Tonight some friends from church held a “decompression night” and invited a bunch of us over to blow off steam. We had stress balls to squeeze, bubbles to blow, putty, over-sized Jenga, punching bags, wrapping paper swords, cornhole, video games, and a Nerf shooting range (with paint for the darts to mark your shots).
They’d set up a villains gallery for target shooting, with four rogues to take fire. There was the demogorgon from Stranger Things, Harry Potter’s Delores Umbridge, and–
…Oh, wow. Continue reading
“A little help?” called Angie. “I’m down sixty-four hit points! This thing is killing me!”
Cassandra didn’t even look up from the figures on the table. “I know! That’s why I’m about to hit it in the head with a mace!”
“Cassandra, you’re the cleric! I want some healing.”
Cassandra glanced at her character sheet. Morningstar or broadsword? She should have buffed the sword. “Quit your whining, I’m busy.”
Angie’s voice was insistent. “Healing?”
“Fine, fine.” Cassandra raised a hand overhead and pointed at Angie. “Cure moderate. Take—” she rolled two dice— “twenty-two points back.”
The GM frowned. “Hold on, her character’s twenty feet away from you. You can’t cure from there.”
“Faith’s reach! I took that feat. I can touch from range distances.”
“Thanks,” said Angie. “Now I can run away screaming.”
“And leave the cleric alone in the front line?”
“There shouldn’t be a cleric in the front line!”
“Shut up, you.”
“Right, then.” The GM sighed. “You’re that kind of cleric. This is going to be a rough game.”
Writing RPG sessions feels like cheating, because I basically just polish our own game transcripts.
I am that terrible non-healing healer. You may commence empathy for my party.