“Basically your life’s goal, in real life or otherwise,” Jack said. “Who you got, Cordie?”
Cordelia rummaged through the remaining heroes. There were plenty of options—a heavily armored knight, a druidic priestess, some sort of alchemist, someone who looked like a combination of warrior and magician. Then she found the one she knew she had to play. She set it down on the table proudly.
“That is boss,” Eriko said.
“That’s terrifying,” Tamsin said.
“What is that?” Morgan said, picking the piece up. “Oh dude, you’re a barbarian!”
“An orc barbarian, if I’m looking at that correctly,” Cordelia said.
“Might be a half-orc,” Jack said, sliding a card across the table with her character’s stats. The card also had a portrait of the character in full color—green-skinned, with a reddish Mohawk, slightly pointed hears, and fierce fangs visible where her lower canine teeth would be. She carried a battle axe almost as tall as she was.
“I think I love this character already,” Cordelia said.
“You’re playing a monster then,” Tamsin said.
“A good monster,” Tobias said. “This is why we love you, Cordelia.”
“A badass monster woman with an axe and a Mohawk who is going to slay all the critters that try to get you guys,” Cordelia said. “I’m basically Lord of the Rings She-Hulk.”
“Feeling the need to smash some stuff to blow off some steam?” Tobias said.
“You got it,” Cordelia sad.
“What about you, big guy?” Eriko said, punching Morgan in the arm. “Paladin? Deathknight? Necromancer?”
Morgan poked around the pile of figures until he found a solidly built character in heavy armor with a two-handed hammer in his hands.
“Group needs a cleric,” he said. “I’ll volunteer to be den mother.”
“Not every group needs a healer,” Jack said. “We’ve played without one before.”
Morgan laughed his infectious laugh.
“This motley group needs a healer,” he said. “Trust me, I bet we’ll all be glad I’m playing this guy before the first session is over.”
“Rogue, cleric, barbarian, wizard, with a ranger and a freakazoid bard thrown in for good measure,” Eriko said. “Good group. I like it.”
“Do we name them?” Tamsin said.
“Oh, please tell me we get to name them,” Tobias said.
Jack was thumbing through the instructions, nodding to himself.
“It’s a campaign,” he said. “We’ll play the same characters through a whole bunch of sessions. Absolutely you should name them. It’s part of the story. We already have Rouge already.”
“Please tell me that’s not canon,” Morgan said.
“I picked the game. I say it’s canon,” Jack said.
Eriko stuck her tongue out at Morgan. Morgan pretended to try to grab it.
“I’m going to name my guy…” Tobias started.
“Please don’t be super snarky about it,” Cordelia pleaded.
“Oberon the Blue,” Tobias said.
“That is… not super snarky,” Cordelia said.
“It almost sounds like a bard name,” Morgan said.
“Then I’ll be Nimue the Silver,” Tamsin said.
“Oh, it’s like you guys have been doing this your whole lives,” Jack said, clutching his hands to his chest. “I am so proud of you.”
“Are you serious about Rouge?” Morgan asked Eriko, sounding resigned.
“Can it be my nickname, at least?” Eriko said.
“Fine, I guess,” Morgan said.
“Okay, Rouge the Rogue. My given name is Scarlet.”
“Oh, come on!” Morgan said, sending Eriko into a belly laugh. “What about you, chief?”
“I’m going all in on the ridiculous stereotypes,” Jack said. “I’ll just introduce my character as Raven.”
Now it was Morgan’s turn to roar laughing.
“Man, you are just diving right into the fantasy ranger trope machine, huh?”
“We never do tropes! We try so hard not to do tropes,” Jack said. “I say for Tam and Tobias’ first game, we just own it.”
“Fine,” Morgan said. “I’ll call my cleric Bastion.”
“So melodramatic!” Jack said.
“Hey, you said we’re gonna own it,” Morgan said. “If you’re all in, I’m all in.”
“You guys were going to give me a hard time about not coming up with a good name, and you’re Raven and Bastion?” Tobias said. “You’re like, walking terrible fan fic right now.”
“And proud of it,” Morgan said. “What about you, Cordelia? Are you the Widowmaker? The Deathdealer?”
“Orchid,” Cordelia said.
Everyone went silent for a moment.
“Orchid… the orc,” Eriko said. “I just want to go on record that nobody gets to make fun of me for this entire campaign when she’s playing Orchid the orc.”
Cordelia let a vast smile creep across her face.
“Orchids are ridiculously delicate. They’re hard to keep alive. And I’m playing a battle-scarred barbarian warrior. I think it’s pretty damned clever, what I just did right there.”
“It really is,” Tamsin said. She raised her glass in the air. “To Orchid the orc!”
“I love you guys,” Cordelia said. “So, we have characters, we have names, we have pizza… how do we start?”
Jack picked up the oddly shaped dice from the box and hefted them in the palm of his hand.
“These look weird to you? They’re… They look like they’re six-sided, but there’s something not right about them. Like they’re not balanced correctly.”
Eriko took one from him and held it up to her eye.
“Are they melted? You’re right, this doesn’t look balanced.”
Morgan took one as well.
“They aren’t plastic,” he said. “They don’t feel like something that would melt. Like stone?”
“Whatever,” Eriko said. She juggled her lone die in her hand. “Let’s see how they roll, anyway.”
She tossed the die onto the table.
And then everyone disappeared.
Chapter 2: Rude awakenings
The first thing Morgan noticed was the warmth. Light filtering through his closed eyes, a gentle breeze, just the hint of fall on the summer air. The seat beneath him rocked comfortingly, and he could hear the clip-clop of horse hooves nearby.
What a weird dream, he thought. I’ve never dreamed without pictures before. Sound and warmth? It’s like I’m sleeping in my own dream. Hello, meta.
Morgan tried to hold on to the dream, but a hand on his shoulder pulled him away.
“Father Bastion,” a gruff, older voice said. “Father Bastion? Sorry to wake you.”
Morgan opened his eyes, blinking away the blindness as golden mid-afternoon sun splashed against his face.
“Well, shit,” he said.
He sat on a wooden wagon, pulled along by a pair of horses who had seen better days. He looked down at his body, realizing he was far from comfortable, to find he wore solidly built armor that had, like the horses, seen better days as well. A war hammer rested between his knees, massive head on the floor, haft where it could be reached easily.
“I’m sorry, Father,” the stranger’s voice said again. Morgan looked to his left to find an elderly man, with a long, gray beard that had seen even worse days than Morgan’s armor, looking up at him with a worried brow.
“I… Huh. Hm,” Morgan said. I wonder what was in that pizza, he thought. If I’m hallucinating, this is legit. Everything felt real. He could smell the stale beer on the man’s breath, and the stink of the horses. Cicadas hummed in the distance. This is crazy realistic, he thought.
“You were really out just now,” the old man said. “I wanted to let you sleep, but the lady seems to be losing her mind a little bit.”
“The lady?” Morgan said.
“The elf,” the old man said. “
The card reader who’s traveling with us. I mean I know most magic users are a bit touched in the head, but she woke up from a nap and just started crying and yelling for people who aren’t here.”
“The elf,” Morgan said, remembering the game session they’d just set up. Tamsin. “Where is she?”
The old man pointed to the back of the wagon, which was a simple wooden structure with a tented roof. He could hear Tamsin crying inside. Struggling in his armor, Morgan moved to slide himself through the cloth doorway behind him leading inside.
“Try to calm her down, Father?” the old man said. “We don’t want to attract bandits. You know crying women and children attract bandits.”
“What about crying men?”
“Them too, I imagine,” the old man said as Morgan disappeared inside. “I prefer to repress my emotions with alcohol, myself.”
“Morgan!” Tamsin yelled before Morgan’s eyes could adjust to the dark. She slammed into him, throwing her arms around him. “Tell me you guys didn’t drug me and kidnap me to a Ren Faire.”
“I have no idea where we are,” Morgan said.
“Well, it’s not Massachusetts,” Tamsin said. She wore overly-complex robes with arcane symbols stitched in along the cuffs of the sleeves, as well as along the edge of the hood she had pulled back away from her face—her face, Morgan was relieved to see, looked mostly like herself, which meant he probably still had his own face as well. “I mean it looks a little bit like the Berkshires I guess but… Morgan, what the hell happened? This isn’t normal, right? You guys haven’t been like, group hallucinating playing these games all these years.”
“This is the furthest thing from normal I have ever experienced in my entire life,” Morgan said. He lowered his voice, looking over his shoulder toward the front of the wagon. “He called me Father Bastion.”
“Yeah, and I heard him talking about how I’m some sort of… tarot reader?” Tamsin said. “I don’t know how to do tarot cards. I have no idea what I’m doing. And Morgan…”
“What?”
She brushed the hair back from the side of her head, revealing one perfectly pointed, dainty elven ear.
“What. The fuck. Happened to my ears, Morgan.”
“No way,” he said.
“Oh, they’re both like that. I tried to pull the point off. It hurt. It really hurt.”
“Where are we?” Morgan asked, intending for it to be rhetorical. Tamsin did not hear it that way.
“How do I know? This is my first game!” Tamsin said.
“I knew we should’ve just played a Beginner’s Box,” Morgan said.
He sat down on a bench along one wall. Tamsin joined her.
“Where is everyone else?” she said. “Where’s my brother?”
“I don’t know, Tam,” Morgan said.
“What do we know?”
“I’m a heavily armored priest, you’re an elf, this seems to be real, and this cart is being driven by the Middle Earth equivalent of a hillbilly.”
“I want my brother, Morgan,” Tamsin said.
“Trust me, I’d be just as happy as you are knowing where he is,” Morgan said. “I guess the question is… where are we going?”
Morgan stuck his head back out the front of the wagon.
“I’m sorry, old timer. I’m having a lapse in memory. Where is our next destination again?” he said.
“The village of Moderate Expectations,” the driver said.
“Is that… is that like its name, or is that an epitaph, or…”
“That’s its name. The founders were very reasonable people who did not believe in excessive optimism.”
Morgan opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, blinked a few times, and nodded.
“Great. Okay. Sounds good,” Morgan said. “I’m… calming the, um, seer back there down a bit. We’re going to chat a bit longer. Can you mind the road on your own?”
“We’re near enough to town we should be safe, and we’ve got a couple of young fellas as outriders,” the old man said. “Take your time, Father. Administer to the sick, even if they’re just a little sick in the head.”
“Thank you, um…”
“Bobrick,” the driver said.
“Bobrick. How could I have forgotten,” Morgan said.
“Most people do,” Bobrick said.
Morgan slipped back inside.
“We are screwed in ways I can’t even begin to parse out,” Morgan said.
Tamsin sat on the bench across from Morgan. She stared at her hands.
“So, if this is real…” she said.
“It sure feels real,” Morgan said.
“I wonder if…” She looked up at him. “You showed up looking just like your character. Does that mean we can do spells?”
“Maybe?”
“I should try,” she said. For the first time, the fear in her voice had been overtaken by something that almost sounded like excitement.
“Maybe let’s not cast fireball in the back of a wooden wagon,” Morgan said.
“Maybe later, then.”
“Later is good.”
“Yeah, later.”
Chapter 3: The High Life
I don’t know how this happened, Tobias thought as he strolled down the main street of the medieval-looking town he’d woken up in, but if this is how the gang plays this game, I’m in.
He’d woken up in an expensive bed at the local inn—well, maybe not expensive, but certainly the best the place could offer, possibly the best bed in the entire town. He also had not woken up alone, which he was particularly amused about, even though he had no idea how he got there or how he ended up with the sleeping arrangement he found himself in. Confused and amused, he’d slipped out quietly, somehow knowing instinctually which pair of pants on the floor was his, a vibrant pair of pantaloons cut with different shades of blue. He pulled on a well-worn but clean white shirt that made him feel like a pirate, a shiny pair of boots, and a garish pink vest, slung the lute he knew had to be his over his shoulder, and buckled on a sword belt.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he left. The pointed ears were a nice touch, he thought, and his hair here was far more dynamic, shaved underneath with a dramatic swoop on the top that fell roguishly over one eye. I look like an anime heartthrob, he thought. If this is a hallucination, I hope it never ends.
As he stepped downstairs, the burly bartender and a barmaid—both a bit older than him, but handsome folk in their own way, smiled at him admiringly.
“I gotta say, you little elven scamp, you know how to pull in a good crowd,” the bartender said. He set down a plate with eggs and bacon on it and a lumpy roll Tobias was slightly hesitant to taste, but he found himself famished, and dove into the meal anyway.
“I don’t know if it’s your words or your singing that hooks them more,” the barmaid said. She rumpled his hair, then fixed it gently, smoothing it back away from his face. “Tell me you’ll set up shop in town and play here every night.”
Tobias shot her his most disarming smile. Might as well play along, he thought. No telling when this dream will end.
“I can’t stay forever. They’ll grow tired of me,” he said. “You know the greatest musicians always leave them wanting more.”
“Just promise you’ll come back through town again, then,” the bartender said. “We sell more ale and wine when you play one night here than we ordinarily do in an entire week.”
“Then I shall always return,” he said, winking at the bartender. “Tell me though—it was a very… very long night. How long is my promised engagement here?”
“You only agreed to three nights when you arrived,” the barmaid said. “At least that’s how I remember. And last night was to be your farewell performance.”
Tobias found his eye drawn to a lone figure seated in the corner of the bar, a stein in his—maybe her?—hand, watching from beneath a heavy, deep red hood.
“Well, let me get some air and think about what songs I haven’t performed
yet, and I’ll let you know if I have enough material to play one more night,” he said, not taking his eyes off the stranger.
“Very well,” the bartender said. He slid a mug of dark, hefty ale down the counter. Tobias caught it. “Something to fortify you. You left quite a few audience members disappointed you didn’t go home with them. Walking the streets of Moderate Expectations might be a lot of work for you today.”
Tobias took a deep draught from the mug, fighting off a grimace and a gag. Play the part, play the part, play the part, he thought.
“Well then. To the good health and fortunes of Moderate Expectations,” he said, hopping off his stool and head heading out the door with a bow.
“Don’t forget your hat,” the barmaid yelled. A blue pointed hat with a gargantuan white feathered plume sticking out of it awaited him by the door. He scooped it up, bowed gracefully, and stepped outside into the warm sunlight.
“Now. What the holy hell is going on, and how did I get here,” he muttered to himself.
He found the journey down the main drag more than a little alarming. He clearly had made a name for himself in this town, with groups of women, and men, murmuring and pointing just out of earshot. He saw a few faces with the sort of grumpy annoyance that could only indicate a spurned suitor, and a few others that told him perhaps this persona he’d come to inhabit had, possibly, not been entirely honorable in his nocturnal adventures.
Okay, he thought. Maybe staying an extra day is a bad idea. I have no idea where to go from here, but clearly Oberon the Blue has made as many enemies as he’s made fans here.
He was suddenly very thankful for the hearty breakfast. And that he’d brought all his belongings with him.
That was when a ham-sized hand reached out from an alleyway and dragged him out of the street.
Tobias made a strangled yipping nose, cut off abruptly as his body slammed into a stone wall behind him.
“Little pointy-eared thief,” his attacker said. The man was big, moon-faced, with the look of a farmhand, or possibly a draft horse given the size of him. He had a makeshift club in one hand, and was backed up by another man, who held a butcher’s cleaver.
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