Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons

by Shelly Mazzanoble

  “I cleave him!” Gabe announced. “For four raisins!”

  As much as I appreciated his enthusiasm, I went over the rules.

  “You need to roll the big, round die to see if you hit. If your number is higher than the monster’s number, you can cleave him.”

  Gabe chucked the die on the table and again Des called out from her office.

  “That noise better not be from something hitting my table.”

  “It’s not!” the three of us called back.

  “I got a twelve,” Gabe said, leaning over the die.

  Wow, these kids have some serious dice juju.

  “That’s great,” I told him. “And you get to add four to that. So what do you get?”

  Gabe pondered this for a minute and wiggled his fingers. “Sixteen!”

  “You hit him!”

  Next, Ruby’s barbarian went.

  “Make sure you hit him too, Ruby,” Gabe instructed.

  She rolled the dice but only got a six. Technically it was a miss, but I couldn’t stand to see a three-year-old get booed by her brother.

  “You hit him, Ruby!” I handed her two more raisins.

  We went a couple more rounds with my wizard and Ruby’s baby all taking damage. Gabe delighted in the idea that his fancy footwork shirked the beholder’s chains of ice. The monster is down to two hit points, thanks mostly to Gabe and Ruby’s baby’s expert flanking.

  “If you manage to hit him two more times,” I explained to Ruby, “you’re going to win!” I avoided saying, “kill.” She is three, after all.

  “Ruby!” Gabe commanded. “Get over here by me so we can fank the monster!”

  “Good idea, Gabe,” I said. “Fanking is very strategic.”

  He was so excited by his tactical thinking I didn’t bother correcting his pronunciation or noting the fact that Ruby’s barbarian can’t flank. Only the rogue has that ability. It’s a Dungeon Master’s prerogative and by “prerogative” I mean, “desire to not make your best friend’s kids cry.”

  Ruby carefully counted out five spaces and moved to a fanking position. She tossed the d20 on the glass table and rolled an eight.

  “Not enough?” she asked, her bottom lip poking out.

  “Do you get to add anything special to your eight?” I asked.

  Gabe looked over her shoulder.

  “You do!” Gabe exclaimed. “You can add five! Ruby, what is eight plus five?”

  She thought about this for a minute. Those are some serious double digits for a three-year-old. If she got this, I was going to call the nearest Montessori school and pack her bags for Harvard.

  She held her hand in front of her.

  “Nine, ten,” she began. “Can Gabe help?”

  Gabe was chomping at the bit. And he’d already peeked over my shoulder so he knew exactly what it took to beat the beholder.

  “Well, this is supposed to be a cooperative game so I guess it would be okay.”

  “Thirteen!” Gabe yelled. “You hit! We win!”

  There were cheers all around. Even Des lets out a whoop from the office.

  “Whatever you just won sounds very exciting!” she said.

  To celebrate we finished off the box of raisins. I cut out the badges proclaiming them Heroes of Hesiod and Scotch-taped them to their collars.

  “Your mom can make them stick better,” I said. No way am I going near kids with safety pins. Three minutes later they were on the couch fighting over Gabe’s Nintendo DS.

  “What did you do to my kids?” Des asked, heading into the living room with a full glass of wine. “It sounded like they were having fun.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was being polite or if she was just surprised I spent nearly an hour alone with kids and no one (most of all me) was crying.

  “Oh, you know,” I said, brushing her off. “Just hanging out.”

  Sure beats a punch in the ass.

  Des called a few days later. I could hear Gabe and Ruby giggling in the background.

  “Seriously,” Des asked. “What have you done to my kids?”

  Uh-oh, I think. They’re having nightmares, or they’re fanking the neighbors and clobbering them for raisins, or worse—they’ve destroyed Des’s beautiful glass table with the d20 I left for them.

  “I’m really sorry, Des,” I said. “I really thought they were enjoying it. And I never used the word kill.”

  “I don’t care if you did!” she yelled. “They won’t leave each other’s side! They have chores, easy stuff because you know they’re just kids, but still I keep finding them doing things together. Ruby and Gabe were both holding the hose to water the garden, they help each other clean their rooms, they carried the dinner dishes to the dishwasher together. Like each one held one side of each dish!”

  When I was little, my dad and I bonded over sneaker shopping (in the kickball days; I had to have the same sneakers that he did) and cassette-tape shopping. Such a thrill to come home, kick off my red Nikes with the white swoosh, and listen to my coveted Bananarama tape for the next seventeen hours.

  These days geeky parents are finding creative ways to introduce their offspring to their beloved geeky pastimes. Inspire geek culture in the young adventurers in your life with these reads by some of Wired.com/geekdad’s contributors:

  Collect All 21! Memoirs of a Star Wars Geek—The First 30 Years, by John Booth

  Geek Dad: Awesomely Geeky Projects and Activities for Dads and Kids to Share, by Ken Denmead

  The Geek Dad’s Guide to Weekend Fun: Cool Hacks, Cutting-Edge Games, and More Awesome Projects for the Whole Family, by Ken Denmead

  World Myths and Legends: 25 Projects You Can Build Yourself (Build It Yourself Series), by Kathryn Ceceri

  Around the World Crafts: Great Activities for Kids Who Like History, Math, Art, Science And More! by Kathryn Ceceri

  Wow, talk about lazy. I didn’t like doing dishes either but I could certainly carry my own dish to the machine that washed it for me.

  “I asked them what they were doing,” she continued, “and they said they had to work together, as a team, so they could win some treasure.”

  “I don’t know, Des, I mean, it sounds pretty normal for your kids,” I said. “I have to admit you’re doing something right because even I liked hanging out with them.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. They keep talking about a monster that will give them raisins if they defeat it. Do you think they’re calling me a monster?”

  “They’re much too young to think you’re a monster,” I told her. Someday they will, but I didn’t tell her that. Instead, I let her bask in the glow of her new, improved kids.

  “And they want to know when they’ll see you again. You’re suddenly their favorite friend.”

  “Me?” I asked. “They liked me?”

  “Liked? They loved you! I don’t know what you did but they can’t stop talking about how much fun you were and how funny you are. You’re right up there with Dave and the Giant Pickle.”

  Not to get all Sally Field on her, but I couldn’t get past them actually liking me. Not just tolerated or used as a vehicle for evil doings but apparently enjoyed my company. And dare I say, I kind of enjoyed them? I was alone with them for nearly an hour and we all survived. I don’t provoke an innate urge to hit, punch, or run over in all kids, at least.

  Then I had the strangest vision. It was of my red CB ski jacket. The most coveted possession a twelve-year-old could own. All the kids at West Middle School had CB ski jackets. For good reason, too—they skied. Not me. In fact, I barely went outside if it was below 40 degrees but I had to have a CB jacket. Had. To. Simply could not survive another day without one. Only problem was, those suckers were expensive. Like hundreds of dollars. A pretty steep investment for a hobby I had no intention of ever participating in.

  “Absolutely not,” Judy said over and over. “You don’t need a fancy ski jacket to walk from the front door to the driveway in.”

  “But I need a warm coat!” I plea
ded. “It’s every child’s right!”

  “You have a warm coat. It’s fine. Get over it.”

  I would never “get over it,” as Judy suggested. At least, not really. But I could do the next best thing—stage a loud, vocal, aggressive smear campaign against CB jackets.

  “Look how puffy Heather’s coat is,” I said to Mary and Kristina at lunchtime.

  “Do you smell that?” I asked Peter, when we were waiting for the crossing guard to give us the go-ahead. “It’s coming from Sean’s CB. I hear they use the feathers of birds that died from disease and murder for those jackets.”

  It was a noble effort but the only person I was fooling was myself. If I couldn’t have the one thing I lusted after, the only thing I believed would make a preteen me happy (next to Bon Jovi playing at my thirteenth birthday party), then I pretended I didn’t want it.

  I’m not picking out names or picking out running strollers at Babies “R” Us but … could it be possible? Could kids be ski jackets to women in their late ‘30s who have spent the majority of our lives single?

  “I hope you don’t mind,” I said to Des. “But I’d like to make plans with Gabe and Ruby again. Maybe they could come to Seattle and Bart and I could take them to the zoo or the aquarium or, I know! The Science Center. Bart has been dying to go there.”

  “They would love that!” she shouted. “And I’d love a little time in the city to myself.” Then she added, “Are you sure Bart wouldn’t mind?”

  “He’d love it,” I said with confidence. “I’m sure he and Gabe will be best buds.”

  She sighed. “You’re so lucky to be with someone who is good with kids. I hope you know that.”

  “I know,” I said, realizing for the first time in, well … ever, that was true. “But if you tell Judy I hung out with your kids—and liked it—your glass table gets it.”

  ADVENTURE OVERVIEW

  Nestled inside the Pacific Northwest’s fabled Ring of Fire, between the evergreens and hilly one-way streets untouched by salt trucks or snowplows, lies Seattle’s twelfth-most-popular neighborhood. Potholed streets, an embarrassing lack of sidewalks, a plethora of bodegas offering piñatas and Jarritos soda (which the party should definitely stop in and try), and one delicious tap house are all hallmark’s of Seattle’s twelfth-most-popular neighborhood. Well, those hallmarks and the one they seldom discuss: the vicious harpy and her familiar—a dire feline—who live complacently in a condo, which may or may not be under a massive assessment at this time.

  THE TAP HOUSE

  The party, parched from a day of dodging potholes and walking single-file down streets in the bike lane, stops by the tap house made famous by the Harpy. She loves not just the twenty-four rotating beers on tap but their creative use of vegetarian Field Roast in their menu offerings. You half expect to see her here, but alas, it’s a Wednesday. The Harpy never goes out on Wednesdays.

  The townsfolk of Seattle’s twelfth-most-popular neighborhood are in a tizzy, believing the Harpy has taken a brave, albeit somewhat lackadaisical, adventurer as her hostage.

  “It will take a mighty band of warriors to bring him back safely,” the barkeeper says. “Danger is inevitable, but the rewards are great.”

  “What are the rewards?” the party asks, sampling a delicious array of IPAs from Seattle’s more popular neighborhoods.

  “Justice,” the barkeep says, staring you right in the eyes. “And free beer.”

  The party gathers up their belongings and heads out in the sidewalkless night.

  HISTORY

  The party arrives at an old, stucco, multi-unit dwelling, which may or may not have water damage. This is the home of the Harpy, where she has lived for nearly thirteen years, alone mostly, with the exception of various visiting hell-hounds and her evil familiar. Only few have dared to enter the Harpy’s lair and usually come armed with pad thai, groceries, or boxes too big to fit inside the USPS-approved pigeonhole.

  THE OUTSIDE AREA

  Although this is a secured-entry doorway, the Harpy’s neighbors are careless when entering and leaving and sometimes don’t close the door all the way or (heaven forbid) leave the door propped open while they carry in the groceries they actually go out and purchase themselves or move out busted-up Ikea coffee tables and rust-laden shower caddies. Much to the Harpy’s dismay, you have no trouble getting into this building.

  There is a flight of stairs covered in threadbare commercial carpet that looks like it’s been long traveled by deliverymen and logistics service coordinators in brown uniforms. You come across a spot on the carpet near the elevator.

  Perception Check DC 17: The spot is likely the result of a senior, arthritic dog with diarrhea who couldn’t get out of the building quickly enough.

  You take the stairs. On the second floor, you come across the unit rumored to be the lair of the Harpy. The door is brown and thick and pocked with indents that may be the result of your predecessors’ failed attempts at entry, or perhaps the Harpy’s failed attempts at nailing a hook to her door to hang the red-and-green-feathered wreath she got at Nordstrom. No matter.

  Perception Check DC 4: The lock on the door appears weak, and again to the Harpy’s dismay, looks like you could pick it with a credit card, barrette, even the corner of a takeout menu.

  Thievery Check DC 6: The lock gives in with some minor fidgeting.

  THE INTERIOR AREA

  You notice a very lived-in space with designer paint on the walls and comfy, oversized couches that dip and sag in such a way, you’d surmise the Harpy loves her television. The welcoming feeling that overtakes you is surprising. That couch looks very comfortable. You can see why the Harpy spends a lot of time here. Oh, how you’d like to snuggle into it with that chenille blanket over you and watch several, commercial-free episodes of Say Yes to the Dress on her DVR. You move a few large, cardboard, sealed-up boxes out of the way to get a better view of the couch.

  Perception Check DC 15: The couch is in fact a trap.

  The remains of a pizza and Caesar salad dinner are left on the coffee table, along with cloth napkins dotted with sauce, empty wine glasses ringed with cheap cabernet (that’s going to be a bitch to get off), the burned-down nubs of decorative candles, and several empty water glasses. Judging by the hard pellets of sauce on the plates, you surmise those dishes have been left out overnight.

  Perception Check DC 3: You hear snoring coming from the living room and notice a large, lazy pit bull sleeping on a pile of dog beds. She is unfazed by your arrival.

  The bedside tables look brand new. You stop and admire them before continuing into the kitchen/dining room, adjacent to the living room.

  There is an empty pizza box on the dining room table, along with piles of papers, books, and torn-open envelopes. A brown, decorative basket sits next to the laptop computer.

  Perception Check DC 2: The brown, decorative basket is empty.

  The kitchen looks as if a team of novice caterers have just completed service for 150. Olive oil, that appears to be much too expensive for such haphazard treatment, is uncapped and left out. An empty wine bottle sits in the sink, approximately three and a half feet from the recycling bin. The once-pristine stainless steel countertops are marred with a large rusty circle approximately the same circumference of the filthy wok you notice on the shelf above the stove. A colander with three cherry tomatoes sits in the sink along with—gasp!—more dirty dishes. From all you have heard about the uptight, controlling, stuck-in-a-routine Harpy, you are suddenly not sure this is her lair after all.

  Perception Check DC 8: It is. You see pictures all over the refrigerator of her with some guy.

  Perception Check DC 18: The guy looks very similar to the brave adventurer who has gone missing.

  The party follows a trail of toast crumbs into what appears to be the washroom. Definitely something wicked has transpired in here as evidenced by the red, sticky globules all over the basin.

  Perception check DC 5: Blood!

  Perception Check
DC 15: Nope. it’s just cinnamon toothpaste.

  The mirror above the washbasin is speckled with white dots, making it difficult to see your reflection. The white porcelain sink is dotted with tiny black dots.

  Perception Check DC 8: Those black dots are hairs from a freshly shorn chin.

  A tub of Clorox wipes sits in the corner of the basin.

  Perception Check DC 5: The Clorox wipes have not been opened. Not ever. Which probably, explains the chin hairs.

  The shower curtain is falling off the hooks and barely conceals the disgusting mess of a tub behind it. What the heck is that along the rim of the tub, anyway?

  Perception Check DC 7: This tub was caulked recently.

  Perception Check DC 14: The tub needs a professional to caulk it.

  The drain of the shower is covered in something dark and fuzzy.

  Perception Check DC 2: Ew! It’s hair! It’s the Harpy’s hair! And she thinks the toothpaste is bad? Why is it so hard to clean the drain out after every shower?

  This room is creepy and gives the party a sense of the willies. You leave the area and continue into what appears to be the Harpy’s boudoir.

  Perception Check DC 26: The dreaded dire feline is asleep on the bed. She does not appear to hear you.

  The party treads lightly so as not to wake the feline.

  There are two closets and two dressers in this space. You peek inside the larger of the two closets and notice something odd. Six hangers appear to be holding men’s clothing. You also notice two pairs of jeans that look oddly out of place.

  Perception Check DC 7: Relaxed fit. From what you know of the Harpy she favors boot cut or skinny leg jeans. These definitely belong to someone else.

  Several pairs of men’s shoes litter the floor but you don’t see any women’s shoes except those in boxes on the top shelf of the closet or slung in clear plastic pockets over the back of both doors.