Category: Story Time

I was very much hoping to post this story in July for our faithful and fearless transcriber Ria, because Ria’s birthday is in July, but alas, it was not to be. Finding time to write has been tough recently, which is why I value your continued love and support for the show, even though it’s been ages since we’ve made any show.

Season six is still on its way, but in the meantime, why don’t we spend some time not with our characters, but with their players?

*

Em squinted at faer phone. “Teresa says she’ll be here in like, ten minutes.”

“That might as well be forever,” Alex groaned. He was already upside-down in his chair, which did not bode well for his focus for the rest of the game today, River thought.

“Gives me time to finish levelling up,” Cal muttered, scribbling on their character sheet.

“Why didn’t you do that before we started?” Michael asked.

“I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count,” Alex said.

River winced sympathetically. “Thesis?”

“Thesis,” Cal agreed, and rolled a d10. “River, can you verbally verify what number is on this die?”

River leaned over to look. “That’s a nine.”

“Eleven hit points for Yak,” Cal said gleefully, making a note.

I was thinking about Drow lore in the classic D&D settings, and Rosie and Stella in particular, who are canonically and textually trans, and this was maybe the funniest thing I could think of. Happy Pride!

*

Griselda Muneshyl was not a sexist. She was rather proud of this, actually. Although the drow of antiquity believed that boys were functionally useless as anything other than breeding stock or sacrifices to the great god Lolth, Griselda was a contemporary drow. A modern drow. Why, it flew in the very face of reciprocity to have an entire gender that was no good. Senseless.

…But even so.

We’re exploring the corest of our core characters today: our dearly beloved Goblin’s Head. When I was a kid, I had a book called What It Feels Like to Be a Building (Forrest Wilson), and I’m not going to pretend that wasn’t a contributing influence. Enjoy!

*

The building that was the Goblin’s Head did not feel, in the traditional sense.

Having observed mortal humanoids for several hundred years, the inn knew that they felt all sorts of sensations. Pain, tastes, touch, heat and cold—all of these were foreign to the inn. Its body was constructed by loving hands, long ago, of stone and wood and iron, with mortar and nails and tar holding these pieces together. It hadn’t been aware of what it was then, but it remembered, down to its foundation. But this foundation did not ache with age, nor did the rattling of its shingles make it shiver, nor did the feet of hundreds of people wearing down their floorboards tickle.

Sensation was foreign to the inn, but emotion was a different animal.

I think I said at some point that I was never going to write about the thing that happens at the end of this story. And I still haven’t. Because I got sidetracked by messy emotional issues. As I am wont to do.

In any case, enjoy this story about Sterling, Knowles, and very polite disagreements.

*

Sterling looked at the neat pile of armor on his desk, fastidiously tied up in twine, shined to perfection. It reminded him of a serving tray of dishes, although lifting such a tray would require balance or skill, while this breastplate full of armor pieces looked very secure, if heavy. No loose ends.

“You’re leaving us?” Sterling repeated to Sergeant—well, former Sergeant Knowles.

“Yes, sir,” Knowles said, their posture absolutely perfect as always. They were wearing new armor, cheaper but newer, a chain shirt and some pieces of plate in amongst street clothes. They looked directly behind Sterling’s head, as always. Sterling wasn’t sure they ever looked him in the eye.

“We only just got you back,” Sterling said, half to himself. It would be nigh impossible to replace Knowles—why, that was precisely why Sterling had selected them for the mission to Belling. Based on Knowles’ report, Sterling had been exactly right to do so. But now…

“Apologies, sir,” Knowles said stiffly.

Let’s check in on the adventuring members of the Gang, shall we?

*

“Do you ever think we’re in the ‘happily ever after’ stage of our lives?” Fina said, keeping her voice low.

Velune hissed back, “Is now really the time?”

The three of them were in the rafters of a large dining hall that currently contained two officials, having the most boring conversation Fina had ever heard in her life. Something about exports. Fina couldn’t make herself concentrate on it. They weren’t here for this anyway, they were here to do some snooping on an illegal slave trade that the lord of this hall might be involved in. It was just bad luck that a couple of accountants got in the way.

“Relax, we’ve got Pass Without Trace on,” Fina murmured. “Just don’t roll a 1.”

Let’s! Get! Sad!

Trigger warning for this story time: It contains examples of emotional, financial, and verbal abuse and neglect. Please take care of yourselves.

* * *

Pheobe was a baby.

She didn’t know anything much consistently. She knew the care of loving hands, but never the same hands, passed from person to person. She never wanted for anything except consistency.

This story time takes place during 5.12, as in, in the middle of 5.12. Like, right in the middle. I like this story time for a few reasons, most of which you won’t find out until season six. So please, take this story and speculate.

Let’s go!

*

Larkin was used to tension. His magic was held in difficult balance, arguably the hardest and most important balance he held. It should get easier, holding tension like that, the longer you did it. Muscles got stronger when you exercised them.

It should get easier, but it didn’t, not when the tension was constant.

“I have…I have time now,” Rukes said, standing up, looking pointedly at Larkin.

“O-oh!” He stood up as well, aware of a sudden release in tension. Relief. Why relief, why in this circumstance? “Uh, sure.”

“I ought to practice buffs, anyhow,” Rukes said, with a casualness that belied how much they’d been working on it when they and Larkin were alone. Still though—

“I…I’d rather you not practice on me, um…” Larkin protested weakly.

Rukes stared him down, inscrutable. “Well someone has to be my victim.”

Regrettably, this was true. Buffs had to have a living target in order for Larkin to evaluate if they worked, and Rukes always insisted on an evaluation. He didn’t know how they stood up to the critique.

First story about one of the Lowlifes from their perspective! This story is for people who have already listened to 5.6, so if you haven’t done that, go on over and do that. See if you can connect the dots. Enjoy!

*

Idzy Rukes’ mind was made up. And it was honestly…really exciting.

They could feel the tremor of energy at the table like the beginnings of an earthquake, as their family chattered about travel plans and preparations.

“Oh, you can’t forget your nice set of quills,” Mom told them.

Idzy suppressed a smile. “They have quills and ink at the temple, Mom.”

“But these are your nice ones,” Mom urged, and Mother laughed.