Chapter Seven #2
Every Dungeon Master has a different style of running their games.
Some DMs rely on pre-written storylines published with ready-to-use plotlines, combat encounters, and a predetermined cast of non-player characters (or NPCs).
Others, like me—and Wesley, clearly—prefer to create what’s called a homebrew campaign, where they build their own worlds and stories from scratch and construct the entirety of the adventure on their own, using only the game’s base rules to provide structure and stakes.
Some insanely talented—or just insane—DMs will make everything up as they go, improvising session by session.
But regardless of how they create their campaign, what distinguishes some DMs from the rest is how they engage with their world.
In my games, I tried to strike a tonal balance between fun, humorous, and emotionally engaging.
The first step to that, of course, was being willing to roleplay.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m pretty shit at accents, but despite that shortcoming, I embodied every NPC with as much personality and emotion as I could.
My players got comfortable over the years with meeting me in that improvisational space.
I’d even made Mona cry once when I delivered a confession of love from her character’s in-game paramour.
Regardless of the game you’re playing, I believe the best stories are told only when you connect with the characters in them.
It’s immediately clear to me that Wesley brings the same earnest energy to his own games.
But he’s got more than that—he’s got skill.
I should’ve realized that he’d be good at this; he could command our whole classroom’s attention with a charismatic presentation or a boisterous joke mid-lecture. I remember the way people were drawn into his orbit.
But here, at this table, his effect is different.
He slipped into Vadrien’s sneering, seductive character with ease.
His low Eastern European accent was flawless, spoken with a threatening touch of condescension.
There had been a dark, husky quality to it when Vadrien knelt at Sindra’s side, compelling her not to worry, just to close her eyes.
I can almost feel the same heat crawling up the side of my neck.
I can almost imagine the way those teeth must have felt when—
Wesley’s eyelids flutter for a moment, as if he’s waking up, coming back to himself after embodying Vadrien. His eyes rise and then snap to me.
I’m horrified to realize that I’m flustered—and then immediately angry. How dare I let him fluster me.
This is getting out of hand.
I tear my gaze away from Wesley and focus my attention on where Mortimer’s miniature figurine lies toppled over on the map.
“What the hell, Wesley?” I snap. “A player death in session two?”
Mona looks shocked, and I’m frustrated for more reasons than one, but everyone else appears remarkably calm. Even Colin just shrugs apologetically and says, “I told you it was a tough game.”
“There’s a difference between challenging and unwinnable,” I say, seething. “What was the purpose of that?”
At my tone, Shay straightens up in her chair. “Hey, now.”
Mona winces.
Wesley’s eyebrows, which were arched high on his forehead in surprise, drop down low. “Now everyone knows what’s at stake. Encounters like this give everyone an idea of how dangerous Moros is.” His tone is patient and—I know I’m not imagining it—a touch patronizing.
Like he’s explaining something to a child.
Colin mutters, “Things might have gone better for Morty if he’d had a stake…” Though Arthur rewards the joke with a snort, I’m too far gone to laugh.
“You don’t think you proved that enough in the first session by forcing us to fight, like, forty skeletons?” I retort. “And you didn’t even give Mortimer a chance. He was the one keeping watch after relieving Antoni—he was wide awake! How come he couldn’t see or hear Vadrien’s approach at all?”
“Because he rolled poorly on his perception check.” Now there’s a defensive edge to Wesley’s tone. “And Vadrien, being the game’s literal antagonist, is very skilled and very stealthy.”
I could tear my eyeballs out of my head.
Of course the villain is meant to be a powerful and challenging adversary, but it’s murder to make the players face the campaign’s strongest enemy in session fucking two.
Once Vadrien killed Mortimer, he came for Sindra.
I rolled the same die to determine whether she heard Vadrien’s approach and whether she would be able to fight off the vampire’s effect when he bit her.
I’d rolled high, too—a solid 17 on my d20—but Wesley claimed I hadn’t rolled high enough to beat Vadrien’s stealth score.
But when I look around the table, I see that no one seems to share my point of view.
Wesley is frowning with his arms crossed, and Shay looks outright annoyed.
Arthur has distanced himself from the conversation, opting instead to review his notes and character sheet.
I’m stunned by how unbothered Colin is. If anything, he just looks amused by my defense of him, and maybe a touch flattered. Spots of color bloom on his cheeks.
Even Mona, who always has my back, regards me with an uncomfortable half-hearted smile. “You did almost have him there at the end, Rea. We came close to killing him.”
No, we didn’t. I clench my jaw. I’ve read every D&D guide that exists, and the rules swim to the surface of my thoughts now: a vampire can be killed only under a particular set of circumstances, like in sunlight, or by destroying its resting place, or…
I look to Wesley’s chest, and my scowl deepens.
A stake to the heart.
I wish Sindra could have done more to save the others, at least. That was the whole reason I’d created her—to protect Moss and stand as a bastion between the party and danger. But even that was out of my control.
“Okay, I—I’m sorry,” I huff, more for the benefit of the other players than for Wesley.
I still believe this was poorly played on his part, but I’m clearly the only one who feels that way.
“I can get…competitive. I hate it when the bad guy escapes.” I lock my eyes onto Wesley’s.
“I should have expected he’d run just when things started to get tough. ”
Wesley tenses before releasing a slow, measured sigh. He regards me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His tone is frosty. “My bad. Next time, I’ll be sure to tone down the difficulty of my game that you signed up for, so Sindra can feel like more of a hero.”
Silence smothers the table in the same way darkness had enveloped the camp. Thankfully, Shay is the first to break it—a second longer, and I might have turned six sets of dice into improvised weapons.
“Well,” she says slowly, deconstructing the word into three separate syllables. Looking eager to change the subject, she turns to her dad. “Halloween?” she asks.
He nods. “Halloween.”
“Okay. Well. Colin already knows, of course, and Wesley’s never had a chance to come in person, but—our annual party is coming up in a few weeks, on Halloween Friday.
” She looks earnestly at Mona. “You’re all welcome to come.
” The look she turns on me is…not as earnest. I get it.
She really wants Mona there, but she can’t invite Mona and leave her sister out, can she?
Maybe she’s hoping that after tonight’s debacle, I won’t come.
Maybe she thinks this is my last session in this game.
After all, if this were my table, I’d have dismissed me by now.
I wrap my arms around myself as my anger dissolves, leaving me feeling deflated and cold. Even if I am right, and Wesley’s play style is harsh and unforgiving, it doesn’t change the fact that the others are invested and having a great time. I’m the one making everything uncomfortable.
I swallow and, for Mona’s sake, try to be friendly. “Is there a theme?”
Arthur shakes his head. “It’s just…Halloween.” He gives me a bewildered look.
Right.
“Of course we’ll come,” Mona chirps. “Thank you for inviting us.”
As the others gather their things, I start to feel like a rock in a river.
Everyone flows past me, doing their best to ignore me as they banter about costume ideas and plans for how we’re going to face the next session with a dead party member.
Their gazes slide away from me—even Mona’s—as they speak carefully, like they’re wary about what might set me off again.
My righteous indignation fades to uncomfortable bitterness.
I’d rationalized that, at the heart of it, I was sticking up for another player by pointing out the injustice of killing a character so early on in the game. But I’d do well to remember that these are Wesley’s friends first, and at the end of the day, this is Wesley’s game.
I look to where he still sits behind the DM’s screen, bent over his notebook, and wish I were sitting there instead.
I’ve spent so many years running my own games and telling my own stories that maybe I’ve forgotten how to let someone else take the lead.
Maybe I’m not really meant to be a player.
I rub idly at my sternum, feeling a phantom ache in my chest. I hate when this happens.
I hate that, despite everything that went down, I still get caught off guard by how much I miss my friends, my games.
I might not miss dating Owen, but I miss playing with him.
Things were easier between us when we were pretending to be other people.
I can’t pretend with Wesley. I’ve never been able to. I can barely conceal my frustration with him behind the thin veil of Sindra’s character motivations.
And by the way he catches my eye now, regarding me with a guarded expression before turning away in a clear dismissal, I know it’s the same for him, too.
I’ll have to find out whether we’re able to play nice, or whether I can play at all—and soon.