Wow! Hettie's really making me look like a super-good Dungeon Master!

Hey, everybody, you know how I said last time we were going to play D&D with me as Dungeon Master? Well, it went awesome! Everybody had tons of fun, and we're going to have another session as soon as we can.

I'm crap at taking notes, though, so I didn't figure I'd be able to give a good run-down of our gaming here ... except Hettie surprised me by doing her own writeup of the first bit of our first session!

She seems to think she didn't do that great a job, though, so if anybody's out there reading this, please drop a comment to encourage her to do more!

(Oh, spoiler alert -- the adventure we're playing is called "The Incandescent Grottoes" for the game Old School Essentials. Read at your own risk if you don't want any of it spoiled ... although it ended up taking the group a really long time before they got to the grottoes, so Hettie's writeup doesn't really give anything away yet.)

Take it away, Hettie!

We have here a prologue of perhaps the worst sort: narratively bereft and wallowing in explication of the characters whose proper story follows in chapter one. It’s inexcusable, really, and I implore you to skip it if you’ve anything but the deepest well of readerly patience. -- HHW

Prologue:

About a crackly campfire they had disposed themselves, bellies full of that strain of victuals in which only a caravan cook might take pride. Some moth of meager vision or sense blundered its way into the flames and expired in a scant mortal flare, at which point one traveler – a woman unexceptional in countenance yet with the bearing of a proud and mighty bulwark set to forfend some noble principality – took it upon herself to make introductions.

“Helga,” she announced, “also called ‘the Pure,’ servant of Bronzellia, in whose mould of truth alloyed with valor I can only hope I am cast. It’s a boon to find myself among folk of such variety and interest – would any of you care to exchange names as well?”

They all looked at her, took in the grey-threaded braids hanging half the length of her back, in hue aging and earthy; saw dangling about her neck the emblem of her faith, a smith’s tongs cast from admixed copper and tin. For possessions, she had armor, shield, and a fresh, undented mace. As quiet fell and lay upon the circle, the doomed moth’s fellows gave pause in their flits and flights of mourning about the fire – or perhaps simply rode for a moment’s ease, borne up on the thermal rise. Other moths around other fires continued as ever, and with them the murmured conversation of those other fires’ coteries.

A few pops and sparks from the fire elapsed, at which point a charming robed fellow, six to Helga’s nine on the clock-face of their little circle and bearing swept-back hair the color of autumn leaves bleached by sun, stepped in to salvage the priestess’s efforts from awkward death by silence.

“Far and wide,” he said, gaze dancing lively diner-to-diner around the circle, “with at least a mild notoriety, I am known as Slevius the Magician. Should anyone have doubt or even mere curiosity, I’ll happily demonstrate my prestidigitatious wonders once we’ve had introductions all around and perhaps a bit of chit-chat.”

Though he accompanied this with a convivial smile and had features both kindly and pleasant, the elf beside him gave a dubious glance down her gracile nose. He returned the look with a continued beaming, though, and she held the fey barbs of her woods-whetted tongue while several others joined the go-round in quick order.

“Shyly the Sneezer,” said an amiable fellow blessed with coffee-dark skin and waves of hair rich as the night sky. He cut a sharp figure in fighting leathers, a slim sword and sling at his belt. Of this man, the narrow gaze of the elf lass withheld any visible judgment. “No idea where I picked up that nickname – you can dust me in pollen or blow ground pepper at my face and I promise this nose will hold fast.”

Next in turn: a woman pallid in complexion, eyes sculpted by some lineage beyond the sunrise horizon, words contoured by an accent lustrous and lilting.

“Excuse, kind ones, my labor with the fine tongue of such domains. Please call me Generous Jiji.” Beside her rested a pack, and propped against it the gleaming contours of a plate-mail suit. The remainder of her kit consisted in a quiver, a bow, and a long-hafted glaive. Recollection struck her, and she added, “There are wineskins in my rucksack! Should anyone want some.”

Two places away, and with the spryness of any dwarf offered wine, a man popped to his feet.

“Where wine’s at hand,” he said, “every visitor’s an envoy and a diplomat heartily received. Truffus Trundler’s the name, eager to toast your generosity, noble Jiji.”

The introductions suspended themselves as all in attendance watched Truffus accept the woman’s offer, tilt back his head, and let pour a cataract of wine through wide, waiting lips. Under his beard of grey-shot red, the dwarf’s throat worked at a steady rhythm, turning Jiji’s wineskin from fatted to flaccid to starveling-flat. Then he handed it back to her as she blinked, gave a brief word of thanks, and returned to his own stock of gear – arms and armor and a large but largely empty sack.

Again the moths danced and faraway gabbles from other campfires reached their ears.

“Yeljea the Axe-grinder,” said a hefty, taciturn woman. She broke the silence no further, though, which left only the sharp-visaged elf – not yet out of her plate armor, shining in the firelight, its filigrees silver and sylvan at once.

“I,” spoke this one, “am Tanquara the Just.” In a tone directed at Truffus and gelid as some glacial polar gorge, she added, “I wouldn’t call it fair of you to drain kind Jiji’s wine away to nothing like that.”

The dwarf shrugged and scratched his close-shaved scalp. “Not like I pushed anyone out of the way to grab it. You all could have spoken up when she offered, or asked a swig of me before I’d done.”

A haughty turn of the elf’s chin set swinging the gold cascade of her hair and also showed her profile to elegant advantage (not the most dwarfly in proportion, yet still worth appreciating to Truffus’ eye).

From there, turns of talk smattered their way into existence: Slevius the Magician inquiring gregariously of each gathered soul, Helga expounding the virtures of deific Bronzellia, Jiji offering descriptions of far lands mundane to her but exotic to the rest. Shyly touted the value of a sling above the shortbows carried by several amongst them; all archers in attendance caught this lecture in the whorls of dubious ears. When the slinger had done, Truffus lobbed a blunt stone of dwarven jest at the entire thesis, forcing Tanquara to suppress the corners of her elfin mouth, which strove upward with vernal rebellion against her masque of winter’s forest’s frost.

The tenor of this campfire assemblage evolved gradually toward the comradely, faltering only a moment when Slevius attempted his promised exhibition of high mysticism:

“Gabazz Gallaboo!” he conjured with a series of gesticulations at Truffus Trundler. “Bevrak Tresquedieu!”

“What’s this, then?” asked the dwarf.

Slevius looked from Trundler to his hands in consternation. “Hmm. Sorry, I must be more tired from the long day of travel than I thought.”

“Or you’ve failed to account for the resilience of dwarvenkind, manipulator!” The haught in Tanquara’s tone – evident but placid throughout the evening – shifted closer to wroth. “Do you always attempt to ensorcel newfound acquaintances and bend them to your will as thralls?”

Yeljea, laconic throughout all before, stood quickly, hand to battleaxe. “Entrancements is it? Try that on me and I’ll split your head open!”

Knowing the fame of elven arcana, Slevius made no denial, but laughed good-naturely with a wide-spread, placating gesture. “A charm to prompt good Truffus into an apology about guzzling Lady Jiji’s wine. I thought it worth a shot – we all know a dwarf cares for tact and expiation as much as he does the open sky.”

Truffus gave a snort. “Tact! That’s for dainties and side-steppers like elves!”

At least half the company found this worth a chuckle, so the matter lapsed, except for a hint of that pink that passes for elven choler, visiting a tinge upon Tanquara’s fair cheeks.

Of further note, only one fateful exchange remained for the evening: a passing caravan hand perceived them to be of a kind and asked if such heroic and well armed companions intended challenging the nearby Crystal Caves. “Perhaps in search of Nogfolio’s fabled brass hand, to arm yourselves with its bolts of electric chaos against villains and vermin alike?”

Before any could correct the woman and declare them bound by no affiliation but the Society of Strangers by Campfires, Shyly spoke up.

“Are those close?” he asked. “If they’re the Crystal Caves I’ve heard told of, didn’t they once play host to human sacrifices? And aren’t devils still said to dwell there?”

“I can’t speak to the devilry,” the caravaner replied, “but tomorrow we’ll cross a bridge over the Winkling Stream, and if you follow it two days east, you’ll find the caves and can see for yourselves.”

“Devils!” The word left Helga’s tongue like something vile and low and begging to be spat out. “If such can truly be found this close at hand to civilization, we should visit and purge them!”

“Devils, I’m in for,” said Truffus. “But I thought Nogfolio breathed his last in the haunts of mischievous faeries, not the pits of demonkind. Faeries put a hair up my crack, if I’m honest.”

A shared and mutually narrowed glance passed between the dwarf and the company’s lone fey.

“Well,” said the caravaner, “I don’t know about all of that. But the Brass Hand of Stormbrands ... that’s sure a fine piece of treasure if you could find it.”

Tanquara spoke up. “If there are devils to be vanquished, my blade stands ready.” After a moment of biting back concession, she added, “Against the wrong sorts of faeries too I suppose. Since being mischievous isn’t the most just thing to do.”

Across the fire, Jiji put two fingers to her chin and nodded. “It’s generous to protect everyone from devils. Yes.”

“No thank you to devils,” Yeljea put in. “I”ll stick to the caravan myself.”

“And you, charmster Slevius?” asked Truffus Trundler.

The magician tipped his head to one side and let his gaze go starward. “Mmm ... I think I’ll see how I feel about it in the morning.”