D&D Late Night

“Get the hell out. Get the hell out- that’s what my character screams as he runs back down the passage.”

                “Kuf races down the passage?” I say this to Quiz- Kuf is his character.

                “Yes, and he screams that to the others who are with me.” Quiz grins, his twenty-sided die in his hand.

                “Okay.” I look from Quiz to Chris; he is picking up his dice.

“So, what does Alucard do?”

                “I run like hell.” Chris says, as he rolls his die twenty on the table. The red die rolls across the table to stopping on thirteen.

                “Alucard not only runs like hell, but he passes Kcuf on the way out.” Alucard is Chris’s favorite character.

                Quiz throws his blue die twenty, it lands on twelve, and he leans back spreading his hands.

 “I’m right on his heels, Mark.”

                That’s me, I’m the Dungeon Master.

Another die twenty rolls across the table from my left. The green die settles on fourteen. Pope leans forward to squint at the number. Then he looks up at me and says. “My character, Talisin casts his teleport spell and then he and Kurgan whisk away to the great wide open spaces.”

                “Cool.” Steve, who plays Kurgan, says, “We’re outta’ there.”

                “The passage fills with a wave of liquid fire. What do you do Rob?” I look at him.             “Where’s Malac?”  Chris asks.

                “He’s not there.”

                “Damn NPC.” He sighs.

                “Rob?”

                We all look to Rob, he sits in the second to last spot in our corral of couches, and he rolls his die.

“Oh my.”

He has rolled a one.

“Linoleum Desk, the fearless Ranger, looks into the mouth of Hell and says-- oh my.”

He picks up his pencil and leans towards his player sheet, eraser ready.

                “Is Burt back from the can yet?”

                “No, but I’ll roll for him.”

Rob says reaching for his die twenty and rolls.

“Castigar is the wind-“

A fifteen.

“unlike Burt.”

We laugh; Burt is the slowest guy we know.

                “Anyway, the passage fills with fire as the dragons unleashes his breath weapon and toasts Desk-- as he fails to react in time to avoid the blast. Alucard, Kcuf, and Burt’s fighter run out of the dungeon passage just seconds in front of the wave of fire, which billows forth from the dungeon entrance as they jump and dive for cover.”

“Woah, cool.”

Burt has returned to his seat. He sits down with a thump like he was a sack of potatoes thrown onto the couch. There is a tile pattern pressed into his right cheek and the shadow of a bruise forming on his forehead.

“Musta’ passed out in the can.”

                “Linoleum?” Rob inquires, pencil ready in his hand.

                “No tile” I say staring at the pattern on Burt’s face.

                “No Linoleum Desk-- the smoking Ranger.”

“Whoops.”

I grab six die six and roll them with both hands. I count them.

“Twenty four.”

                “Ouch” Rob replies and his eraser goes to work on his character sheet.

                We wait.

                “Linoleum Desk, the Ranger from the North wood, walks—no, staggers out into the light, burnt and blackened but nevertheless alive.”

                We cheer; toasts are made to Rob’s ranger’s longevity.

                Dungeons and Dragons late night at the Student Center every Saturday since I came to Brevard College. Drinking Mad Dog twenty-twenty and Jack Daniel’s mixed with Food City Cola and playing the semi-sober, semi-serious game into the early hours of the morning. We could have been doing something else but in northwestern North Carolina, there was little to do after the sun went down. So every Saturday night, we gathered at the center to play, armed with our books and player sheets, dice and drinks. The group chased off any straggling students occupying the second floor and set up camp. From our couch encampment we commanded a clear view of the center so we could see “Barney Fife”- the campus cop before he could see us.

                Every campus that I have ever been on has a “Barney Fife” character on it. “Barney” whose real name was Eddie Bowers was a skinny man who was thought to be anorexic until some girl went to pieces at a student gathering, declaring that only women could be anorexic. Anyway, “Barney” would patrol around the campus the same way that Don Knotts did in Mayberry. “Barney” was so cock-sure that he was a good cop that he would brag to the students about his exploits as the campus cop and all the students he had busted. He was a sight to see, wearing his over large ball cap, a radio slung on each hip like a gunfighter.  One of the radios was the four hundred-megahertz that was used for the campus, a rectangular block on his right hip about the same dimensions of a brick. The other radio was the police scanner for monitoring what the police were doing; it was slung on his left hip with a CB attachment clipped to his left shoulder. The scanner was long like a two by four. The radios would swing with his hips, as he would strut about exercising his authority.

                In he came, radios swinging right up to the couch edge. He stopped there and took a deep sniff, crossed his arms and said.

                “You boys been drinking?”

                “No sir.” I answered, trying to appear as sober as possible. It usually fell to the Dungeon Master to fend off Eddie.

                Then Quiz offered him a drink from his three-liter cola-bottle laced with MD 20/20. “We’re just drinking some coke, Eddie.”

                At this Eddie frowned. No one ever calls Eddie “Barney,” to his face, except for the foreign exchanges students who actually thought it was his name.

                “Want a drink?” Quiz said, still holding up the bottle to Eddie. All eyes shift from Eddie to Quiz. Chris mouths out-- Are you crazy-- to Quiz, who shrugs. Eddie stands there in silence staring at the bottle, his mouth moving like he was chewing curd. Then his police scanner squawks and he leans his head down to the CB on his shoulder, listening. He nods and smiles pretending to know about what the other local cops are talking about on the radio. There are only six other cops in Brevard and they all have agreed that Eddie is a necessary evil. Eddie thinks that this means that they like him. Eddie steps back and palms a can of Skoal from his back pocket. Then with the move of a practiced professional, he snaps the lid twice with his fingernail. Click, click and pops the top off with only one hand. He takes a wad of Skoal in the other hand and feeds his lower lip. He then shifts the wad to a comfortable bulge against his jaw and spits accurately into the trash can some five feet away. “Gotta’ go.” He said, as he spins on his heel and marched off for the stairs, radios banging against each hip.

                “You’re nuts Quiz.” Chris says.

                “No sense of smell, no sense of taste.” Quiz states this with the ease of a pro

                “What?” Rob says with the same surprise we all feel.

                “Barney’s got no sense of taste or smell.” He says again, with a wicked grin.

                “How do you know that?” I say, eyebrow raised.

                “Local word is that he accidentally drank some formaldehyde when he was a mortician.”

                “No shit?” Rob snorts a laugh coming on.

                “No shit.” Quiz grins exposing yellowed teeth, he looks maniacal.

                “Hmm-- so Barney’s a mortician.” I state, filing that info away for later use.

                “Correction-- was a mortician.”

                “Oh.”

                                We sit in one corner of the student lounge on the second floor, couches gathered in formation around the dice table, actually a coffee table that has many different kinds of dice strewn about and in between the D&D sheets, cups and bottles. Dungeon and Dragon dice are basically geometric solids turned into playable versions like the traditional six-sided game dice. On the table there are twenty-sided, twelve-sided, ten-sided also called percentile because when you roll them together you can combine them from one to hundred. There are also eight-sided, the traditional six-sided and four-sided. They have geometric names but are usually referred to as die six or six sided.

                “The Dragon emerges from the mouth of the corridor, what do you do?” I drawl out over my cup.

Quiz shrugs, his black unkempt hair falling over his eyes; he blows smoke through his nose, waves his Swisher-sweet cigar with one hand and grabs his dice with the other.

                “I fuckin’ kill him.”

                “With?” I counter.

                “With, with--“ He sticks the cigar back in his mouth and grabs his character sheet from the table, stares at it a moment then-- “with my mace.” He rolls his dice, one of them die twenty skips off the table. “I missed him Mark. Nuts.”

                “Chris?”

                Chris drops the can of beer he’s been rolling around in his hands, and picks up his dice. He rolls. “Oh yes- he’s toast.”

Quiz and Chris do a high-five.

“Oh?” I inquire, still skeptic as to the power of his Wizard-Necromancer-Assassin.

Chris grins. “Fireball.”

“Burn baby!” Quiz and Pope say in unison.

“Area of effect?”

“Forty-foot sphere.” Chris says.

I roll my own die for the dragon’s saving throw versus the spell.

“The dragon saves- taking only half-damage from your fire-ball.”

“Damn.” Chris gathers up two handfuls of six-sided dice, shakes them and throws them on the table. They tumble end over end. Rob leans forward and begins to count the numbers, sliding the spent dice to the left. He looks up and says.

“Forty-six. Forty-six divided by two is--“ Rob says. His hands move as if he had a calculator there. “Twenty-three, twenty-three points of damage to the dragon.”

“The dragon shrugs it off.” I make a note on my own sheet.

“Nuts.” Rob says then grimaces and reaches for his dice bag.

“Hey guys.” Robin says as she walks up. I can see by her general demeanor that something is very wrong.

“The Halfling party-bitch has arrived.” Quiz announces and gestures to the space next to him on the couch.

Robin doesn’t move; her hair is a mess, not done up like before the game for her date tonight. She often dumps us to go out on dates, playing infrequently because she wants, as she puts it, a life with the real world. But tonight it looks like the world has caught up with our only female member. Her blouse is ripped open with three to four buttons missing. Her strawberry red hair is tangled in knots and in her face-half-masking the swollen lip and light shadow of a bruise above her right cheek bone. Her left arm is showing purplish marks on her skin.

“Shit.” Chris says, and rises to his feet.

I jump the table, almost making it but my foot catches Steve’s cup knocking it off and booze splashes the sidearm of Quiz’s couch. I stop and turn apologetically to Steve but he waves me off. I turn back to Robin; Chris has his arm around her. He supports her weight as he helps her over to the couch.  He helps her to sit down.

“What happened?” Chris asks.

“Are you okay?” Pope adds.

“Who did this to you?” Quiz hisses between clenched teeth.

“Man, somebody fucked you up.” Burt says. We all look at him- he is drunk. Quiz shrugs.

“Let her answer.” I say.

She looks at Quiz, then Chris, then me. “I-- I think I just got raped.” Her eyes are full of tears.

“Burt, get some ice.” I say without taking my eyes from hers.

Burt looks in the cooler stashed behind his couch. “No more ice.”

“Okay, go get her a coke.”

“We got coke.”

“Out of the machine, Burt.” I yell.

“Why?”

“Because it will be cold.” Chris says and moves towards him. Burt gets up and leaves.

“Who did this?” Quiz, his skin turning dark as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

Robin looks at him; her eyes are still unfocused from the tears. They were lovers once, one of the myriad D & D relationships that seldom survive.

“No.” she finally says

“What do ya’ mean no!” He jumps to his feet, waving his hands.

                “I won’t tell you.”

                “Why not?” Quiz rages.

                “You want to kill him?” Robin glares at Quiz.

                “Hell, yes.” His normally slited eyes are wide and his face flushed with barely contained fury

                “Why?”

                “What?” Quiz stops waving his arms and looks down at her.

                “Why do you want to kill him?”

                “Because--“ He raises his arms, he scowls then drops his arms.

                “Because why, Quiz.” Robin crosses her arms as she looks up at him.

                “Because-- ah to Hell with it. I’ll find out who he is.” He turns back towards his couch.

                “No you won’t Quiz.” She replies.

                “I won’t?” Quiz says. “Like Hell, I won’t.”

                “We’re over, Quiz. I am not your girlfriend anymore.” The bruise is turning yellow.

                “Dammit Robin, don’t do this.”

                “No Quiz.” She says again.

“God-dammit Robin, God-dammit.” Quiz looks at her then at the rest of us.

I sit there not wanting to get involved. I brace for him to attack her or throw something, he doesn’t. Instead he lowers his arms and looks at her one more time before grabbing his coat and marching away. The door on the ground floor slams. Robin winces.

                “I better go see if he is going to be okay.” Pope says, Steve gets up and they both exit. I look over to Chris; he nods and gets up.

                “I’ll go see what’s keeping Burt.”

                “Thanks.” Robin says as she touches his hand.

                “I’ll help you find him.” Rob adds, and leaves with Chris.

                Robin and I are left alone in the corner of couches; she reaches up and takes hold of my arm pulling me down to sit by her on the couch. I look at her, words escaping me. I can find no worthwhile things to say. She trembles, her shoulders hunching forward. I reach out to embrace her. I am awkward, clumsily I reach around her, trying to be careful-- to be gentle. She ignores my fumbling and presses her faces against my chest; her arms still crossed in front of her. I hold her and begin to rock as if I were cradling a hurt child. She cries into my shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut but tears escaping. My skin is wet under my shirt. Her sobs catch in her throat-- a hoarse, whispering scream.  After awhile, her sobs subside and she puts her arms around me as well. She turns her head on my shoulder.

                “I got your shirt wet,” She mumbles, almost inaudible.

                “It’ll dry.”

She brings her arms back to her and cradles them against her breasts. I began to unfold my own embrace, but she stops me. I remain as I am, holding her with every substance of strength I have as if it would be enough to heal her hurt. I know it will not, but I hope that at least she will know that I want to.

Chris returns with the coke and some damp paper towels. He stands in front of us and wraps the coke with the towels, then places it on her bruised face. She uses her left hand to keep it there.

“The guys and I are going to make a food run, you two want anything.” He says.

Robin is silent. I look down at her to find her looking up at me.

“Some ice, a small bottle of Jack, some aspirin- no Advil, and some chips.” I say. “And some Kleenexes.” I know where they are going. Robin nods and tries to smile but winces as the split in her lower lip appears.

“So, I’ll see you later?” he says.

Now I know that he knows who Robin went out with tonight. From the look he gives me he knows that I know who Robin’s date was as well. 

“Yeah, I’ll see you later, drive carefully.” I lie. Chris leaves.

We are alone again.

“Thanks Mark. You’re a good liar.” She says as she cradle the coke against her face.

“Lots of practice.”

“I guess it would have been pointless to argue.”

“Yes, with Chris it would be- harder anyway than with Quiz.”

“Chris?” She lays her head in the cradle of my arm, still in my embrace.

“Chris, Quiz, all of them need rules to live by.” I pause for a moment as the weight of what I am about to say dawns on me. “Owen, that poor bastard, just broke one of our most sacred.”

“But Mark-- there aren’t really any rules.”

“I know that, you know that; hell- even Chris knows that.”

“Then why?”

“Chris says there ought to be.”

“Oh.”

“I do too.”