Intermission: "You All Meet in a Tavern..."

The Banquet Hall had been repurposed, at Sam’s request, from a temple of breakfast burritos and awkward eye contact into a battlefield of miniature goblins, dice, and a host of character sheets printed on actual dead tree. Andy would have loved the attention to detail: the painted figurines arranged in a semicircle around a terrain mat, the tiny resin mugs on the tavern diorama, and the way Sam’s GM screen had been meticulously decorated with blueprints of an imaginary city. She had insisted on drawing up the entire thing herself, right down to the stylized sigils for every local god, and she’d strong-armed Emi into helping color the maps. Emi’s dreamlike, swirling touch was unmistakable in the way every forest looked like an opium reverie and every city was at war with perspective.

Dawn was the first to arrive, peeking in from the corridor with ears perked high, then nearly skipping to her seat. She’d dressed for the occasion—a summer dress printed with cartoon rabbits, even though she’d tried and failed to find a “fantasy outfit” from the wardrobe. She eyed the resin dice with a reverence usually reserved for dessert menus.

Norah came next, already in a huff. She was only mollified by the sight of pastries and two kinds of espresso waiting at the table. She slid into her seat, arms crossed, and immediately started critiquing the map. “Isn’t this river upstream from the city? That makes no sense unless you’re planning a dam break, Sam. And the roads don’t even have mileage markers.”

Sam grinned. “That’s the point, Norah. The less you know, the more you’ll suspect sabotage.”

Claire entered at the same time as Chloe, the two of them already in mid-conversation. Claire’s cat ears flicked at the sight of the miniatures and dice, but she kept her composure; she’d come prepared, with three different pens, two colors of sticky notes, and a full-size legal pad she’d torn into smaller, perfectly square sheets. Chloe, on the other hand, looked like she might die of anxiety at any moment, especially after seeing that the other women had already chosen their seats and were deep in character creation mode.

Liesa and Emi drifted in together, Liesa with her ever-present sketchbook under one arm and Emi in a flowing pale dress that looked more Regency than Renaissance, but no one was grading authenticity. They took their spots, Liesa immediately helping herself to the coffee and Emi looking to Chloe for what to do next.

Erin was last. She’d jogged over from the gym, still a bit winded, hair damp and wild, and, per her transformation, wearing absolutely nothing. Nobody commented—not because it wasn’t noteworthy, but because the novelty had already worn off. If anything, Erin’s unflappable indifference had made nudity invisible, except for the occasional moment where Chloe’s gaze would drift down, then snap up again as she tried to focus on her dice.

Sam waited until everyone was seated and had sorted out drinks. She rapped her knuckles on the table, then did her best impression of a professional GM: “All right, ladies, welcome to Pathfinder: Brunch of Destiny. This is a zero-stakes, beginner-friendly one-shot. All-new characters, after last time's, uh, entertainment. Our mission today: Don’t die in the first two hours, and, if possible, see if we can finish a plot for once.”

She went around the table. “Let’s introduce our party.”

Dawn was practically vibrating with excitement. “I’m Carrotina Fluffytail, half-elf cleric, neutral good. My god is Sarenrae, and my goal is to help people—” she blushed, “and also bunnies. And to get better at fighting with a staff. I’ve read the whole player’s guide twice, and I made up my own spell names.” She looked at Sam, unsure if this was allowed.

Sam gave her a thumbs up. “Carrotina, love it. Next?”

Norah scoffed but took her turn. “Gretch the Collector. Dwarf warpriest. Lawful neutral. She’s cross-eyed and obsessed with collecting ‘trophies’ from her enemies. She also hates elves. Sorry, Liesa.” She eyed Liesa with mock hostility, but the effect was ruined by her own smirk.

Claire’s turn. She held up her notebook, on which she’d written in bold calligraphy:

Clara Catsworth, Investigator (Catfolk). Good heart, but no impulse control. Allergic to ****, but loves solving mysteries.

She added a drawing of her character—lithe, sharp-eyed, and with a tail five times fluffier than her own.

Chloe’s voice was so soft it almost disappeared. “Um… Melody Stagelight, halfling bard. She, um, sings for children’s parties and loves helping others, but is really afraid of **** and loud noises.” Chloe looked around, mortified. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Liesa, immediately on her left, jumped in. “Shadow Whisperwind, elf druid, but also thief. She is from a secret order of ‘moon druids’ who use their powers to help the poor. Also she likes to sneak into noble houses and give money to orphans.” She winked. “It’s for the children, not for the kicks. Except sometimes for the kicks.”

Sam arched a brow. “You know you’re a druid, not a rogue?”

Liesa shrugged, unconcerned. “Is thin line. If you grow plants in the noble’s kitchen, is not a crime.”

Emi’s voice floated in next. “Sparkles the Destroyer, fleshwarp monk. She’s a gentle soul, except when fighting, and she has extra arms because she was… altered in a laboratory by evil wizards.” She looked to Sam. “Is that too much?”

Sam, unflappable, made a note. “I’ll allow it. Four arms?”

Emi beamed. “Six.”

Dawn clapped. “That’s so cool!”

Last was Erin. She grinned at the group. “Rowan Shieldbark, human guardian. She has trust issues, and her motivation is ‘keep the party alive at all costs.’ Also she’s bad at lying. And really into axes. Basically, if you point me at a problem, I’ll solve it. With ****.”

Sam looked down the line. “Incredible. All right, you’re all at the Drunken Drake Tavern, the only bar within two hundred miles of civilization. The air smells like spilled ale, roasted onions, and that ‘wet dog’ smell you get when the rain’s been going for days. The sun is barely up, and already the place is packed: fishermen, farmers, two off-duty guards, a hooded stranger in the corner, and a bard warming up in front of the hearth. The barmaid is polishing the same mug she’s been cleaning for twenty years.” Sam set the scene with practiced ease, then looked to the group. “What do you do?”

Claire’s hand went up, old-school. Sam grinned. “Go ahead, Clara.”

She held up her notebook:

Scout for clues. Investigate hooded stranger, try to overhear their conversation.

“Roll perception,” Sam said.

Claire rolled, tail flicking anxiously, raised ten fingers, then closed her hands and opened four more: 14.

Sam checked her notes. “You catch three things: The stranger is very much alone, despite pretending to have company; his boots are new and haven’t seen much dirt; and he’s drinking milk, not ale.”

Dawn (Carrotina) immediately piped up. “I want to buy everyone breakfast and offer to listen to their problems. It’s the charitable thing to do.”

Norah snorted. “You’re going to bankrupt us before we get to the first dungeon.”

Dawn ignored her. “I approach the barmaid and ask who’s had the hardest life here, then buy them the special. And a warm blanket if they’re cold.”

Sam, barely holding back laughter, decided to roll with it. “The barmaid points to a sad-looking farmer with a limp. His name is Plenky. He lost his farm in the last orc raid and is now trying to drink himself to ****. You deliver him a hot breakfast and a blanket, and he starts to cry. Are you comforting him?”

Dawn nodded furiously. “And ask if he needs healing. For the limp, I mean. I cast… um, Cure Light Wounds?”

Sam rolled a dice behind her screen, then grinned. “It works. His limp is gone. He’s so grateful, he follows you for the rest of the morning, telling everyone you’re a saint.” Sam made a note. “You now have an admirer. Plenky the former limper. He gives you a goat as thanks.”

Norah snorted. “Great. We’re collecting livestock already.”

Dawn beamed. “I’ll call her Madam Bleatsworth the Third!”

Liesa tried to look bored, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. “While everyone is busy, I slip behind the bar and see what’s in the safe.” She rolled a die, consulted her sheet, then grinned. “I got eighteen.”

Sam, deadpan, announced, “You find the safe, and also a note that says, If you’re reading this, you’re probably Shadow Whisperwind. You’re a druid, not a rogue. Please take only what you need and don’t break the lock this time. Love, Management. There’s two gold pieces and a coupon for one free ale.”

Liesa giggled. “I take both and leave a leaf in the drawer, for luck.”

Emi leaned forward, “I want to watch the bard by the fire. Does she do magic?”

Sam rolled. “You notice she occasionally causes the fire to change color with a word, but no obvious spells. She seems nervous, like she’s watching for someone.”

Chloe, still timid, said, “Can I… try to sing with her? Maybe help?”

Sam’s face lit up. “Absolutely. Roll performance.”

Chloe rolled, then stared, wide-eyed. “I rolled a 20 on the die?”

The table broke into applause. Sam announced, “Natural 20! You join her onstage for a rousing duet about the beauty of the open road. The entire tavern falls silent, enchanted. The bard—her name is Trilly—sobs with gratitude and begs you to join her troupe. You have made a friend for life.”

Norah, arms crossed, leaned in. “I want to intimidate the biggest, meanest person in the bar, just to set the tone.”

Sam made a show of rolling, then frowned. “You get up in the face of an orcish fisherman named Vesh. He’s twice your height and missing three teeth. What do you say?”

Norah, not missing a beat, said, “I tell him his mother was a rock gnome and his beard is the shame of the mountain.”

Sam deadpanned, “Vesh weeps openly, then challenges you to an arm-wrestling contest to restore his honor.” The table erupted in laughter as Norah mimed cracking her knuckles.

Erin, groaning, said, “I want to gather everyone at the table and figure out why we’re here. Like, do we have a job? Can we please stick to the mission instead of adopting every NPC we meet?”

Sam gestured grandly to the group. “Rowan stands, pounds the table, and gives an inspiring speech about teamwork and the importance of time management. Everyone listens. Plenky salutes. Trilly composes a song about you on the spot.”

Chloe, emboldened, said, “Can I write down the lyrics?”

Sam, delighted, nodded. “Of course. Trilly says you’ll get royalties once the song hits the circuit.”

Claire, grinning, flashed a note to Sam:

I approach the hooded stranger, ask why he’s drinking milk.

Sam switched to a gravelly voice. “‘Milk builds strong bones,’ the stranger intones. ‘But you’re wise to ask. I have a job for clever adventurers such as yourselves.’” She described the stranger’s quest: a missing heirloom in the haunted forest, guarded by a beast that strikes only at night. “It’s dangerous, but pays well. And you’ll have my gratitude, which, in certain circles, is more valuable than gold.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”

Liesa whispered, “Can I check his pockets while he talks?” Erin paled.

Sam, without missing a beat, said, “You find a single, perfect tooth in his cloak pocket. It’s engraved with a strange symbol.” She slid a hand-drawn prop down the table. “Roll Arcana.”

Liesa did, then shrugged. “Four.”

Sam said, “You think it’s a coupon for a free dentistry consultation.”

Emi giggled, then said, “I want to ask Trilly if she knows anything about the haunted forest.”

Sam beamed. “Excellent. She sings a ballad about the place, mentioning haunted underwear, hinting that the beast is not what it seems, and that sometimes the real monsters are the friends you make along the way.”

The table laughed, and Chloe’s face turned bright red.

Norah, still locked in the arm-wrestling contest with Vesh, grunted, “Can I win?”

Sam had them roll contested strength. Norah won by a landslide, and Sam described Vesh crumpling in awe, then vowing to serve as Norah’s henchman for at least the next week. Norah cackled and demanded Vesh carry her to the next location.

Dawn, concerned, said, “Shouldn’t we help the sad people before we go?”

Erin facepalmed, but Dawn was adamant. “We could organize a fundraiser for Plenky and the other farmers. Maybe Trilly can sing, and Chloe can write the invitations?”

Liesa offered, “I can go door-to-door and collect donations.”

Sam looked at the clock, sighed, and said, “You spend the next hour raising enough money for Plenky to buy a new ox and for Vesh to get a replacement tooth.” She eyed Liesa. “You do this while also, coincidentally, finding five silver bracelets and a locket labeled ‘To My Darling: May You Never Change.’”

Liesa looked innocent. “Is for the children.”

They played through the rest of the tavern scenario, with everyone vying to either fix the town’s problems or, in Liesa’s case, redistribute its jewelry. The session was chaos, but joyful chaos—Sam had to invent three new NPCs, two new side quests, and at one point spent five minutes arguing with Norah over whether it was legal to threaten a local noble with exposure if he didn’t provide better wages for the fishermen.

By the time the party finally left the tavern, they had three active quests, two “adopted” townsfolk, one goat, and a collection of hats that kept growing each time Liesa passed a charisma check.

“Okay,” Sam said, holding her hands up as if warding off a riot. “Let’s break for snacks, then resume on the road to the haunted forest. If you want to spend your downtime prepping, tell me now. Otherwise, assume you’re all hungover and that half the town is rooting for your success.”

Dawn immediately started planning healing kits. Norah strong-armed Vesh into buffing her warhammer. Liesa volunteered to “forage” for more herbs and came back with a suspicious amount of jewelry. Chloe huddled with Emi to craft a theme song for the party, and Claire worked the village, collecting information about the haunted woods, carefully noting which rumors contradicted the quest giver’s story.

Erin leaned back, grinning, and surveyed the chaos. “I can see why Andy used to love this. It’s total anarchy, but with rules.”

Liesa toasted her with a shot of cold espresso. “Is best game. All of the fun, none of the consequences.”

Chloe, still a little pink, added, “Except for the hangover. I think I’m roleplaying that too well.”

Sam grinned, and for the first time since the start of the session, she looked genuinely relaxed. “Wait until you meet the haunted forest. If you think this was wild, you have no idea what I’ve got planned. And next time, we’ll rope Andy and Marissa in, too.”

They all groaned, but in the way people do when they’re having the time of their lives.

As the women scattered to refill drinks and share snacks, the table still buzzed with leftover energy. Liesa stole another bracelet; Dawn consoled Plenky, now the happiest ex-farmer in town; and Claire quietly reorganized the party’s gear list, making sure they had enough rope, lanterns, and (for some reason) five pounds of salt.

Chloe leaned toward Emi, voice low and confidential. “Do you think Sam is going to kill us with a monster, or with more emotionally damaged NPCs?”

Emi considered. “Both, maybe?”

Chloe laughed, surprising herself with the volume. “Okay. I think I’m ready.”

“Me too,” said Emi.

The party, now fortified by carbs and caffeine, reconvened at the table. Sam surveyed her chaotic band of heroes, then smiled.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s hit the road. Haunted forests don’t de-haunt themselves.”

And with that, the adventure continued—down the winding path to disaster, or glory, or (most likely) a fourth quest about orphaned baby animals.

It was a party in every sense of the word.

Traveling as a party in Pathfinder was, Sam quickly realized, almost exactly as chaotic as traveling with these women in real life. The “road to the haunted woods” was supposed to be a gentle scene, a chance for the group to bond, maybe have a minor animal encounter or two. But no, within twenty virtual feet of the tavern, Liesa’s druid was already off the main path digging up edible mushrooms (and probably someone’s buried family jewels), Dawn’s cleric insisted on cleaning up every roadside shrine (“It’s bad luck to leave bird poop on a god’s face!”), and Emi’s fleshwarp monk kept “accidentally” getting lost and reappearing in the most inconvenient trees.

Chloe’s bard lagged behind, composing ballads about the party’s (yet unproven) heroism while simultaneously making up new lyrics every time someone tripped or fumbled a skill check. When Emi rolled a spectacularly low “athletics” check and fell out of a tree, Chloe set it to music (“O, Sparkles fell and hit her head, / Her wisdom saved but dignity’s dead!”), and the table was almost in tears.

The first actual encounter was supposed to be an ambush: four bandits leaping out from the brush, weapons drawn, ready to threaten and be threatened in return. Sam arranged the minis, narrated the sudden rustle in the thicket, and gave her best bandit snarl: “Hand over your valuables, or it’s the last sunrise you’ll ever see!”

Claire, ever the methodical one, didn’t even hesitate. She passed a note to Sam:

I use Perception. Are they serious killers, or just ****?

Sam rolled behind the screen, smiled at the result. “The leader’s voice cracks as he threatens you, and he’s wearing a ragged scarf that looks suspiciously like a piece of barmaid’s apron. They’re more scared than you are. Maybe hungry, too.”

Claire turned to the group and, in her most prim notebook calligraphy, suggested: Negotiate. Offer them breakfast, or at least a deal.

Before anyone could protest, Dawn leapt in: “I have extra food from the tavern! Can I offer it to them?”

Sam, now totally derailed, nodded. “The bandits freeze. One looks at your picnic basket with tears in his eyes. He lowers his sword. ‘We haven’t eaten in days. You would share with us?’”

Liesa, never one to let kindness stand in the way of profit, raised her hand. “While they’re distracted, I want to check their pockets. Just to see if they have a map or anything useful.”

Sam, resigned, said, “You’re a… Ah, forget it. Roll Stealth.”

Liesa rolled, barely looked. “Eighteen.”

Sam narrated, “You lift a battered map, three copper coins, and a very suspicious locket from the leader’s pouch. He doesn’t notice.”

Erin, trying to maintain party discipline, said, “I don’t want to fight, but if this goes south, we need to be ready. I stand in front, shield up, and tell them we can help, but they have to promise not to attack anyone else.”

Sam was about to respond when Norah interrupted: “I’m sick of all this talking. I charge the bandit leader, try to wrestle him into submission.”

“Roll Athletics,” said Sam, already seeing how this would go.

Norah rolled a one.

Sam couldn’t help but grin. “You trip over a root, careen down the embankment, and land in a puddle right next to the bandit leader. He’s so startled he drops his sword on your head.” She mimed a thonk, then looked at the table. “You’re both too embarrassed to do anything violent. The standoff is over.”

The table dissolved into laughter, even Norah cracking a smile as she imagined her dwarf face-down in the mud, soaking wet. “Fucking… Gretch got the Adorable Klutz transformation now!”

Chloe’s bard, Melody, sidled up and started composing a song about “The Wettest Warpriest,” which only made it worse.

Dawn, seeing an opportunity, offered to help the bandits find honest work, or at least show them how to fish for their own food. “It’s never too late to turn your life around,” she told them, and her voice was so sincere that even the imaginary bandits seemed to believe it.

Emi, half in-character and half herself, observed: “They probably know the area really well. Maybe they can help us find the haunted forest faster?”

Sam, barely keeping up, nodded. “They agree, and offer to be your guides, provided you keep them fed. They’re surprisingly good at avoiding the dangerous spots.”

Norah, trying to salvage dignity, asked, “Can I intimidate them into helping more?”

Sam rolled, then deadpanned, “They agree to anything you want, as long as you don’t make them fight again.”

As the encounter wound down, Erin looked at the assembled chaos and just shook her head. “I give up. From now on, I’m just calling the plays after everyone else makes their move.”

Sam watched the women—some in-character, some clearly enjoying the absurdity, all of them totally immersed. She’d spent a week building out stat blocks, planning a series of brutal fights, and her first battle had ended with bread rolls and life coaching. She almost resented how much fun it was.

The next leg of the journey was even more absurd. The “reformed” bandits traveled with the party, teaching them how to spot traps and avoid the worst thickets, while Liesa’s character quietly relieved them of anything interesting along the way. Dawn hosted a miniature group therapy session for the most traumatized of the group. Emi suggested they should all have uniforms, and by the next morning, every party member was wearing a flower crown courtesy of Liesa’s foraging.

Norah’s Gretch, still dripping from her stream mishap, muttered darkly about dice luck and “statistical anomalies.” Chloe, meanwhile, was doubled over, tears of laughter streaming down her face at the thought of how a “deadly encounter” had become social services for out-of-work criminals.

When Sam called a break to reset the next mini-encounter, she found herself laughing too hard to speak for a minute. She made a silent vow to double the hit points on her next set of monsters.

Dawn, never missing a beat, offered a toast. “To the best party ever. And the best GM. Sorry we ruined your bandits.”

Sam raised her mug, not a little proud, and for the first time since she’d started running games in college, she genuinely didn’t mind the derail. If this was what gaming in the harem would be like, she’d take it.

Chloe set down her mug and, barely able to breathe, whispered, “I don’t know what’s funnier, the fact that we turned criminals into lunch guests, or that we’re all just as much a disaster in fantasy as in real life.”

Emi wiped her eyes. “It’s both. Definitely both.”

Sam grinned at her table of beautiful, brilliant lunatics. “You know,” she said, “I think I’m going to have to rewrite the rest of the adventure.”

Erin offered a smirk. “Or maybe just let us keep improvising.”

Sam considered. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

With lunch plates cleared and laughter still echoing around the table, the women prepared to head into the heart of the haunted woods. The new bandit friends led the way, and Liesa’s character had, by now, “found” enough trinkets to start her own pawn shop. Norah grumbled, but secretly relished the attention from her personal retinue of burly, mildly terrified ex-bandits.

Claire took point, notebook ready, eyes shining. Chloe trailed close behind, eager to see what the “haunted” part would look like, and maybe pick up more inspiration for her next ballad. Dawn just looked happy to be there, ears bouncing with every step.

As the party left the relative safety of the road and plunged into the deep, dark woods, Sam shuffled her notes and smiled to herself.

Next time, she decided, maybe she’d open with a dragon.

But knowing this crew, they’d probably end up teaching it to bake bread.

The haunted woods dissolved seamlessly into a crypt. Sam described the shifting air as “chilled by the memory of **** and moss,” which Chloe immediately set to a minor chord and hummed under her breath for the next five minutes. At each branching corridor, the party managed to split: Norah and Erin barreled through doors in search of “boss fights,” while Dawn and Liesa unsuccessfully tried to negotiate with every skeleton they met, trying to unionize the undead (“Have you ever considered collective bargaining?”). Claire’s catfolk investigator went into full CSI mode, examining every moss patch and bat dropping for clues, while Emi, true to form, mapped the crypt’s layout with the precision of a cartographer on Adderall.

By the time they reached the final chamber, the group had acquired not only a rescued baby mimic (“It only bites shoes now,” Dawn insisted) but a reformed ghoul with a penchant for slam poetry, two faintly magical swords, and a running feud with a rival party of “player characters” Sam had created just to see if anyone would notice. (They did; Liesa tried to seduce one, Chloe wrote a song about their fashion sense, and Norah challenged their leader to a duel over who got to walk in front.)

The villain’s lair was everything a DM could want: a staircase lit by cold blue flames, a dais of black marble, runes carved into every surface, and in the center, the wizard—a half-elf with a staff taller than herself, wearing robes embroidered with every known planetary symbol. Sam dimmed the lights and queued up an ominous synth track on her phone, then stood to deliver the wizard’s monologue in full:

“Fools! Did you think to challenge me, Elvanestra the Unseelie? I have mastered the secrets of shadow and flame! This is your grave!”

She made the mini leap onto the center square, then pointed her pencil-staff at the party. “Roll initiative!”

Erin cracked her knuckles. “Time to do this right.”

The party arranged their minis with military precision—except for Liesa’s, which wandered off to “forage” in the wizard’s herb garden. Chloe’s bard hung back, composing a power ballad, while Dawn’s cleric immediately started reading the runes for signs of trauma or a “cry for help.”

Sam began the fight with a bang: “Elvanestra casts Fireball!”

Claire didn’t even blink. She wrote:

Talk to her. Psychoanalyze motives. Use Insight, dodge if necessary.

Sam laughed, rolled. “You duck the fire, but you’re singed. Take 9 hp of damage. As you circle, you see the wizard’s hands are shaking, and her voice wavers on the word ‘Unseelie.’”

Claire scribbled:

I ask about childhood. Did a parent abandon her? I offer help.

Sam, caught, had to improvise. “She glares at you, but for a second, her eyes fill with tears. ‘No one ever stayed, not even my own mother,’ she whispers. The next fireball goes wild, nearly hitting her own familiar.”

Erin, trying to keep the pressure on, said, “I charge. I want to sweep the legs and disarm her.”

Sam rolled, then grinned. “You almost get there, but her staff is tricked out with magical traps. Roll Reflex, DC 18.”

Erin rolled, sighed. “Fail.”

Sam: “The staff zaps you, but only for minor damage. Take 2 hp. You’re right in her face, now.”

Liesa, barely listening, said, “Can I sneak up and take any spell components from her pockets? If she can’t cast, she can’t fight.”

Sam, incredulous, had Liesa roll stealth. “Twenty-one.”

“Fine,” Sam deadpanned. “You grab three bags of powder, a bat wing, and her backup focus. She doesn’t even notice until her next turn.”

Dawn, meanwhile, shouted, “Can I offer her a handkerchief?”

Sam, struggling to keep up, rolled. “She’s momentarily stunned and confused. She dabs at her eyes with the handkerchief, then looks at you all like she’s not sure if this is a fight or a therapy session.”

Norah’s Gretch, still soaked from the earlier mishap, decided on a full ****. “I want to grapple her and pin her to the ground.”

Sam, now actively rooting for the wizard, said, “She’s wiry but not strong. Roll.”

Norah rolled: two.

Sam tried not to laugh. “You slip on the polished marble and crash into her, but instead of pinning her, you both roll off the dais in a heap. She’s too startled to cast anything.”

Emi watched the chaos, then offered, “Can I analyze the runes? Maybe collapse the dais or break her power source?”

Sam blinked, impressed. “That’s a real tactic. Sure—roll Arcana.”

Emi rolled, then smiled. “Nineteen.”

Sam described how Emi’s monk noticed the runes on the dais had a structural weak point. “If you hit it just right, you could bring down the whole platform.”

Erin, seizing the chance, said, “I want to assist. I swing my axe at the weak spot!”

Sam rolled, then sighed. “It works. The dais cracks, and everyone—including Elvanestra—slides into the pit below.”

Liesa, still foraging, said, “Do I find anything interesting down there?”

Sam, defeated, said, “Yes. There’s a chest with her diary and several letters to her mother, never mailed. Also, a stash of ‘regret powder.’”

Claire immediately wrote:

I read the diary out loud. And offer therapy.

Dawn: “Can I cast Cure Wounds on her heart?”

Sam, putting her face in her hands, said, “You absolutely can. She’s so overwhelmed by compassion that she gives up, sits on the floor, and cries.”

Norah, Gretch now actually tangled in the wizard’s robes, said, “I want to comfort her, but also remind her that crime never pays.”

Emi, softly, suggested, “We should help her find closure. Maybe she can teach at the school for wayward mages.”

Chloe’s bard finished her power ballad, then sang it, voice warbling with emotion.

Sam watched as her “final boss” was comforted, reformed, and given a new career path, all while her party bickered over whether to return the stolen bat wings or keep them for future quests.

There was no combat left. There was just—victory, of a sort.

Chloe, breaking the moment, said, “So, did we just… win?”

Sam looked at the table, the minis, her stack of abandoned stat sheets. She thought about arguing, about invoking the rules, but then she looked at the women around her, each one beaming with triumph and camaraderie. Even Norah, who’d been ready to burn the world down an hour ago, was smiling.

“Yeah,” Sam said, closing her notes. “You did.”

Dawn squealed, hugging Emi, and Claire high-fived Liesa with the grace only a catfolk could manage. Erin just grinned, satisfied, and Norah muttered, “Not how I thought it’d go, but I’ll take it.”

Chloe raised her mug. “To the weirdest, best party I’ve ever had.”

Everyone clinked glasses and mugs, even the reformed wizard miniature, which Liesa had now perched atop a stack of tiny books.

As they basked in their collective glory, Sam leaned back and took it all in. It wasn’t the adventure she’d planned, but it was the one they needed.

Somewhere, Andy would have been proud.

Sam smiled. “Same time next week?”

A chorus of yeses, laughter, and the clatter of dice answered her.

In the Banquet Hall, for one perfect afternoon, nothing hurt.