family is in exile. She’s not in exile. Ergo, not a princess.”

Zeeto shook his head. “Wow. Eighty years’ worth of childhood among humans and you don’t even know a fairytale when one’s sleeping it off in your paladin’s arms.”

“Kurgath knew her,” Sira pointed out. “And he would have asked for more than one lousy thief if she was an elven princess.”

“I can hear all this, you know,” Nethel said without turning back.

Zeeto glanced back up at the lair’s entrance, now barely visible up the trail behind them. “How long before that scaly bastard starts sending assassins after us?”

“He won’t,” Gary promised. “I made sure of that.”

Sira laid a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “You know, sooner or later that dragon might figure out he’s been had. Whatever power you convinced him you had, he might discover you’re just a know-it-all cook from Palo Alto who can play a little music.”

Gary had rarely heard himself summed up so succinctly and accurately.

“I didn’t convince him I’ve got any special power aside from the ability to write and plan ahead.”

“Huh?” Braeleigh asked. “Why would a dragon be afraid of that? Did you threaten to nail a letter about his love life to the walls of a tavern?”

There was no point in omitting the truth this time. “No. I told him I’d written a note to be delivered upon my death or disappearance, telling a certain someone that a dragon had kidnapped Miriasa. Even once she’s safe, the threat will still carry weight.”

“Letter to who?” Braeleigh asked. “Oh! I know. Duke Althius! He’s super scary. Even dragons might be afraid of him. Or King Munson. He’s got a whole army.”

“Munson was two kings ago,” Sira pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter,” Zeeto said. “Neither of those stuffed shirts would care about an elf everyone thinks is dead.”

“Luin of Fernwind would though,” Gary said.

Braeleigh smirked. “That crazy old huntsman? What would he do to a dragon?”

“Kurgath’s mother was twice the dragon he is,” Gary said. “And that ‘crazy old huntsman’ killed her singlehandedly.”

Braeleigh gaped wide-eyed at Gary. “History is so cool! You need to read me some of those old stories.”

“You can read,” Sira said sourly. “I’ve seen you do it.”

Braeleigh shrugged. “Yeah, but reading’s boring, and bards love telling stories—especially to pretty young girls.”

Sira rolled her eyes. “You’re four times his age.”

Gary patted his mandolin. “Once I get this thing fixed up the way I like it, I’ll sing some tales from my world.”

As they headed down to the valley, Gary knew that he was done playing by the rules. There was power in Pellar, and since whatever was creating this place or keeping him here showed no sign of being done with him, he was going to settle in and take whatever power he could get.

59

Weeks later, Gary paced the kitchens back at 14 Zephyr Street. Miriasa claimed she’d be done today, but the sounds from inside her room had ceased and there was no sign of her coming out yet.

Everyone else had already gotten their rewards from her. Only Beldrak had refused Miriasa’s generous offer. The elven wizardess had allayed most fears of her arcane magic by providing enchantments they could all use.

Zeeto had wanted his boot silenced, and now the already-quiet rogue could only be detected audibly when it was quiet enough to hear him breathing.

Sira had asked Miriasa to imbue her holy symbol of Sevius with +2 Spell Power. Everyone was on board with that since the priestess was often the only lifeline between them and death.

Braeleigh had tried to refuse the gift as well, but Miriasa wouldn’t hear of it. It was one thing for a starch-britches paladin to say no, but she wasn’t letting the only elf she’d seen since her stasis go unrewarded. The two of them had spent an evening alone together, and despite Zeeto’s lewd suggestions to the contrary, Gary knew that Miriasa had shared a lifetime’s worth of missing cultural heritage that Braeleigh’s adoptive family couldn’t provide.

But Gary had given the wizard a legitimate challenge. While the others’ demands had been quick and simple enough, this was Miriasa’s fifth night of work on Gary’s new instrument.

He’d tried to hold out, to stay strong and not commit to the Path of Power while he was still unsure how this world’s take on a guitar felt in his hands.

But as the anticipation grew to bursting inside him, Gary knew that leveling up was the only activity that might distract him.

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A, 5B XP: 18,106/16,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 21 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +2 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather (+2)

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian, Befuddle

Skills: Persuade (+9), Music (+9), Study/Search (+9)

Tricks: Fast Talk

Profession: Cook (+1)

Special: Fate’s Blessing

Earlier, he’d planned ahead, knowing that 6C along the Path of Music would place him adjacent to the Path of Arcana. Golden Tongue was a fine and useful skill, but as level-up bonuses went, a little disappointing.

Thanks to Fate’s Blessing, Gary didn’t have to play strictly by the rules.

Fate’s Blessing was a catch-all reward he’d come up with to allow heroes to be heroic on demand. Bard the Bowman from The Hobbit, Luke in Star Wars, any incarnation of Robin Hood splitting his own arrows at the archery contest. Leaping from a burning tower onto the back of a dragon. Guessing the villain’s secret password on the first try. The ability to just set the dice aside and do something…

That was what Fate’s Blessing was meant for.

But it had other uses. In Gary’s notes, he’d made a short list of pre-approved general uses for the blessing. Among them was a provision for jumping positions on the Path of Power. By using Fate’s Blessing, a character could advance to any point on any ring they’d revealed on the Path of Power. Gary didn’t have to slog through 6C on the Path of Music, then over to 6A on the Path of Arcana. He could see the sixth ring already.

Closing his eyes, Gary examined his options on the Path of Arcana.

His breath caught short.

Gary didn’t see the sixth ring of arcana. Or, at least, he didn’t just see the sixth ring. He’d always been able to see all nine rings, right from first level.

When his lungs started again, his breath came quick. This wasn’t possible, was it? Surely this was a game-breaking mistake.

Or was it?

The Path of Power was carefully designed for multi-class balancing. Skipping to the ninth ring wouldn’t make him the wizard that he’d have been heading straight up the Path of Arcana from first level. He’d be missing out on Language (arcana), not to mention a host of useful spells along the way up the rings. More importantly, he’d miss out on numerous boosts to Spell Power that the Path of Arcana scattered like breadcrumbs across the levels.

If Gary could skip to the end, he’d have access to awesome spells but at discount power levels.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself. “You only get to live in your own campaign world once.”

Player Name: Gary Burns Character Name: Gary Burns

Level/Path: Bard 1,2,3B, 4A, 5B, Wizard 9E XP: 18,106/32,000 Race: Unknown

STR: 7 DEX: 9 CON: 8 INT: 22 WIS: 17 CHA: 18

To Hit: +3 Weapon: Hair Splitter (1d8+1)

Armor Rating: 11 Armor: Leather

Path Powers: Inspire (+2), Lullaby, Fascinate, Historian, Befuddle, Master Elemental Spell, Greater Arcane Spell, Spell Power +2

Skills: Persuade (+10), Music (+10), Study/Search (+12)

Tricks: Fast Talk, Disguise Casting

Profession: Cook (+1)

Gary’s hands were shaking.

It worked. He couldn’t believe it. It worked. He’d have to ditch his armor to cast spells, but that was a small price to pay.

Disguise Casting: Perform or Sleight of Hand check to cast a spell without anyone identifying the caster. Does not disguise effects of spellcasting.

He could hardly wait to try it out. If the party had been unimpressed with lullabies and hypnotic fascination, just wait until they got a load of what he could do with his new instrument.

Master Elemental Spell: Choose a Master-rank spell from the elemental school to add to your repertoire.

With thoughts so fast they sizzled along his synapses, a persona came together. Gary knew what he needed to take.

Thunderstrike: 4d6 lightning damage to any number of targets within 50 feet of one another. Max Range: 200 feet.

With a paltry +2 total Spell Power, Gary wasn’t going to be bowling over armies with it, but he knew that it was better than any holy spells Sira could sling. The massive area of effect alone made the relatively light damage—compared to a single-class wizard’s version, at least—more than worth its while.

Greater Arcane Spell: Choose a Greater-rank spell from the arcane school to add to your repertoire.

He’d picked this one out even before choosing Thunderstrike.

Sonic Boom: 3d4 blunt damage to enemies in a 90° arc within 60 feet. Victims test fortitude against your caster power or stunned for 1d6 turns.

Gary had been to concerts where the giant speakers flanking the stage had that kind of effect.

His reverie was broken when Miriasa’s door opened. When she emerged, she held Gary’s new instrument perched atop a pillow as if unworthy to touch it—except that he knew she’d been manhandling it both physically and magically for days now.

“Is it—?”

“It is ready,” Miriasa said. She took a long, weary breath. “It is finally ready. I hope you find it worth the trouble I’ve gone to. Curious instrument.”

Gary nodded. It had taken days to explain it to a local luthier and over a week for him to make it. Miriasa had merely pillaged the enchantment from Kurgath’s mandolin to power it.

When he took the guitar in hand, it felt like home.

Plucking the strings ever so softly, he turned the keys at the head to bring it into perfect tune.

Miriasa covered her mouth with a hand. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I did to ruin the quality of the tone. Please! Don’t allow the others to hear this until I’ve had a chance to—”

As the elf reached for Gary’s guitar, he turned to hold it out of reach. “Relax. That distortion’s the whole point. It sounds perfect. This is the iconic instrument of my people. My culture worships this thing.”

Miriasa eyed him warily, eyes narrowing. “Yes. I think in one regard, your world is no different than ours, outlander. The bards of this land often ply the targets of their seduction with song. It is the historical shame of every great bardic legend—the inability to restrain their powers or their libido.”

Gary held up both hands, letting the guitar dangle from the strap over his shoulder. “Look, I don’t think we know each other well enough to be discussing my—”

“Braeleigh is off limits,” Miriasa whispered harshly with a quick glance at the door to the rest of the manor house. “I’ve talked with her at length. She so wishes to do right by her people, carry on her bloodline. But most of all she doesn’t want to watch her own children grow old and die. But she was raised among humans, flowered to womanhood among your kind. She does not see your kind as inherently uncouth or barbarous. For while I’ve known enough humans to realize the broad slander against your kind oversimplifies things, that inherent bias would also have shielded her from your charms.”

Gary chuckled. “My charms? My charms? I wasn’t exactly—”

“I don’t care about your world,” Miriasa snapped, keeping her voice low and in check despite the hard edge in her warning. “I’ve seen her look at you. One of her own kind would woo her for a decade, but she wasn’t raised with that sort of patience. I’m entrusting you with a weapon that might undo her utterly, and I want your word of honor that you shall not put it to that use.”

Swallowing back his ego, Gary nodded. “You have my word.”

The idea that Braeleigh—that Katie, when it boiled down to the bone—might have the hots for him was unsettling. She was flirty and overshared with everyone in her life. Gary wasn’t anyone special to her. He could easily refrain from changing that by mind-warping magic. Gods, he wasn’t a monster.

Miriasa relaxed and seemed satisfied with his word. “I have always considered myself a keen judge of character. But love makes fools and liars of us all. Now, let’s gather everyone and hear you play.”

“Got any requests?” Gary asked.

“Something well-honored among your people.”

As they headed for the parlor, Gary ran through his mental song catalog. He knew just what to play.

60

Gary stood perched on an apple crate from the greengrocer, right in the middle of the parlor of 14 Zephyr Street. Never before had so humble a container been as exalted to the status of concert stage for Pellar’s first rock-and-roll performance.

As the party filtered in, one by one, they gave Gary puzzled looks, but none of them said a word as they took their seats until Zeeto arrived.

“What’s this?” Zeeto asked. “Usually there’s gotta be drinking before we get Gary dancing on the furniture.”

Miriasa stood at Gary’s feet, looking even shorter than him for standing at ground level. “As a special thanks for providing Gary with enchantments to make his cultural instrument sound—in Gary’s own words—‘bitchin’,’ he has consented to regale us with a selection of his people’s most treasured compositions. I ask that in the spirit of understanding and goodwill, we all allow him to perform uninterrupted.”

Gary put up a hand. “Cheering and clapping is cool. This music is fun.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” Zeeto said sternly. Though, with a mug of ale in his hand, there was only so much disapproval he could muster.

Without further ado, Gary plucked out the opening lick of “Layla” by Derek and the Dominoes. The suddenness of it made everyone wince. The volume had Braeleigh and Miriasa reaching for their ears and Caspian slinking from the room with his tail tucked. He could have warned them, but there was nothing he could have said to prepare them for what they were about to hear.

As the song went on, he noticed them bobbing their heads in time with the rhythm. Beldrak closed his eyes. Zeeto bit his lower lip, and his fingers twitched as if strumming along. Sira remained largely stoic, but Kimberly Tanaka had never been big on his music to begin with.

It was Braeleigh who promised trouble. Once she got over the shock to her ears, the elven ranger’s eyes glossed over. It was as if she was seeing Gary for the first time, or like she’d finally just peeled the packaging off a new toy she’d kept in mint condition but never dared play with. By the third refrain, she was mouthing along with the words.

Gary caught Miriasa’s eye. The wizardess cast him a warning look, but while he was playing there was nothing he could do. Unlike Kim, Katie was into Gary’s music. He’d lost track of the number of times she’d brought a date to one of his shows.

Oh, god.

He’d never read between the lines before. Miriasa might have been right. As he belted out the lyrics to the Clapton classic, he couldn’t help feeling a flush of embarrassment in realizing he was singing a song of unrequited love to her—well, to everyone, really, but she was among that select group.

After that song ended, everyone applauded.

“Go figure,” Zeeto said, cradling his ale to his chest as he put his hands together. “Give the guy a lute and he’s Ten-Thumb Teddie. Give him a funny-shaped version that sounds like a lion gargling a hornets’ nest and he can make me feel like running out and flipping over wagons.”

“Thy music doth have a certain transcendent quintessence,” Beldrak said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Thanks,” Gary replied, unable to come up with any better response despite 22 Intelligence. He turned to Sira. “What’d you think?”

The priestess of Sevius shrugged. “This is what…?” She circled her hands as if searching for a description. “A tavern song where you’re from?”

“Well, I suppose you could—”

“Don’t listen to her,” Braeleigh said. “That was awesome! Play us another!”

Under the watchful eye of Miriasa, Gary cleared his throat and launched into a rendition of the Edgar Winter Band’s “Frankenstein.” Maybe lyrics just weren’t the thing for the moment.

But soon, Gary lost himself in the music. He didn’t pause for even the full length of the clapping at the end before launching into a full set of The Who, Black Sabbath, and Metallica.

At the end of “Enter Sandman,” they realized that the thunderous music had been drowning out a pounding at the front door.

“Who could that be?” Gary asked rhetorically. They weren’t expecting any visitors. He hadn’t written anything into the campaign notes to fill this particular void. They had at least another few weeks before…

“Follow me,” Zeeto ordered, drawing his dagger and fading into the shadows once he got clear of the streaming sunlight that invaded through the window.

Everyone fell in behind him, weapons drawn.

Surprises in an RPG were rarely safe to meet unarmed. Gary had trained them that well, at least, back in Palo Alto.

When they arrived at the door, everyone hung back. Gary, realizing that by virtue of everyone standing farther away, he’d been nominated, opened the door.

The figure on their doorstep was wearing a purple robe with tennis shoes showing from beneath and a satchel slung over his shoulder. When he smiled upon the opening of the door, Gary’s jaw dropped.

Zane!

“Excuse me,” Zane said. “I couldn’t help but overhear the music inside. Might I inquire as to who might have been playing it?”

“That was me,” Gary said cautiously. “Who might you be?”

Zane drew himself up tall, though the unkempt scruff of beard prevented any chance of dignity in his appearance. “I am Aster Hellcrack, a scholar of many subjects, music not the least among them.”

d20: 6 + (Perception +4) + (Trying to Be Overheard +6) = 16

Zeeto snickered. “Ass Crack.”

Zane winked at the halfling. “I grew up, you know. Didn’t take the lads long to come up with that one. Well played, my seven-year-old chum.”

“Won’t you come in?” Gary said.

As Zane stepped inside, he locked gazes with Gary and held the look. “Delighted to,” he replied warily. “But I must say, you do remind me of someone. Have we met before?”

“Possibly,” Gary replied, equally cautious, like a pair of prize fighters circling one another at the center of the ring. “Any recollection of where, maybe?”

“You know this quill-wielder, Gary?” Zeeto asked, not letting Zane out of his sight.

“I believe we shared a common interest or two back in… Palo Alto.”

Gary grabbed Zane by the arm and towed him toward the kitchen. “We need to talk. In private. Beldrak, mind babysitting the—”

Beldrak already had a firm grip on Zeeto’s shoulder. “Indeed, I shall.”

“Thanks,” Gary called back. He dragged Zane through the kitchen and into the butler’s pantry, slamming the door shut behind them.

This could finally be the break he needed. Someone else remembered the real world.

61

Zane looked Gary over appraisingly. “I see you’ve gone native.”

“Zane,” Gary said, looking up with his eyes shut and squeezing his fists. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Just to be clear, you know who I am, and—more importantly—who you are?” Zane asked, holding up his hands to forestall over-exuberance.

“I knew your name was Zane, didn’t I, Aster?” Gary asked.

Holding up a finger to acknowledge, Zane gave a nod. “Fair point. Fair point. But on the off chance you’ve come by that name through other means, tell me something only the real Gary Burns would know.”

Gary rolled his eyes. “You worked at MatchRoomie until your company went public, and you made out like a bandit on the IPO. Now you spend your days playing MMOs and day-trading.”

Zane’s eyes went wide, and a look of wonderment spread over his face. He placed a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “Good gods. You really are from another world. My master was right again, as usual.”

“Your—?”

“Althius, Duke of Abrax,” Zane said hurriedly, reaching into his satchel. “He’s so been looking forward to the mysterious man from beyond the multiverse.” Zane drew out a short crystalline rod and snapped it in his hand.

“What are you doing?” Gary screamed.

But before Zane could answer, the two of them vanished.

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About the Author

Xavier P. Hunter was born at the dawn of the video game age. He grew up with a game controller in his hand, moving from Atari joystick through PS4 controller the way a hermit crab outgrows its shell. His little league was RBI Baseball, his first date was Princess Zelda, and his first unpaid internship was leading raids in World of Warcraft. He lives in a world of pixels and frame rates, coming out infrequently to eat and that sort of thing.

Most of his writing is done while patches download or when servers are down for maintenance.

Like most superheroes, he operates in meat space under an assumed name.

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