A cleric who doesn’t believe in the divine.
A revenant with no memory of his past.
A blind elf who doesn’t know she’s an elf and hates elves.
The following story was adapted from a Dungeons & Dragons campaign, the original tabletop roleplaying game enjoyed by nerds, bachelors, and the unemployed alike.
This is a work of fiction satire. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Especially if they resemble Richard Dawkins.
Ravens laughed in the trees. Their black feathers glistened under the shards of the waning sun. They cocked their wry little heads to the clopping of hooves and squeaking of wheels. A wagon rolled through their forest with corpses laid on its bed, stacked as high as the head of the driver.
Greg was the undertaker. And as of late, his job had become more than digging holes for the old folks, or for the poor sod who got caught grinning at the mayor’s wife. A beautiful woman was a rare thing in these parts. Even more so if she was still breathing.
It had been a long day for Greg. The death toll was rising all across the land. And as you can imagine, the bodies had become quite the nuisance.
With the Western Rains, the bodies were drenched and as heavy as logs. But that didn’t dampen Greg’s spirits. He had just picked up a new dress for the missus and couldn’t wait to see her put it on.
Also, it was arguably more pleasant dealing with the silent dead than the rowdiness of the villagers. More coherent sometimes too. Particularly when the tavern was open . . . which, well, it always was.
“Whoaaa!” Greg called out with a firm voice matched by a firm tug. He patted the rump of his only horse (the last one was eaten by ghouls) and hopped down from his seat. Rubbing his neck with a dirty hand, Greg staggered to the back of the wagon, its tracks deep and crooked. One of the bodies had rolled off again.
He grumbled, grabbing at its legs. Then froze. Did the body just twitch? Greg stared into its grim, pale face. Its eyes were open, gazing right back at him. They even seemed to move back and forth. But that was just his imagination. Or was it?
Greg released the corpse and reached for the iron dagger tucked in his belt. He’d seen this before. If it took too long to bury them, the dead would rise again. And he wasn’t about to become its first meal.
Clenching the weapon with stiff fingers, Greg prepared to thrust his little blade into the corpse’s throat.
“Where am I?” he heard a groggy voice say.
Greg blinked at the corpse. It was wrapped in a uniform black with blood, its skin gray and sick.
Couldn’t be alive, he thought. His grip tightened.
“Hey, what are you doing with that!”
“Huh?” Greg paused. When the corpse’s mouth moved, words came out. Sick or not, this thing was still alive. “Bless me!” Greg said, stowing his blade. “So, dead yer not. No offense, but ya cert’nly look it.” The undertaker helped the soldier to his feet.
“None taken, all things considered.” The soldier looked around at the dead trees, a frightfully cold gust rattling their branches. He scratched his rather dry scalp, muttering to himself. “How did I . . . get here?”
“Nine hells if I shoul’ know.”
The soldier glanced down at his tattered uniform and stuck out his hands before him. They seemed as grimy and colorless as those of the bodies on the wagon. Perhaps a good washing was all they needed?
He froze. One of his fingers hung by a thread from the rest of his hand, and yet there was no pain. As careful as a thief in the night, he pushed it back into place. He felt his eyes expand in their sockets as the finger sewed itself onto his hand as if it had never been severed.
“Welp, I’m headin’ to the town grave’ard,” Greg told him. “You’d best come ’long, lad. It’s a’ready too late ter be in the woods. Been strange sightin’s of late.”
The soldier hesitated as he watched the undertaker circle to the front of the wagon.
“Unless you’d rather walk, ‘course.”
Walk? And go where? With a shudder and a shrug, the soldier hurried to the front and climbed up beside him.
Greg whipped the horse. “Got a name, soldier?”
The soldier was silent. Name? he thought. Of course I’ve got a name. He looked down at the sword on his belt and the crossbow over his shoulder. And a reason for these, I suppose.
Greg shot him an impatient glance.
“Tulik,” the soldier said as if he had picked the first thing that came to mind. And it was.
Greg nodded. “Musta been quite the battle, eh, Tulik?”
“Battle?”
“’Course! Yer were in a battle, weren’t ya? That uniform of yers, that’s the Ex Cavare, that is! I’ve buried ’nough of ’em to know. So, what happ’ned out there?”
Tulik scrunched his forehead as he tried to think. “Hmm . . . I don’t know. Not yet, at least.”
“Bless me! Must’ve gott’n cocked on the head, poor fella.” Greg seemed to frown as he looked over Tulik. “Ya sure yer not dead?”
Tulik arched an eyebrow and heard the dried blood crackle on his face. He gulped.
“Well, no trouble even if ya are. No biting, and we’ll get ya to town where ya can forget all yer—eh—drown all yer troubles in a pint of ale, ya hear?”
An overwhelming, ravenous desire to eat the undertaker seized Tulik. He suppressed it. Where did that come from? Tulik smiled awkwardly. “How far is it?”
“Yer that thirsty, eh? We’ll be there soon ’nough.” Ravens seemed to follow the wagon, laughing at every turn. “Should be more soldiers like yerself at the—whoaaa!” Greg leaned back and tugged on the reins.
Strolling alongside the road was a man in a white robe. A book as thick as the history of all Tristana was caressed in one arm while the other rested a mighty war hammer over his shoulder. Across his back hung a crossbow with a quiver of bolts.
“Just the man for the ’ccasion,” Greg sighed with relief. As the wagon caught up to the cleric, he sighed again. The cleric was alive. Even better. “Need a lift, Father?”
As if he had been interrupted from contemplating the mysteries of the cosmos, the cleric turned himself around. He raised his bushy gray eyebrows at the offer. But with a look at what the wagon carried, he grimaced as if some great internal debate had been sparked.
Tulik analyzed the man with a hard squint. A priest in these decrepit woods?
Greg also looked the cleric up and down, eyeing the big golden A that hung like a noose around his neck. He didn’t know what order that was, but he cared not. His job was to put the dead in the ground, not pray for them. “’Tis not like a priest to travel ’lone. Not in the Humulis Region,” Greg said. “Father . . . ?”
“Dawkins,” the cleric replied with little effort.
“Right. Ya comin’?”
With a labored breath, the cleric nodded. Tulik scooted closer to Greg to make room and even offered the cleric his hand. But one look at the soldier’s sordid skin, and Father Dawkins pulled himself up with a grunt. Greg whipped the horse back into motion.
As Greg focused on the dark road before them, Tulik turned to Dawkins.
“You’re really a priest?” he asked.
Dawkins turned to the soldier with disgust. “Some still use the term, I suppose.”
“Whoaaa!” Greg tugged on the reins.
What’s wrong? Tulik wondered. Beside him, Dawkins glared down on the obstruction that blocked the road. “Who’s that?” Tulik asked.
“Looks like an elf, don’t it?” Greg said. “See the pointy ears?”
“A she-elf, nonetheless,” Dawkins grumbled. He was half-elvish himself and fluent in the True Tongue, but he never regarded himself as one of their kind.
Too many strange tales came with the elves. Tales of the Divine. Tales of a door to another world. Tales of giant worms that slither out of hexed wishing wells. Wasn’t it enough to see that a well was cursed without having to believe that there were dragons at the bottom of it too?
“Now an elf?” Tulik said. “Maybe I’m dreaming.”
“Oh, kiddies!” the elf called. She faced the woods and completely ignored the wagon. “Here, kiddies!” A blindfold was wrapped about her eyes, and an assortment of confections filled her arms. “There’s a house of gingerbread, sprinkled with a thousand sweets!”
Those on the wagon shared a nervous look. They watched the elf as they waited for her to move. She didn’t.
Father Dawkins stood, towering over the little elf like the god he detested. “Clear the road,” his voice boomed. When he reaped no results, he narrowed his gaze on the blindfold. “Elf. Elf! Do you hear me, elf?”
The elf stumbled, dropping a treat or two at her feet. “Hullo? Who’s there! An elf, you say? Goodness gracious! Do you see one? Oh, goodie, goodie! Don’t let it get away! Where is it? Oh, tell me! Where? Where!”
Dawkins frowned. “We are travelers on our way to Collisep, and you are in the way.”
“Oh.” The elf fell silent. “You haven’t, uhm, seen any children—elf children, to be precise—have you? I’m looking for them. Elf children. Children that are elves. Did I mention they’re elvish? The children, I mean. Elvish children. As in elves.”
“As if this day couldn’t get any stranger,” Greg murmured.
“Yep, I’m dreaming,” Tulik said.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Dawkins asked the elf. “Not that I care.”
The elf snapped upright. “What? Me? Trouble?” She paused as if to think. “Yes. Yes, I am in trouble! You see, I’ve misplaced my elvish children. Have you seen them?”
Dawkins grunted. “We’ve seen no children and no elves and certainly no elvish children. Now, will you clear the road to town, or shall the undertaker add your body to the pile?”
“Town?” she repeated. “Why, yes. I could use a ride there. Thanks for asking. Was that a wagon I heard? And a horse pulling it?”
“That’s generally how it works,” Dawkins sighed.
Tulik leaned back, lowering his voice. “I don’t know, fellers. It may be because she seems awfully fixated on giving candy to children, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
“Oh, what’s it matter?” Dawkins spat. “With a cart full of braindead cadavers, what’s one more? Come up here!”
“Oh! Why, thank you! Thank you! You’re far too kind!” A mountain of confections plopped to the ground, and the elf scampered around the wagon, feeling her way up onto the bed. Once seated, she turned to a corpse beside her. “Hi! I’m Dolores. Who might you be? Say, there aren’t any elves on this wagon, are there?”
“To town, please,” Dawkins begged the undertaker. With another crack of the whip, they were off. It was the better part of an hour before they reached Collisep.
“Here we are,” Greg said. The trees were soon replaced by rotting houses that swayed in the howling wind. “Gloomy little place, if ya ask me. But the booze is cheap ’nough. Whisperin’ Winds Inn right over there if ya need to wet yer tongue.”
“Thank you, my good man,” Dawkins said as he hopped down, going his way without even looking at the other passengers. But as he tugged open the tavern door, Dolores scooted past him, escorted by the soldier . . . otherwise, she was going to enter through the window.
“Why, thank you! You’re too kind!” she said. “And what’s your name?”
“Tulik,” he said.
“Tulkis! What a lovely name!”
“Tulik.”
The tavern deafened them with shouts and laughter. They stepped around drunken men and stumbled over those unconscious on the floor. At the bar, they each ordered a tankard of ale.
“You didn’t get the chance to explain before,” Tulik said to Dawkins. “Are you really a priest?”
Dawkins’s hold stiffened around his tankard. His eyes seemed to burn over the rim of the cup. “So if I am. What of it?”
“Because I may need your help, Father. But I can’t quite remember . . . why.”
“Well, you seem to remember how to open your mouth and how to fill it properly. That feature makes up half the primal needs of your existence. Good day.”
Tulik bit down and tried again. But when he parted his lips, another voice spoke.
“Have you seen any elf children? You know, pointy ears and all that?”
The innkeeper grumbled at Dolores. “Like yours, elf?”
Chips rained down as a knife struck the bar. “I am NOT an elf!” she hissed. The innkeeper just shook his head and turned away.
Dawkins smirked. “Tell me. Where’d you last see these children of yours?”
“What? I don’t have children,” she replied. Then seemed to jolt. “Oh! But I do have elvish children—yes! Have you seen them?”
His eyes widened for a second. Then he shook his head.
Tulik nudged Dawkins’s shoulder. “My gut says not to trust this one. But my heart tells me we should help her find her children.” Tulik stood still. Wait, where’s my heartbeat? He slapped his hand to his chest, and the lack of a pulse filled his mind with horror.
Dawkins whirled on his stool. “We?”
The tavern door flew open. An elf in stately attire surveyed the rowdy scene. Then his eyes landed on the bar, and he marched straight up to Tulik.
“Rumor has it there is a soldier from the Ex Cavare in town,” he said. The elf winced as he beheld Tulik. “Well, what happened to you? Must’ve gotten hit by a ghost wagon,” he muttered. “The name’s Marcus Tacitus. I’m the mayor here in Collisep.”
Dolores spun around, facing the portrait on the wall behind the mayor. “Do you have any elves in Collisep, Mr. Marcus?”
Marcus paused, addressing her slowly and uncertainly. “Elves? Not many in town, I’m afraid. Have you been to Auster or Meridies? Plenty of elves down there. If you’re looking for your kin, I’d recommend heading south.”
“Elves are not my kin.”
Tulik interjected. “Are there other soldiers here?”
“Now that you mention it, yes, there’s Haros.” Marcus threw a glance at a nearby table. A man in a familiar uniform was stretched across the surface, mug in hand. “He’s in the Ex Cavare like yourself. Doesn’t look none too sociable for the moment. Perhaps you can try him once sobers up—if he does, that is. There’s very little else to do in Collisep, I’m afraid.”
Tulik followed Marcus’s gaze. But he didn’t see the drunk soldier.
He saw the enemy.
“Courage, my brothers!”
Tulik took a breath. What am I doing here?
“The Divine will protect us. He always has!”
Icy sweat clung to his cheeks. How does a simple rogue end up on the battlefield?
“Hold the line!”
To loot the dead? No. To expose the traitors.
Shields were raised in defiance. Swords hacked and slashed the frozen air. But blades came back broken. Shields shattered like glass. Smoldering armor littered the ground.
“Fall back!”
“Run for your lives!”
“There are too many! We’ve been misled!”
Tulik’s legs were frozen. Beside him, flesh dripped from a soldier’s skull, liquid eyes piercing the floor of heaven with a hollow gaze that asked if this was the Divine’s will after all.
A hand seized Tulik’s shoulder, pulling him away from the battle and back to the tavern.
“Find me if you’re looking for work,” Marcus said as he turned for the door. “No shortage of jobs, that’s for sure. But workers? Hah! Well, now that’s another tale.”
“You didn’t tell him you lost your memory,” Dawkins said as he released Tulik’s shoulder.
“What mayor would hire a soldier who can’t even remember his own unit?” Tulik grieved.
“Well, at least you can find out where you belong so you can run off on your own little adventure,” Dawkins sniffed. “And if I’m lucky, they’ll let you take that she-elf with you.”
At the mention of Dolores, Tulik turned to her empty stool.
“Oi!” a voice shouted. “Careful!”
“Sorry, sorry! Oh, don’t mind me! Just checking for elves is all!”
Tulik spotted her feeling ear after ear as she navigated her way through the tables. She then came to a man as large as an ogre—and about as ugly as one too—lost in a high-stakes card game. Dolores couldn’t hear Tulik’s warning over the tavern laughter.
“Watch it!” the man growled. He slapped the table with his cards, chair launching backward as he rose like a tidal wave. “You lookin’ for trouble, elf?”
“Elf? Where! Do you see one?”
Tulik hurried over to Dolores. “Uh, sorry, sir! She’s, uhm . . . disturbed. You see, she lost her children.”
“Elvish children!” Dolores insisted.
The man’s chest inflated like a balloon as his fists curled. His face burned red with fury.
“Come on, Tulkin. We can take him!” Dolores urged.
“Tulik,” he corrected her. “And what? You serious? Take him?”
And here he thought he was doing a good deed by coming to the troubled elf’s defense. Now he was going to get his face pulled inside out.
“If you’re looking for a fight, yer bound to get one!” the man barked, pummeling a giant fist into his palm. His muscular face bulged as he swallowed the elf in his sight. She stared back up, defiant. Her little elvish eyes seemed to pierce through the blindfold like pinpricks. At once, the man felt penetrated by fear. “On second thought . . . maybe you’d best excuse me,” he whimpered, reaching for his chair as he nearly sat back down without it.
Tulik could feel the sweat dripping down his face. Thank the Divine! he thought. “You seriously wanted to fight that guy?” he asked, guiding Dolores back to the bar.
“Yeah! I mean, you saw he wasn’t that big. Right?”
Tulik rolled his eyes to the floor. He almost didn’t catch the cleric creeping out the tavern door. “Oh, Father!”
Dawkins froze like a statue. “Ugh! Can’t you just . . . oh, what is it?”
Tulik stepped up to him in the middle of the room. “Father. Can you help me?”
He squinted as if struck with pain. “Depends. What do you need?”
“Father, I feel . . .” Tulik trailed off as he grasped for the right word. “Dead.”
Dawkins snorted. “We all journey through phases where we feel dead on the inside. The best remedy is a hearty supper, a good night’s rest, and a warm bath. And if you still feel under the wind come morning, you’d best find yourself a healer. Pleasant dreams.”
“No, Father—wait!” Tulik seized his arm. “You don’t understand. I don’t feel dead just on the inside. I feel dead all over!”
Dawkins stared blankly. When Tulik saw he wasn’t getting anywhere, he raised a hand between him and the cleric.
Then he tore off his finger.
“See?”
“Good heavens!” Dawkins exclaimed, though he quickly added, “Not that there are any, of course!”
Tulik coolly returned the finger to its hand. It was then he realized all the talk and laughter had subsided, and he felt the eyes of the whole tavern upon him.
Dawkins saw the frightened look on Tulik’s face. And he wanted nothing to do with the disgusting soldier. But it was too late. He was already sucked in by the mystery. Knowing that every dead soldier in Mortium Campis was, well, a dead soldier, he spun around, standing wide between Tulik and the other patrons. “Ladies and gentlemen, give the boy a hand!” His lone claps echoed in the tavern. “Next, maybe he’ll entertain us by removing his head?”
Their seated eyes stared past him. He was but smoke concealing a horrible fire.
Then Tulik cried out. When Dawkins turned around, he found the soldier had collapsed to the floor, gripping his hand. “Ouch! Ooo! The pain! The pain!”
The innkeeper hustled over. “Shall I call for the healer?”
“NO,” Tulik shouted. “I mean . . . no. That won’t be necessary. Maybe just a rag to, uh, hide the blood, you know?”
The innkeeper shook his head as he undid the apron around his waist and held it out to Tulik. Dawkins snatched and tied it around Tulik’s finger before any eyes could get through.
“Let’s talk over here,” Dawkins insisted, leading Tulik to a dark table in the corner of the room. They sat without talking until the tavern filled with jokes and laughter again.
Dawkins could then no longer contain himself. “How does it feel?” he asked.
“My finger? It’s fine, Father. Not even any blood. But thanks for asking.”
“No, not that! How does it feel to be dead—truly dead?”
“It feels . . . well, it feels like . . . nothing.”
Dawkins didn’t seem to savor that answer, but it was all he could get. “And had I heard the undertaker right, that you truly can’t remember anything?”
“That’s right, Father.”
“Fascinating!” The chair creaked as Dawkins leaned back. “That one can rise from the dead and not be under the influence of another. How this can be, I can only wonder. Say, that soldier over there? The one that the mayor pointed out? Maybe you can learn more about your identity from him . . . and how you became both dead and living. Mind if I accompany you?”
“Not at all!” Tulik said, almost relieved he had found someone who would help him. Of course, he knew Dolores would probably help too. But . . .
“And see you don’t do it again!” she shouted at the wall that had bumped into her.
Tulik whistled, and her pointy ears perked up. She scurried over.
Their three shadows hung over the drunk soldier’s table. “Excuse me? Uh, sir? Haros?” Tulik said. The soldier sat alone, and they figured for a good reason.
Haros nodded himself awake and failed to suppress a belch. Several empty tankards surrounded him. “Yeah? What you want?” His eyes glazed over Father Dawkins. “What’s a priest doin’ here? I ain’t dead yet.”
No. Not you, Dawkins thought. “Care for a drink?” he asked.
“What’ya thinks in my hand?”
“Ah, yes. But it’s a fair wager you’ll soon need another. Innkeeper! Another drink for this good fellow!”
The innkeeper paused before filling Haros’s mug. He was quick to accept the two coppers from Dawkins, who gave them with a nod.
“Mayor sent you over, didn’t he?” Haros grunted. “Always sendin’ people my way, tellin’ me to do this, tellin’ me to do that. Can’t even enjoy my drink in peace anymore. Well, what ya—hic!—wanna know? And make it quick.”
Tulik leaned forward. “What can you tell me about the Ex Cavare?”
Haros snorted. “Soldiers these days. Don’t even know who they work for. What a joke. A sad one, at that.”
“Please. I honestly don’t remember. Something happened to me out there.”
“Oh, all right, all right, keep your skin on if you can.” Haros grumbled a few unintelligible words after that. “You’re part of an army that looks into demon activity. That ring any bells?”
“Demons?” Tulik could feel his eyes getting big, and for a moment, he worried they might fall out.
“What about elves?” Dolores piped up.
“What? Elves? Guess you’re new in town, eh? Only elves we got round here live in that manor down the road. The Silvian Manor. Ghastly place. Stay away from there.”
“An elvish manor?” she gasped, fingers nibbling at the edge of the table. “That sounds . . . delightful!”
“To some, maybe,” Haros slurred. Glancing up to Tulik, he said, “Find the mayor if you want work.” He then lowered his head, and they watched as he slowly dozed off.
“I wonder if they have elvish children in the elvish manor,” Dolores said, her hopes reaching as high as the tavern ceiling.
“There’s a good bet,” Tulik agreed. Then he added, “Why don’t we go and find out?”
“Oh, could we? Could we, Tulis?”
“Tulik. And sure! I mean, I don’t seem to have anything else to do . . . not that I remember, anyway.” He turned back to the drunk soldier, who was now snoring.
“Let’s go,” Dawkins urged Tulik. “We’ll get no more out of him tonight.”
Tulik nodded. His identity was a puzzle, he feared, that would come together one piece at a time. But that puzzle was all he had.
“Are you an elf?” they heard her say from across the room. Rising from their seats, they spotted her by a young dwarf who had his face planted in a tankard of something a little stronger than ale.
“Why? Just ’cause I can’t grow a beard, ya take me fer an elf?” he bawled, refilling his cup with tears. “Oh, I wish it’d all jes end already!”
“Come on, Dolores.” Tulik led her away.
“But is he an elf, Tulip?”
“Tulik,” he frowned.
“He is most definitely not an elf,” Dawkins said with a steady gaze. “And not the most ideal dwarf either.”
Back at the bar, Dolores’s ears picked up the sound of empty tankards sloshing through a basin of water.
“Can you tell us where to find the elvish manor?” she asked. “I think I may have found my elvish children!”
The innkeeper wiped himself with a towel and held out his hand. Dolores did not see it.
Dawkins sighed before dropping a couple coppers into the open palm. The innkeeper kept his hand out. Tulik tossed in another. The innkeeper slowly rolled the coins in his hand before clutching his fingers tightly over them.
“When you leave here, take a left. Then turn right. You’ll find it,” he said before turning his back and mumbling. “Cheapskates . . .”
Catching the last few drops on his tongue, Tulik put down his tankard. It grieved him that he could no longer taste anything. He would find no pleasure in neither food nor drink. But he also felt no pain. Whatever plagued him was both a blessing and a curse.
Leaving the tavern with his friends, Tulik asked to visit the graveyard to see if the undertaker needed any help. Greg had buried most of the dead by now, and there was another cleric following him, raining dirt over each grave and muttering a prayer.
Father Dawkins cleared his throat as he approached the cleric. “Do you require any assistance, Father?” Although what he really wanted to say was, What good is your robe and holy words going to do these miserable fellows when they’re already dead? But he knew it wasn’t about the ones who had died. It was about the ones who were still living. The ritual was given to keep the dead from rising. Along with six feet of dirt.
It was also his need for money, typically in the form of donations from the fools who still believed in the Divine, that kept his tongue in check. God or no god, he had a reputation to protect. Otherwise, it would be him digging the graves. That meant he better play by the rules.
The tired cleric glanced up from his stone tablet. “No, I think I’ll manage. Say, what order are you from?” His curious eyes targeted the A fastened around Father Dawkins’s neck.
Okay. Most of the rules.
“It’s, er, a new order. I’m the first of our kind to make it to these parts, if I’m not mistaken,” Dawkins said. Indeed, it was a new order. But not one in communion with the Divine Church.
The cleric looked back down at his tablet, shaking his head. “Always a new order. Whatever is the matter with the old ones, I shouldn’t wonder?”
“Need a hand?” Tulik asked the undertaker.
“No, no, I’m good here,” Greg replied.
Tulik nodded before flipping him a coin for his kindness. The undertaker caught it, pausing from his duties. He even grinned a little. It was only a copper. And it was grimy and reeked of death. But for the first time in a long time, someone had noticed his efforts.
“Well?” Dawkins said as they stepped out of the graveyard. He forced a smile at his companions though he felt his face would crack. He was only interested in helping Tulik, of course. But the problem was Tulik seemed interested in helping Dolores. That meant Dawkins had to help her too. It would be the only way he would uncover the dead soldier’s secret.
His secret to immortality.
This is your chance, Dawkins told himself. To obtain eternal life . . . and by doing so, the power to defy the Divine. Once. And forever.
“Where to next, my friends?” he beamed. “To the manor?”
“To the manor,” Tulik confirmed.
“Yes!” Dolores rubbed her hands gleefully. “To the elvish manor!”
Continue to Dawkins & Dragons II: The Silvian Manor
BEHIND THE SCENES
90 percent of this story is a literal account of what happened, the biggest addition being Tulik’s battlefield vision in the tavern. This was the first campaign for all but the DM.
Dolores rolled 18 for persuasion to convince everyone she had lost her children.
Dolores rolled 10 for perception for checking people’s ears.
Dolores rolled 20 for intimidation against the man she provoked.
Tulik rolled 11 for sleight of hand after he pulled off his finger.
Tulik rolled 20 for persuasion to pretend it hurt.
Dawkins rolled 2 to pretend it was a magic trick.
Tulik rolled 14 for persuasion for the innkeeper to give him his apron.
Special thanks to Dom (Tulik), Austin (Dolores), and Tom (Dungeon Master)
