fiction

My D&D Adventure

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This is from like… Four years ago. Just to keep the time line accurate.

Oh man. Yesterday was so good. Especially the D&D session.

After writing, I started taking care of some to-do list things. I cleaned the litter box, swept the room, and even mopped it with my Swifter. There’s a foam mat that I keep the cat’s food and water bowls on. I got that cleaned, too. Bonus points!

I took out the trash. I cleaned out my car. I even picked up the cigarette butts along the front stoop of the apartment and around the balconies. They weren’t all mine, but I know the wind sometimes blows them out of the ashtray I have and I figured I would be a good tenant and clean up a bit.

I washed the dishes and put the roast in the fridge once it was once cooking. I didn’t have time for anything else since I had to leave for counseling.

I got to tell my counseler the good news about my follow-up appointment. We talked about the progress with Jon moving to Nebraska. We talked about work. We spent a fair amount of time talking about my social experiement. We also started touching on the subject of summer and how I might not take a class, opting for some down time instead.

She said we would explore the topic of summer next time, but agrees that even though it’s only the end of February, I’ve already had a pretty intense time. I’ve had surgery, Jon is moving, Dagger had surgery, I’ve reconnected with my dad, I’ve been attending school… So many intense things… It would be nice to breath for a bit and just chill. Especially if Jon and I are going to be rooming together. We both will need to figure out our new norm and having time to spend together doing things would be nice. I’m also not sure what my financial situation will be during the summer and the thought of having to pay of a class I really don’t want to take out of pocket doesn’t motivate me very much.

So counseling was good. I like how she lets me know what she wants to delve into for our next sessions. It lets me think about things through the week so I can figure things out.

I met with Ox for lunch. I called the apartment complex Jon wanted me to look at. After Ox and I were done eating I went and looked at the two floor plans we’re interested in. Currently they only have 3rd floor units available, the apartments are pretty nice though. We’re going to wait to see about the new apartments in Hickman. We should know more about those today.

I came back to the apartment after talking to Jon about my tour. I paid rent. I emailed Ox my updated D&D papers since he got the printer at the house working. It prints the sheets perfectly so I don’t have to fight with mine. Score.

I finished doing meal prep. Washed some more dishes. Put my clothes away. I showered finally. By then it was time to head to D&D.

God it was soooooooooooooooo good. So good. XD

Our characters had agreed to try to stop the seaside operation of the smuggling ring we had found. My character asked if we could keep the ship, since we would be killing everyone on it, finders keepers right? The town leader agreed we could keep the ship. When I asked if we could keep the good on the ship he became more hesitant. We were trying to stop the smuggling, right? Wouldn’t keeping the goods make us smugglers, too?

Dagger: Well… I mean… You guys are already missing these goods. You’re hiring us to stop more bad stuff from happening. And it’s on the ship that will shortly be ours, so finders keepers.

The town leader relectantly agreed.

Our party headed back to the house and waited until dusk. We signaled to the ship that arrived that it was safe and they responded for us to come unload the goods.

As we were discussing out plan of action I told the party of a cool spell I could do where I made myself a disguse. Much to the panic of the rest of the party, they agreed that my plan sounded good and that I would be the emmissary between us and the smugglers on the boat. XD

Soooo goooooood.

I disgused myself as the hobgoblin we had captured and interigated. I got our party onto the ship. As were were beginning to unload the cargo there was a commotion on deck. The rogue in our party and entered combate. I dashed back onto the deck, reaching into my bag of tricks. When I threw my fuzzy object at one of the smugglers my Giant Badger appeared and began causing chaos. It was great.

Unfortantuely, I died like… four different times in this encounter. My character doesn’t have a lot of hit points, and during the initial alarm, more smugglers joined the encounter, with me in the center of it. Each time our other cleric tried to heal me, a smuggler would take a shot at me and reduce me back to 0 hit poitns.

Dagger: Hooray, I’m up! Goddamit!

Overall, it was a good encounter, and I’m grateful for the other cleric in our party. Once everyone was dead and my character was alive again, I began sulking becasue that was NOT how my character thought things would go down.

Dagger: This mission sucks. And there were the spiders before that and the trip across the sea before that. You’re an asshole, Sir Ick.

My character reached into her bag of tricks again, this time congering a boar. I had it charge and one of the closed doors, reveling some lizardfolk. I couldn’t understand what they were saying so I told Sir Ick to kill them because they deserved to die, and continued opening doors.

I wasn’t finding anyting on interest, which frustrated my character more. When I opened the door to galley, I took a frying pan and stalked over to one of the smugglers who had surrended to us.

I pointed at him with the frying pan.

Dagger: You! Where are the shiny things?!

Smuggler: What to you mean? There are tons of shiny things.

Dagger: I don’t me fire shiny things. I mean shiny shiny things. Magical shiny things would be even better.

Smuggler: They’re all over the place.

Dagger: Show me!

So the tied up smuggler proceeds to take to me one of the doors off of the main deck. I have him enter the room in front of me, followed by my boar because fuck getting ambushed. The room he took me to was well furnished with a couch and bed and all sorts of stuff.

Dagger: Get out!

The smuggler backed out of the room and I slammed the door, curling up on the couch to sulk.

God, it was so good! XD

I am enjoying this character so much. She’s total chaos and the polar opposite of anything I am in real life. It’s so fun and freeing to play her personality.

So that’s were D&D left off. Ox and I came home. I went to bed. He tried making his mini on HeroForge, but the app crashed on him shortly before he finished it, so now he has to start all over. I know that must have sucked.

As far as today goes. I’ve done my morning routine. I feel like I didn’t sleep enough last night, so I’m tired. I have all of chapter six to read, and will have three days worth of notes to type by the end of class today. I also need to finish my meal prep… Blaaaaaahhh…

I’ll figure out how I want to tackle today. Right now, with it being overcast and yucky outside, I’m not thinking today is going to be as productive as myu first two days off. I think that’s ok, though. I’m allowed to have one lazy day out of three, right?

Musing Moments 146: D&D – Saber Ishaan

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This is the origin story for my teifling sorceress rogue, Saber Ishaan.

I didn’t begin learning about myself until “that night”. Sometimes I still wake from nightmares of it, screaming, though it has been several years. I can remember it so clearly. Every detail. The city streets, the smells, the hunger, the fear. That night began no different than any other. The darkness marked my waiting. Waiting for the light to come back so I could be safer. Bad things lived in darkness. Bad things happened in darkness.

I had found a rubbish pile that night in an ally. I had thought I would be safe there. Hidden. I could wait out the bad things and see the bright circle again. I could wait and not be found. If only I had known how wrong I was.

I heard them before I saw them. Their footsteps heavy and voices loud as they stumbled drunkenly through the ally. I could smell the alcohol wafting from them.

I don’t know how they found me. Maybe it was my breathing. Maybe my silent tears weren’t as silent as I thought. Maybe they heard the pleas I was crying out inside my head. I don’t know. I don’t know what I did wrong, but they didn’t pass me by.

No. They found me. They pulled me from the rubbish that was my cover. They dragged me for where I should have been safe, sneering and laughing. They pulled at my horns and tail. I remember their words though at the time I didn’t understand them. Teifling whore. Devil witch. I tried to get away, to run, to find new shelter, but I couldn’t. There were more of them than me, and they were strong, well-fed men. What could a weak, street urchin child hope to do against them?

One of them grew tired of my struggling. He hit me with the back of his hand. I tasted blood as my ears rang and searing pain filled my vision with whiteness.

It were as if that first hit were the breaking of a floodgate. They all began to hit me, slap me, pushing me among themselves as if I were a toy. I remember their sickening laughter. I remember one saying he didn’t know devils could bleed. They hit me, over and over and over. And when I could no longer stand, crumbling to the ground in defeat, they began to kick me. I remember one finely crafted boot landed on my stomach, causing me to retch out what little food I had managed to steal for my dinner that night.

They did such horrible things to me as they laughed. I remember that the most; their laughter, as if my pain was a game to them. My suffering a thing to bring them joy.

Through all of it, I cried out in pain, begging them to stop. I screamed and sobbed until the pain was too much; until my voice was too hoarse and raw to beg or plead or cry. I became silent and still, my body either unable or unwilling to continue trying. As I lay on the ground covered in dirt, sweat, tears, and my own blood, I gave up and I accepted that I would die under their boots.

It didn’t matter if I struggled or fought back. It didn’t matter if I cried or begged or screamed. I thought about how I had never wronged anyone and yet here I was, being beaten to death by strangers merely because I looked different.

No one was going to save me. No one in this awful city cared. Not even my parents had cared. I was alone, had always been alone, and would die alone. Because I was a teifling. Because I didn’t matter. None of it mattered. My feelings. My pain. My struggle. My loneliness. My fear.

I don’t matter… That was the final thought I had before “the change” happened.

I don’t know what changed exactly as I lay there dying. All I know is that something did. It felt like something inside me woke as I died; as they spat on me. As they kicked me. As they hated me.

Rage. I remember rage, slowly at first, a soft hint of anger that grew with each passing second of laughter. Rage with boiled and seethed until it was an all consuming fury.

You DO matter! That was what my fury screamed at me in a voice so loud it drowned out the laughter and pain.

They do not deserve to kill you. They, these strangers, do not deserve to be your end. You have fought for too many meals. You have survived too many nights of darkness for these drunken bastards to be your end. You are strong. Your life matters. Win. Fight. LIVE! Show them what you are. Show them what you want!

That burning feeling of fury clawed its way into my lungs as if it were a living thing, giving me the air to screech one final word at my attackers; a word which filled the night, echoing off the ally walls and defeating the sickening laughter.

“STOP!” I shrieked with every fiber of my being. I flung that single word at them as if it were a sword, burning with all of my anger, rage, and fury.

Their laughter turned to screams as blinding light in the form of a glorious sun-fire sword filled the ally, slashing their faces and burning their eyes, scaring them forever. They ran from me, stumbling, screaming, howling in pain like beaten curs.

I remember their screams and the smell of burning flesh as I stayed on the ground. I wanted to hide. I wanted to run. I wanted to be safe. I wanted the sword that had saved me to come back and be by my side for forever. But the sword was no longer there with its warm, brilliant light and I could no longer feel my body. I could no longer feel the ground under me. I could no longer feel my pain. I could feel… nothing… and everything… seemed so very… very… far away…

The aftermath of my first magic is a story for a different time. This specific moment, however, this specific night, is where I began learning about myself and why I cherish it so much even though it still terrifies me in my dreams. That night, I learned I didn’t have to die. That night, I learned I could fight back. “That night” was when I and my story truly began.

Musing Moment 143: She Was Tired

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She was tired. Tired of all of it.

She sat cross-legged in her computer chair, pondering over the post she had just read on Facebook. After reading such an honest article, it seemed no wonder she was tired.

Here, in the quiet sanctuary of her apartment, she sat in the clothing she had worn to bed. Her legs were covered in black, oversized yoga shorts. The soft, comfy kind that didn’t fit her body like painted fabric or make her look sexy. She had a 3xl bright orange shirt on. It was a shirt her fiance had worn to work, his scent woven into the fibers which helped to fight back the feelings of loneliness that seemed to invade her days more and more often. There was no bra under the shirt; yet another factor adding to her comfort. Her hair was still a rats nest from sleeping, tangled and forgotten atop her head. Groggily she had clipped the mess up with a non-descript hair clip, saving that particular task, one of many on her never-ending to-do list, for a later time when the tiredness wasn’t winning.

Tired… yes… Even though she had slept through the night, she had awoken tired and soul weary and unable to place why so many of her mornings seemed to feel this way now. Unable, that is, until she had read “the post”.

It was a post about all of the misconceptions and untruths written by male authors in books; untruths about what it was like to be a female character. It was a post about how bras actually suck and showering isn’t a sexy 15-minute escape from reality; how hair doesn’t cascade down your back like a shimmering waterfall. It was a well-written piece about how women are human, not perfection.

The post had struck a chord and its resonation still thrummed within her mind.

Here, alone, it didn’t matter what she looked like or what she wore. Her thoughts didn’t have to be edited. She could feel, look, and be tired and it was ok. Here she was safe from the opinions and expectations of others. Here she could be her true self. Yet “here” was not a place she could stay and that knowledge is where her tiredness stemmed from.

Soon she would have to shower and care about how she looked in the eyes of others. She would have to wrestle with her curly hair and make it seem halfway presentable. She would have to find decently matching clothes suited for the weather. She would have to figure out her shopping list for groceries, remembering odds and ends like body wash or pads if needed. She would have to go out and contend with people after working a 60-hour workweek where she cared for and felt empathy for her patients. She would have to call and make her pre-op appointment for her cancer surgery and find time to fill out her living and last will. Those thoughts hung most heavily on her shoulders. Though she had been assured the surgery would go well, her mother had already died and she had learned the lesson that nothing in life is guaranteed.

Why did it matter if she wore makeup or not when she had to figure out things like funeral arrangements and who would inherit her handful of worldly possessions? Why did she have to be perfect all the time regardless of what was or wasn’t going on in her life? Why couldn’t she simply be enough as she was?

She had all of these heavy topics and hard situations vying for attention and energy and yet she still had to waste effort on how she looked. She had to not only navigate her own life but the expectations of strangers who knew nothing about her. What would they think if she didn’t wear makeup? How big of a scandal would it be to go out dressed as she was now, comfortable and content?

These people would judge her, label her, condemn her simply from appearance alone. None of her struggles or emotions mattered to the outside world. She had to be perfect, always, except here in her sanctuary, and that’s why she was tired. The weight of the outside world threatened to crush her shoulders before she had even left her bed.

Here was where she could cry and be comfortable and tired and not care about the world. Here expectations didn’t matter; didn’t exist. Here was where she could be her true self, not the self society expected, demanded, and ridiculed her for not being.

If I don’t do these things, I’m not good enough. Being an A+ college student doesn’t matter. Paying my bills on time doesn’t matter. Saving lives doesn’t matter. None of it matters unless I conform to this sick, fucked up, circus show where it matters more about how you look than what you are going through or doing with your life.

She was tired of playing the game. She was tired of pretending for the comfort of others. She was tired of being at the bottom of her own list with unknown strangers taking precedence over her self.

So she wrote.

She let all of those emotions flow from her fingers into the keyboard in front of her as she sat, cross-legged and grungy. She gave up restraint. She gave up pretense. She wrote and poured her hurt and tiredness onto a white canvas that didn’t care about appearance; that accepted her for her.

And once she was done, silent tears drying on her makeup-free face, she felt somehow cleaner, clearer. She didn’t care anymore about the game or the strangers or the crushing expectations of perfection. She decided to let it all go and to simply be herself for that day, and for the first day in many days, it was a glorious day.