Murder Hobos

“I move we kill Evan- I mean Backstabbath.”

“Nooooo c’mon, please don’t.”

“Do you say this in-game?”, I sigh resignedly.

These damned murder hobos are impossible to work with.

“Yes.” “NO!” rings out in dissonance as Evan frantically tries to answer for Will, who is terrifyingly resolute.

“You know that a character death will set your party back, right? I want you to be certain this is the course of action you really, really want to follow.” Perhaps my emphasis on the stupidity of this idea would save me from weeks of replanning and time-consuming character weave-ins, but the frost in Will’s eyes seems to turn to ice, devoid of any sympathy, his lips curling into a smile.

“Oh, I am very certain.”

Ok, so we’re really doing this. 

I oscillate between making him roll a persuasion check versus all the party members or simply letting them play it out. One way is more entertaining for everyone involved, but it also places my blind faith into novice players. Alas, I don’t have all day to evaluate my options, as I have action hungry eyes glued to me like a Maxim magazine. Perhaps they deserve a little faith.

“Fine. You propose to the rest of the party, who has been relaxing in the tavern up until this point, only mildly perturbed by your injudicious violence, that they all kill Backstabbath.”

In her in-game accent, blesséd Isadora attempts to mollify the dispute, “I think we should take a deep breath and talk this out.”

A typical druid response. She’s the only real experienced player and she gives me a knowing look, thankfully endeavoring for my future sanity. My hope grows, was I wrong to doubt them? Maybe they’re going to actually be mature and-

“Wait, what’s going on?”

Oh lord. There goes the hope.

The barbarian that was previously staring at a wall as blank as his mind finally tunes in.

“Ok, recap. Avant Bard was flirting with the barkeep, seducing him, and Backstabbath, in a drunken stupor, attacked him for no reason. Now, Avant Bard is being a douche, taking advantage of his alignment-”

“Hey!”

“-and wants the party’s help in killing Backstabbath.” I finish, post being interrupted by an indignant Will, his cool facade dropping at my casual jab.

“Alright, I’m down. Let’s kill him.” 

Fucking Cole.

“Guys, I really don’t think this is a good idea-” Isadora chimes in again.

“I’m out, I could give a shit. Just let me know when your pussy asses need heals, I’ll be getting drunk.” Robin, our cleric informs us.

Sounds about right.

“Cool, so can we roll for initiative?”

“I’M WITH ISADORA HERE IS THIS REALLY NECESSARY?!”

“Shut up, Evan. So can we?” Will asks giddily.

Of bloody course, I had spoken too soon. Never trust a group of teenage nerds to make a reasonable choice when consequence only falls on their fictional alters.

“And so it begins...” I declare and demit, rubbing my temples.

“HELL ya!”

The boys high-five. Evan looks like his world is ending, his edgy backstory burning before him.

Sounds about right.

Robin suddenly jumps with an epiphany.

“I GO HEAL THE BARTENDER!”

“Oh, that’s kind! I’ll send Xilra-” Isadora begins,

“MAYBE THEN HE’LL GIVE ME A FREE DRINK!”

“Hey, you better not sleep with him, he was mine first!” Will frowns. 

“OK EVERYONE” I finally call out. Christ this was like corralling the world butterflies. Except, their nectar seemed to be sins and vices.

However, fewer players means less time spent on turns, grinding what tiny gears they have in their heads, unaccustomed to their own spell lists and capacities.

Luckily for Evan, he had rolled the highest. So I inquire as to what he does.

Naturally, he runs for it.

He gets a substantial head start and aims for the roof of the tavern hoping to hide out. This is far less tedious than if he spent his every turn running, but also hastened his demise.

“I cast Dancing Lights and look around for Ev- I mean Backstabbath.”

“Oh wow, someone actually read their spell list, where was that in the spooky ass dungeon?”

“Shut up Robin, you don’t even go here.” Will retorts.

“Wow a vine, aren’t you-”

“ROLL PERCEPTION!”

Fucking butterflies. I swear.

He passes and identifies Evan’s location on the roof. Cole’s beefy barbarian fails his acrobatics check, and Will is forced to continue his confrontation on his own.

The battle isn’t extensive or particularly cool. Avant Bard essentially beats the shit out of Backstabbath with his harpsichord.

But, as a master of dungeons, a spinner of worlds, and a holder of fate, it is my sole duty to perform. To tell a beautifully gory prose, a play by play of the dramatic and sorrowful death of a fellow friend.

Well, more like whiny bitch.

“Avant Bard finally closes the gap between himself and Backstabbath, dodging his pitiful blows, his feeble, scrawny, sad-

“Is that really important?”

“So help me God I will kill you in real life Evan-” I say, staring my own set of daggers. His maturity (or lack thereof) is really starting to get on my nerves.

I am never playing another campaign with these idgits.

“-arms thrown up in defeat. The harp slams down, cracking Backstabbath’s skull, exposing his lines of brain to the cold night. Blood is everywhere, even staining the strings of your instrument. Underneath your fingernails, it starts to dry and crust up. Every encounter together slides in panoramic view in your mind, and every failed death save is clear before you. The pussy rogue is no more.”

“Welp. It was nice knowing you Evan,” Will grins ear to ear.

Evan looks like he might cry.

“Maybe we should end it here,” I say, partially in kindness so that Evan can get to a car to begin his breakdown, and partially because I am so beyond done. Mostly the latter.

The next encounter they would go through, I decided that I would give plenty of opportunities for me to describe death.