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  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 hoo
k, 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 battlefi
eld 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.”