Slain by Elf

There's plenty of gossip to be had at the mayor's party. We learn of a supposed deformed son of the mayor that he keeps locked in the attic, apparently the reason all guests were ejected early at a previous party when someone stumbled up there by accident. It's got to be a ruse, a cover for the existence of the vault known as the Asmodean Knot in which the Chelish Crux is stored, the recovery of which being our primary aim for being here tonight.

But never mind that, as another bit of gossip gets passed on to our bard. Apparently, the source of all the hot water, lights, and magical illusions rife throughout the mayor's home are all powered by an imprisoned pit fiend under the mansion. That sounds very cool, but as Brennan asks, 'isn't that dangerous?'

'Ha, I knew you would ask!', the guest chuckles, 'No, the odds of the pit fiend getting free...'

'...are dramatically increased now that we are here', I mumble to the others, completing the overheard conversation.

'Is it half-way between a gate to hell?', Skelra wonders, 'because I think we could probably get that open.'

The night's young, this party could still get quite lively.

Theatrics over, we are preparing to be the guests of honour at the mayor's party celebrating the survival of the cast of our deadly play. Getting in to the mood, Ganelon asks 'can we bring a date?'

'Do you have a date?', I reply.

'No. But the ranger's bringing his cat.'

'Yes, but is it his date?'

'Oh, I dunno', says Brennan, 'you could put a nice dress on it'.

'The elf? I suppose a dress would suit him.'

Yes, our ranger now has an animal companion, some poor unfortunate stray that he has adopted and will care for until perhaps our first encounter, or he needs to spring a trap, and the blockhead is intending to bring his jaguar to the mayor's party. We're not quite sure how he's going to explain turning up with a big cat by his side, but Skelra has an idea. 'Act blind, pretend you need it to guide you.'

I think that's a pretty good idea, 'and it would explain the way you're dressed. And your haircut!'

'And your archery!' But the elf's certain his cat will be allowed in to the party, because of his natural bond to the animal.

Needless to say, Afutavere's taken aback when the majordomo is somewhat startled by the cat's presence and initially bars our entrance. After a little diplomacy we are told that there are some stables on the grounds that perhaps should be used. 'Are you suggesting we lock the elf in the stables?' I ask.

'I am suggesting that you cannot bring that... that... beast in to the party.'

'Like I said...' But the misunderstanding is cleared up, the jaguar is stabled, and our group is allowed entrance to the party.

We're missing players, so Pathfinder is cancelled this evening. Still, at least it means we don't need to use the entirely fabricated character sheet that was given to me in order to run Afutavere in the player's absence, because he left the real one at home. 'It's probably got some bits correct', he tells me, with a sufficient amount of paraphrasing on my part. It's obviously wrong, though, as he couldn't even be bothered to get the name right, apparently having stolen details from another character called Ezio. Besides, he's sneakily 'corrected' his character sheet in front of us at the table before, the evil genius.

'Who am I to argue with the Pathfinder rules', he replies, 'if they want to give Rangers unlimited Truestrike and Haste as quickened spell-like abilities?' We can't really argue with that if it's in the rules. But hold on, 'I don't have the book in front of me, but I'm pretty sure that was one of the APG archetypes.'

Devils vanquished, we are on the final trial that could kill us. We are to face a legion of undead, the curtain behind the stage raised to reveal two skeletal trolls.

'That's not how I pictured a legion', I say, and Ganelon agrees. Two more skeletal trolls appear, all of them large and mighty threatening, filling the entirety of the stage behind us now. 'I wasn't complaining', I say, 'it was just a curious description!'

Ganelon feels this fight is more suitable for his prowess now, happy to claim 'that's more like it'. It takes some sympathy from the GM for the unscheduled extras to disappear in a poof of illusionist smoke to leave just the two once more, even if Ganelon refuses to believe we'd have trouble fighting large skeletons with reach that are focussed on our deaths.

It doesn't take long for Ganelon to change his mind once the fight starts. The two skeletal trolls ignore four of us and aim directly for Brennan, reaching over the top of our puny medium-sized bodies to smite our bard. A second such strike knocks Brennan to the floor, bloody and unconscious, and it is only with some focussed fighting that we take down one of the skeletons. A bit of coordination prevents the second skeleton from being able to walk around us to reach the revived but still battered bard. We still need to kill it.

Afutavere wants to help but doesn't know how. He was booed when he pulled out his bow to try to help, losing the audience for breaking the illusion of theatre that he is a wizard. Or maybe for his wayward shot causing an arrow to fly wildly in to the stalls. Either way, sensing the remaining skeleton is near death he decides to 'let the competent fighters take care of it from here'.

In the disarray that follows, as we all look around wondering if we've been joined on stage by some other characters playing competent fighters, I miss with my attacks, Brennan misses with his, and Ganelon reverts to being the bumbling comic-relief. Seeing this, Afutavere pulls out a wand of cure light wands and pretends to cast a spell against the troll, feeling guilty that Brennan continues to take punishment whilst he stands around doing nothing.

I miss again, Skelra begins to fire his crossbow but is nudged by the paladin, fouling his aim. 'You're not killing it!' Ganelon says.

'What? You don't want Skelra to kill it? You mean you want all the credit?'

'Yep!' What a paladin. Luckily hit it he does, and it is the killing blow, saving Afutavere's blushes and the paladin a drubbing.

The next trial in the play involves birthing devils from eggs, which sounds about as pleasant as it actually is. Each of us eats an egg from which a devil spews forth, prompting a fortitude save from everyone.

'Is a 9 a fail?' asks Brennan optimistically, but knowing the answer.

'Yes.'

'Is a 6?', I also ask, hoping that some peculiar maths is in play here. Of course, there isn't.

'...yes.'

'How about a 6?' Afutavere asks, trying to be cute and failing.

The GM sighs. 'You explode.'

Meanwhile, the paladin's 'eminently failable' saving throws result in Ganelon getting a roll of 28, tempting the GM to artificially increase the difficulty to kill him anyway, if only Skelra hadn't passed the save too.

The devil spawn take shape and start attacking us, not so unprofessional as to miss their cue. Some of us are nauseated and can't fight back whilst we cast involuntary colour sprays on to the stage, but we soon regain control of our systems and get back in to character.

Afutavere, elven ranger, attempts to better mimic the wizard he's playing by 'casting' fireball. He draws a flask of alchemist's fire and tosses it towards the devil attacking him, the effect enhanced with the assistance of a backstage illusionist. A burst of flame encapsulates the devil who, being a devil, completely ignores the fire. Our paladin, however, standing next to the devil and caught in the splash takes some damage from singed feet and shins.

Undeterred, Ganelon continues to fight his own devil spawn. 'I shall do another bumbling, comic-relief attack!' he announces, finally admitting what the rest of us have known for a while.

Brennan's not too thrilled, though. 'Why don't you try a competent attack?'

'Okay, I'll try a competent attack.' And with that the paladin's weapon smashes down on the devil, striking a solid hit. So powerful is the attack that he cleaves through to strike a second devil, his weapon finding a vulnerable spot to score a critical hit, slicing right through the devil and slaying it.

'See? You should have done that in the first place.'

The curtain is raised! Our first and hopefully only performance of the play is underway. Despite being present for rehearsals and understanding that an illusionist is at hand for various effects, Ganelon is still taken aback by some of the costumery. 'Is that a real bearded devil?' he whispers.

'Are you a real paladin?' is the reply he gets.

Meanwhile, Afutavere's performance starts where rehearsals ended, rolling a natural 1 on his perform check. 'At least it can only get better from here.'

'I dunno', I mutter back, 'you could plateau'.

But just as the acting is a little woeful, so are the trials the characters face, now that we are facing them for real for the first time. One, the trial by ecstasy, involves inserting a worm under the skin and resisting its pleasure to cut it out and return to a normal state.

Of course, this being the stage we have to make do with painted horses, so to speak. The worms are not those that cause blissful pleasure but rot grubs. I don't see what the fuss is about, having grappled with a rot grub only recently, but my character is on the sidelines and cheering the others on for now.

The rest of the party has to individually insert a rot grub, wait at least one round, and then try to dig it out with a knife, faking pleasure the whole time. There is a shaky moment at the start as Skelra makes a few failed attempts at finding the grub, forcing a new fortitude saving throw to resist the grub's effects on every round, each failure carrying the risk of suffering constitution damage. Failures then make subsequent fortitude saving throws harder to succeed on, because of the falling constitution score, but Skelra manages to stab the rot grub from his arm before it drains him too much. If only Brennan were as fortunate.

The rot grub burrows deeply in to Brennan's arm, causing the same damage as Skelra, but our bard's already low fortitude saving throw causes him to suffer more drained ability score, and a lack of training in healing is impeding him in trying to carve out the grub. Failed attempt follows failed attempt, each one preceded by a failed fortitude saving throw. By the fifth attempt Brennan is looking weak indeed, on his last legs even, and only with the aid of several others in the task does the rot grub get pulled from his flesh. And that's when the damage hits him and he falls to the stage, apparently dead.

It is only when checking his vital signs, and finding to our relief that the negative constitution score where death occurs is not influenced by temporary ability scores, that we realise he isn't quite dead yet. A healing spell brings him back to consciousness and I use the short act break to rush out to the nearest shop selling wands of lesser restoration so that we can get him back to better health. We have more trials to endure, and another like this will kill us if we aren't better prepared.

First-night jitters are encroaching on us, brave adventurers that we are. We already performed a full dress rehearsal the previous day to a hostile crowd, the director telling us to 'just get out there, ignore the rabble, and do your jobs. If they throw anything, take it and move on. Anything short of them starting a fire is no reason to stop the play'.

Brennan had a contingency plan for us. 'Don't worry lads', he says, 'I have a flint and steel'. But luckily arson wasn't required, as we more-or-less pleased the audience and the death-defying stunts were only play-acted. It seems a curious choice of words, 'play-acted', but the death-defying stunts will be performed for real in the one show we are giving, hence our nerves.

'Stick to your parts', the director tells us in his pre-curtain pep talk, 'you're a wizard', he reminds our elf.

'Arrows can be magical', Afutavere says, as way of influencing the idea that his character may be more inclined towards his ranger tendencies, offering that perhaps it could serve as a magic missile of sorts. But, of course, we've seen these supposed skills and know better.

'It will be the first magic missile that misses', Brennan retorts.

But Afutavere isn't deterred. 'How many proles know the spell automatically hits? They'll soon understand it to be a common myth after my performance.'

Rehearsals continue. We are adventurers playing actors playing adventurers, for reasons that are even more convoluted and best not to try to think too hard about. We need to know our lines and perform them well, under the watchful eye of the director. Brennan, our bard in the protagonist's role and a bit of a thespian anyway, will do it on the night, mostly coasting through the rehearsals.

Ganelon is really finding his milieu, though, getting a natural 20 on his performance checks on successive days. This impresses everyone, not just the director, until Skelra reminds us that 'he is playing the role of the bumbling, comic-relief paladin', and we are left wondering how much is actually an act.

Our elf Afutavere is struggling, despite my best attempts to get him in to character. An interested crowd form at the stage door one afternoon as we leave, all hoping to get a look at the stars of the play, and I show them how well Afutavere can take a rock to the head. 'Come to the play', I say, 'it happens lots more!'

'I'm supposed to dodge them', Afutavere replies in a poor stage whisper, cupping the small gash newly opened in his scalp. But he is still missing his mark and fluffing his lines, to the point where when he is asked to make a performance check the next day he despondently says 'I don't want to roll any more'. Chum, you're playing the wrong game.

Needless to say, our hapless ranger fails to impress the director once again. And it seems that the director has had enough, launching in to another tirade about 'never work with animals and elves' but that 'it is too late in the day to re-cast the role, or to get another illusionist to peform you, so we'll have to tolerate your performance. The best I can do at short notice is give you this', at which point he brings out a circlet of persuasion, which he insists Afutavere wear so that he has a better chance of pleasing the audience.

'A circlet of persuasion?' Our bard is a little put out, it seems. 'I wish I'd screwed up my lines as much as the elf now.'

Casting is complete. We all have our roles for the play. 'There remains one last item before rehearsals can begin', our new director says.

'Don't worry, I am quite comfortable with full-frontal nu—'

'...payment.'

'Put your clothes back on, Ur'thwrm Jim.'

Auditions for the play are decided, roles are not. We may be adventurers and eminently suitable, as well as dressed and equipped, to take on the combat roles, but we are still required to read our lines well. We are all taken to the stage, where we meet an old friend of mine, Thressing Umbero Ulvano already been given the completely non-combat lead, and are tested for our suitability for each speaking role.

A few parts are handed out, based on how well we can attack flying monkeys, or take a rock to the head, although I think we were supposed to dodge the rock. Naturally, our mage gets the role of a ranger-type, our ranger gets the role of the mage, based on their respective skills in archery. The director still needs to cast a bumbling, comic-relief paladin part.

'Sir, might I suggest our own bumbling, comic-relief paladin for that part?' It is difficult to tell who said this first, as it seems all but the paladin spoke at the same time.

'I'm not bumbling!' Clearly it is the paladin replying.

'But he most certainly is comic-relief.'

'No I'm not a pala— No, wait, that didn't come out right!'

'It's too late, the truth is out!' And it doesn't really matter that our paladin is confirmed as not-a-paladin, as other party members are already playing against type. I'm even cast in the leading lady role!