Krane Wupinkov was born in 10,165 to Olga Wupinkov, one of the legendary 100 Concubines of House Vorona.

That noble and ancient House maintained the Great Harem as a breeding stock of the purest human stains as a bulwark against future uncertainties. The wry had often noted that Duke Vorona was always assumed to be of the highest stock himself, which given the curious habits of some of the Dukes, was not beyond question. The 117th Duke, reigning at the time of Krane’s birth, was notorious for converting part of the lush family estate into a gigantic Zen garden that he would spend hours raking each day.

Perhaps this is why Olga took up with an Orc of the Duke’s Own Green Host. The Host had served House Vorona loyally for many years, with their traditional lands and way of life safeguarded in exchange for military service. Needless to say, despite the 117th Duke’s proclivities, the birth of a half-orc child in the Great Harem was the cause of no end of scandal, and Olga promptly found herself dismissed.

Returning to her former station, that of the lowliest peasant, with her son, Olga found it very difficult to make ends meet. Krane therefore fell in early with the gangs of street toughs in the Voronan capital of Olengrad. His considerable strength and cunning made him rather successful as a cutpurse, cuthroat, and cut-rate street performer. Though Olga wished for her son to go into the priesthood, he instead was noticed by Manyfingers McGee of the Olengrad Fortune Guild and trained as an assassin.

Krane asserted to his mother that this was functionally the same as the priesthood because in both cases he was bringing bad men closer to their maker.

As an assassin, Krane was very successful, able to use his unmistakably Orcish appearance to lull adversaries into underestimating him. He racked up over 100 successful kills but was increasingly distant from the profession. Olga’s stories of the rich and easy life available to nobles inspired him to begin using his earnings to try and make himself presentable in polite society.

Thus, despite his thick Olengrad Rus accent and massive 6’5″ frame, Krane poured his money into lessons on etiquette, dancing, and performing. Specifically, he trained under the legendary heavy metal performer Deejay Singh in the arts of the electric mandolin. Heavy metal was, after all, the traditional music of the Green Host. Armed with an electric mandolin, Krane set out to buy his way into high society as a half-Orc bard.

Wearing the finest clothes and trying to practice his manners, Krane is nevertheless on the blunt side and apt to resort to stabbing as a frustrated expedient. He is also completely mercenary, looking out only for himself and possibly his mother, though he will warble a heavy metal ballad on his electric for the right price.

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“Who…who said that?” cried the halfling.

“Down here!”

Looking down, the halfling gasped and backed away. A rat was speaking to her, a rat that was short even by the generous standards of rats. But it was also speaking in a squeaky but confident voice.

“Behold! Where if your god Jovan now? If vermin may speak, then tremble for all is lost!”

Wailing, the halfling cast down her crossbow and fled sobbing. The rat climbed up to the arrow slit she had been guarding, and motioned to the rest of her party with one tiny paw.

“Tinuviel,” said Adenan. “You should be nice to her. She’s just brainwashed. Aunty told us to rescue her friends, not to scare them to death.”

Tinuviwl the rat harrumphed. “If I’m going to be the one that gets hit with a polymorph trap, I might as well have some fun with it,” she squeaked.

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“Ed Boneshredder,” said the muscled mercenary. He bore many tattoos on his unarmored torso, from a wiry spread devoted to “Ed Bonecrusher” that suggested he himself was not quite sure of his proper appellation to a heart on one bicep devoted to someone named “Peter.”

“I know that,” said Iffy the mage. “But why are you so angry at me?”

Ed Boneshredder,” replied the mercenary through gritted teeth, spraying saliva on the demon bartender as well as Skeletonio the Skeleton Mage seated nearby.

“What?”

Ed BONEshredder!”

“Does anyone have any idea what he’s trying to say?”

Adenan the halfling, who had an affinity for languages, piped up: “He’s saying you insulted his friend and must pay for your crimes at the hands of the Threadbare Gang.”

“How in blazes did you know that?” spat Tinuviel the rogue, nearly choking on her raisin wine.

“I’m good with languages,” said Adenan, “and I spent some time with the Nisiar of Lehsir, who can only speak their own names due to their religion.”


With the bar clear and his meaty group of shirtless Threadbare Gang pals matching the adventurers blade for blade, Finnegen Funderberger IV strode up to the bar with a supremely confident swagger. Bearing a ritual Nisiar Revenge Katana, he seemed unmoved by Iffy’s rant about his prowess in bed and the length/hardiness of his shillelagh.

“I will have my revenge!” he cried, adjusting the wig on his head to cover up a spot of stubble from where the adventurers had shaved him bald on their last encounter.

His revenge started, it seemed, with a savage attack, lightning-fast, on Iffy. Or, rather, on Iffy’s hair. In a flash of steel and burst of keratin, Funderberger lopped off 18 of the 20 inches on Iffy’s head.

“My…HAIR!” cried Iffy. “That’s it! You must die for your crimes!”


Seeing that the battle had gone ill, and with their leader dead and de-wigged, the remaining two members of the Threadbare Gang attempted to flee.

Droog McPhereson, who had spent most of the battle passed out thanks to the vivid clashing hues of a Color Spray spell, tipped his jaunty hat and starched collar (unattached to any shirt) before disappearing up the steps. His getaway was eminently roguelike: quiet and efficient.

Ed Boneshredder, for his part, ran for the front door of the Demon Arms. The direct approach seemed to suit him best, after all. “Ed Boneshredder!” he cried over his shoulder, the words having the affect of “I’ll get you next time!”

However, Tinuviel the rogue had retreated to the door in a failed attempt to pepper the Threadbare Gang’s archer, Daniel Midland, with arrows. She stuck out a stubby, hairy leg and tripped the man-mountain as he tried to pass.

The human-tibia axe that Ed Boneshredder used shattered and buried itself in his chest as he went down. “Ed…Ed…Boneshredder…” he gurgled before breathing his last.

Chanel the cleric pulled the wig off of Finnigan Funderberger IV’s dead head and placed it on the countertop in front of Iazgu the Slayer, demon of the Demon Arms. “There you go,” she panted. “For your bald head.”

Iazgu looked at the wig with a distasteful expression, as if a dead ferret had been slapped down on his bartop. Then, with an air of humoring the bloodied adventurers before him, he doffed his chambermaid’s had and placed the bloody, dripping wig atop his hairless demon head.

“…thank you…” he murmured. “Just what…I have always wanted…I’m sure.”

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Excerpted from the Ruins & Rogues Creature Compendium, incorporating materials from the Sorcerers & Sabers Interverse Guide

WREATH WRAITH
Size/Type: Small Fundamental (Earth, Extra-Continuum)
Hit Dice: 4d8+12 (30 hp)
Initiative: +1
Speed: 5 ft.
Armor Class: 17
Base Attack/Grapple: +3/+8
Attack: Tentacle strike +8 melee (1d8+7)
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Special Attacks: Eye Beam, Hypnotize, Entangle, Short Range Teleport
Special Qualities: Darkvision 60 ft.
Saves: Fort +7, Ref +0, Will +1
Abilities: Str 21, Dex 8, Con 17, Int 4, Wis 11, Cha 11
Skills: Listen +6, Spot +5
Environment: Fundamental Continuum of Trees
Organization: Solitary
Challenge Rating: 3
Treasure: Class D
Alignment: Neutral evil
Advancement: 3 HD
Description:

A creature of the Fundamental Continuum of Trees, wreath wraiths are basically sedentary creatures that feed on prey of opportunity, primarily in human settlements around the holidays. Attaching themselves to doors or walls with sticky secretions, the wraith’s woody body resembles a festive wreath, allowing it to lie in wait, camaouflaged.

Once prey is in range, the wraith will open its large central eye and lash out with its tentacles. It will attempt to grapple and immobilize prey before using its eye beam to finish them off. All creatures beholding its slit-pupiled yellow-rimmed eye must pass a Will save or be hypnotized as per the spell.

If pressed, once per day the wraith may call upon its connection with the Fundamental Continuum of Trees to summon a mass of writhing roots from the ground to entangle as per the spell. It may also perform a short range teleport to any location within its field of vision once per day; it uses this to change positions quickly or to flee battle faster than its stumpy back tentacles can carry it. However, the wraith must break off all attacks and release all grappled or hypnotized victims to teleport.

The wreath wraith exists in a number of color variations that feed throughout the year, with orange-and-black specimens prominent around Hallowseve and white-green-red ones encountered closer to Candlemas. The method which they use to travel from the Fundamental Continuum of Trees to the Primary Worlds remains unknown, as does their method of reproduction.

Note that, despite its name, the wreath wraith is not undead and cannot be turned by a cleric.

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“I just…I haven’t seen her in so long,” bawled Vakt the Rosy into his cups.

“There, there. Tinuviel’s just not feeling well after getting scratched up by a jackalwere in the middle of a cavern infested with gibberlings,” said Iffy the elf. “She’ll be down soon enough.

“She’s just so short…so sweet…so tiny…so…so…” Vakt began bawling again.

“I think you’ve had enough,” deadpanned Chanel the elven cleric. “How much have you had to drink already?”

“It’s just root beer,” Vakt sniffed. “House blend. Iazgu’s still making my first tequila slammer.”

“Maybe you should go a bit easy on the tequila slammers,” said Adenan the halfling.

“HEY!” barked Iazgu the Flayer, demon of the Abyss and chambermaid/bartender for the Demon Arms Inn. “I’ll not hear a word said against my tequila slammers! It’s a recipe of the abyssal realms, strong enough to stun a quasit, and it’s the only thing close to a real drink that’s been served here in 10,000 years!”


Creeping up on the clearing, they saw Mercury the bulldog in the midst of a crowd of howling gibberlings, not unlike the ones they had fought in Ransack Cavern earlier. He was being ridden bareback by a gibberling while the others hooted and cheered at the spectacle. For his part, Mercury seemed rather resigned to this, accepting it as just a fact of life: the sky was blue, the trees were green, and he was ridden by tiny hyperactive monsters.

Adenan grabbed one of the scruffy horrors by his hair and yanked him backwards. “What do you think you’re doing?” she growled.

“Riding! Fun!” squeaked the thrashing gibberling. “I know you! You killed Gus! And Gus Two! I’m Gus Four!”

“Let the bulldog go,” Adenan continued, as menacingly as any halfling could, “or I’ll squash you into jelly before I throw you in the river.”

“No! Not jelly! Jellied gibbs can’t get into gibberheaven!” The gibberling seemed to steel himself a bit. “But dog is ours. Has been forever.”

“No he isn’t.”

“Is too! Used to guard cave! Hatched him ourselves!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Don’t know where dogs come from!” the gibberling wailed.


The library golem was impassive. “You must return the stolen book and pay the fine, or your life is forfeit. The fine is 50 gold. Pay or die.”

Iffy raised her hands. “But my library has an interlibrary loan program with the Elderbrary,” she said in her most convincingly scholarly tone. “We don’t have to pay any fine if we return it!”

Clicking and whirring as it processed this, the golem demurred. “Very well. Surrender the Monster Manual and we will consider your hold lifted.”

Longingly, reluctantly, Iffy gave up the tome. The library golem inserted the volume into its book drop slot, whirred some more, and departed.

A moment later, Iffy the elf turned on Mr. Funderberger IV, who throughout the conversation had been trying to back into the tick copse of woods surrounding the meeting spot. “YOU!” she roared. “THAT BOOK WAS STOLEN!”

“I gave you a good deal,” he whined.

“NO YOU DIDN’T!” Iffy shrieked. “I HAD TO DO THINGS FOR THAT BOOK!”

“What exactly did you have to do?” said Chanel the elven cleric. “You still haven’t told us how much sugar you had to give.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny a specific amount of sugar given!” Iffy roared. “But he’s gonna pay!”

Mr. Funderberger IV had quite enough; he made to bolt. Iffy, in an uncharacteristic show of physical prowess, tripped him with her staff.

Then, she proceeded to pummel him senseless.

“Let’s see how you like THIS sugar!” she screamed, drawing her dagger. Casting Phineas’s Phun Phoam on Funderberger’s head, she used her dagger to shave off his carefully coiffed locks. Then she took everything of value in his pockets, even down to his phony tin sword.

“I think you’ve gotten your revenge, Iffy,” said Adenan.

“Hardly!” Iffy continued. “Mercury! Bulldog! Get over here and piss on Mr. Funderberger IV! We’ll see how much sugar you get after that!”

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Ros, Reverand Mother of the True Temple of Jovan (not to be confused with the False Temple of Jovan that sent gibbering minions and skeletons to attack defenseless towns), appeared at the door of the Demon Arms Inn, resplendent in her crimson robes.

“Were there not more of you before?” she said in melodious tones. “I have come to offer thanks and apologize for my earlier brusqueness.”

“Tinuviel and Chanel decided to spend the night outside, camping in the streets,” said Iffy the elven conjurer. “Gora the Seventh did kind of pick our pocket before she offered us free room and board for the winter.”

“I see,” said Ros. “Well, I wanted to offer you a nugget of information in recompense. When the followers of false Jovan invaded, as you know, you allowed them to escape with a wagon filled with prisoners.”

Adenan the halfling bruiser bristled at this suggestion that they had failed. “What about it?”

“One of the Jovan cultists was captured by the city guard. He…perished…under interrogaion, but not before revealing the heading that the prisoners may have followed.”

“Excellent!” Iffy cried. “We can go rescue them, really live up to our status as associate junior guards!”

“I must admit,” added Reverend Mother Ros, “normally I have to pay quite handsomely in bribes for this sort of information from the guards. But this time, one of the guards offered it to me quite willingly.”

Iffy and Adenan looked at each other with loaded expressions. They knew all about their halfling ne’er-do-well friend Tinuviel’s continuing flirtations with Vakt the city guard.

Ros held up a scroll. “The guard only insisted that the information be given directly and personally to a short woman,” she continued. She thrust the scroll into Adenan’s hands, oblivious to the halfling’s eyes suddenly swelling to saucers. “He also asked that I give you…something else…but I regret that my oath as a Reverand Mother of Jovan makes that impossible.”

The Reverand Mother departed, leaving Adenan holding the scroll, stunned, and her companions overtaken by hopeless laughter.


The last gibberling–a tiny whirlwind of teeth and fur that seemed a cross between a gibbon and a Pomeranian pup–took Chanel’s blow to the head and passed out cold. The others tied him up, and turned to Adenan to converse with the creature, since she had taken a minor in Gibber Languages at university.

“Who are you?” she said in Gibbertongue. “Who else is in this cave? Talk or I’ll throw you into the river!”

“You-killed-my-friends!” the gibberling motormouthed. “You-killed-Gus! You-squashed-him-into-jelly! Gus-had-gibberlettes-and-a-gibberwife!”

Adenan bonked the gibberling over the head. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Who else is in this cave?”

“I’m-Gus. Gus-Two. Lots-of-Gusses,” the gibberling…well…gibbered. “Lots-of-us-in-here. Some-big-green-ones-too. And-the-boss.”

“What’s the boss?”

“Big!”

Adenan rolled her eyes. “What about the prisoners?”

“Oh-yeah-boss-has-some-prisoners. Gonna-eat-em-soon! Taste-good. Like-the-horses-outside. Ate-them-and-then-burned-the-bits-for-fun!”


Attempting to sneak around a corner of Ransack Cavern, Tinuviel the halfling rogue instead came face to face with a young troll–one of the “green-ones” that Gus Two had gibbered on about before he had run off screaming and broken his neck in a deadfall trap.

Normally, she was decently sneaky. But this time, Tinuviel tripped over her own foot-hairs and tumbled straight to the ground. Her cooking set tumbled out of her rucksack, making such a ruckus that it could have woken the dead (had any of the skeletons they’d fought earlier been present).

“What that?” the troll cried. “Who there?”

Thinking quickly, Tinuviel got up, dusted herself off, and bowed deeply. “Why, I’m one of you! My most humble apologies, sir. I seem to have gotten lost looking for the boss.”

The troll regarded the tiny halfling with deep suspicion. “You smell like Gus,” he snarled. “Smell like Gus Two. Like Gus Two’s gooey bits. You kill him?”

“Of course not,” saif Tinuviel, bowing again. “He killed himself by running into a deadfall. But I’m still one of you, one of the Ransack Cavern gang through and through.”

“What the password?” the troll said, readying its fists.

“The password is…” Tinuviel racked her thoughts, and coughed up the first word that came to mind: “…flugelhorn.”

The troll gaped. The password was indeed “flugelhorn,” after the boss’s ill-fated stint as a brass player. “How you know that?”

“Like I said,” Tinuviel grinned. “I’m one of you.”

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“I do not believe you for a minute,” said Ockham the Red. “You are surely one of them.”

He had an impressive countenance as a full-blooded orc, made all the more so by his immaculate sky-blue uniform with crossed white belts and brass polished to a mirror-shine. It was undermined somewhat by the fact that he and the other two Vallia guardsmen, Vakt the Rosy and Pyse the Peach, had been locked in the jail of their own stockade, blindsided by the insane cultists of Jovan and their attendent skeletons.

“Didn’t you see the light show downstairs?” said Tinuviel the halfling. “Our cleric Chanel just channeled enough positive energy to be seen from the Caldera rim and it double-killed four skeletons all at once.”

Ockham harrumphed. “You lie. I wouldn’t believe you if you laid the severed heads of those Jovan-addled brigands downstairs at my feet.”

“Funny you should mention that,” said Tinuviel. “Adenan, let ‘erm rip.”

The two halflings each unfurled the dripping bundles in their hands, revealing the severed heads of the brigands that they had just killed. Adenan rolled the head of the white-kerchiefed brigand who had sicced the skeletons on them into Ockham’s cell. Tinuviel spun the red-kerchiefed head of the villian who had stabbed poor Iffy to within an ich of her squishy life into
Vakt’s prison.

Ockham picked up the dripping countenance and nodded curtly. “I am not afraid to admit when I am wrong,” said he. “This is definitely one of the foul brigands from the hills who turned of late to Jovan-worshipping insanity. Truly you are not one of they.”

“Damn straight,” groused Adenan, handing the cell keys to her halfling compatriot. She was still upset that her threat to hurl Ockham into the river had been laughed off.

Tinuviel unlocked Ockham’s cell, and then Vakt’s. That guard, given the gift of the dripping head of his enemy, looked down at the tiny halfling opening his cell with starry eyes. He fell to his knees as she opened the door.

“T-thank you, my lady,” he whispered through trembling besotted lips. “I have never seen a woman as…short…and as…formidible…as you.”

Tinuviel winked at him and tossed him the weapon the Jovan-crazed villains had deprived him of. Already on his knees, Vakt swooned a bit and awkwardly blew her a kiss.

The halfling mimed catching it, and placed it in her pocket before traipsing off and opening the last cell.

“I hope you realize that you’ve just made that poor guy fall in love with you,” groused Adenan.

“It’s cute,” said Tinuviel, dismissively. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Adenan looked back at Vakt the Rosy, who was busy composing a love poem on the blood-soaked kerchief of the severed head in his cell. “What indeed,” she sighed.

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“Nope!” cried Tinuviel, looking at the ten-foot-high battlements of the Vallia Stockade. “You are NOT throwing me up there! Nobody tosses this halfling!”

Adenan walked up to her halfling compatriot, on whom she had a good few inches (to say nothing of her much more fit physique). With her nose a mere inch from Tinuviel’s, her eyes narrowed, she riposted: “I’m going to toss you either way,” she growled. “It’s up to you whether you land on the battlements or in the river.”

The vivacious halfling wilted like a summer daisy in the face of her companion’s intimidating surety. “Fine, fine!” she cried, raising her hands. “Just be careful Watch the face!”

“I’m always careful,” Adenan said in her customary monotone. “Now stop whining or I’ll carefully chuck you in the shallowest part of the river.”

“How is she going to do it?” whispered their companion, Iffy the elf. “They’re practically the same size.”

“Don’t screw around with a halfling who knows what she wants,” replied Chanel, their other elf fellow-traveler. “Adenan can throw anything.”

As the fairfolk whisprered, Adenan seized her smaller compatriot by one arm and one leg. Spinning around several times like a shot-putter to gain momentum, she lifted Tinuviel up and released her at the apogee of the swing.

“Crap, crap, crap, craaaaaaaaaaap!” shrieked the smaller, shorter halfling as she sailed upward in a parabolic arc. It was enough to surmount the low battlements of the stockade, and the others hear her come to a safe landing above, at least judging by the volume of complaints that drifted down.

“Now throw down a rope so I can help you get in,” huffed Adenan. “We’ll open the door from the inside and get the drop on them.”

“No, I’m going in alone!” Tinuviel pouted from the battlements.

“I’m coming up there whether it’s with a rope or with my nails,” said Adenan flatly. “And whether I beat the window in with my fists or with your head depends entirely on that.”

“Don’t screw around with a halfling that knows what she wants,” Iffy echoed with a low whistle.

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Sourced from the Ruins & Rogues Adventurer’s Guidebook, 5th Edition

Class Description: Works of obscure scholars publishing in dead tongues centuries ago, tales so popular they are stolen over and over again by jealous cheapskates, statistics of obscure government agencies beyond mortal control…these arcane secrets and many more are a siren song to people with little ambition, an obsessive-compulsive’s eye for detail, and an intellect that absorbs trivia like an organic sponge. This is the path trod by Librarians. These canny scholars gather, catalog, and occasionally deign to answer questions regarding arcane information. While they are generally incapable of acting on the information so gathered to work wonders like a Wizard or touch the immortal divine like a Cleric, the Librarian is not to be underestimated. Or so they say. Some Librarians specialize in particular areas, devoting decades to schools of bibliomancy like cataloging, circulation, or reference, others dabble in all of the above with knitting and felinomancy to boot. Whatever their particular knack, Librarians are a force to be reckoned with whenever the campaign includes a library, archive, bookstore, or similar agglutination of books and information.

Role: Librarians are masters (and mistresses) of lore and learning, capable of finding books and information to at least sort of meet every conceivable need. While their offensive, defensive, magic, and healing skills are generally nil, a skillfully employed librarian can often mean the difference between spending three hours or seven lifetimes in the Great World Library dungeon.

NOTE: Unlike the previous editions, the 5th edition of Ruins & Rogues now classifies Archivists as a separate class rather than a subclass as in the 3rd edition or a prestige class as in the 4th edition. No Librarian skills can be learned by Archivists or vice-versa without dual- or multi-classing. For more information on the more focused, more intuitive, but less open and share-y Archivist class, please see pg. 488.

Alignment: Generally Lawful Liberal, Chaotic Liberal, or Neutral Liberal. Lawful Conservative, Chaotic Conservative, and Neutral Conservative Librarians suffer -1 to all rolls and saving throws versus Peer Pressure, Unspoken Assumptions, and Ivory Tower.

Hit Die: 1d4 -1

Starting Wealth: 1d4 x -100 gold pieces (average -250 gold pieces) to represent crippling student loans and low pay in general.

Starting Equipment: Each Librarian character begins play with an outfit worth 10 gold pieces, a library worth 100 gold pieces, and a cat worth -100 gold pieces (to cover the cost of vaccinations, spaying/neutering, and damage to real property). A Librarian character may forego the cat to increase the value of their starting library to 200 gold pieces but will suffer a -1 penalty on all bibliomancy rolls against other librarians.

Primary Class Statistics: Intelligence (INT), Obsession (OBS)

Secondary Class Statistics: Dexterity (DEX), Cats (CATS)

Class Skills: A Librarian’s class skills are Appraise (INT), Bibliomancy (see below), Cataloging (OBS), Circulation (DEX), Evaluate (INT), Felinomancy (CATS), Knowledge (INT), Linguistics (INT), Research (OBS), and Repair Book (OBS).

NOTE: A Librarian character’s bibliomancy skill is equal to: (size of their library)/100 + Intelligence

Skill Ranks/Level: 1 + INT modifier + OBS modifier

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“Are…are you sure it’s okay to play here?” Jared Bowen, one of the usual players in Blaine Saunders’ Ruins and Rogues roleplaying group, shifted nervously in his chair. They were set up in the Frontier Books store that had once dominated downtown Hopewell, MI, surrounded by empty shelves and torn-up displays and walled off from the remaining functional parts of the store by still more empty shelves and torn-up displays.

“This place is going out of business in a month,” said Blaine irritably. “The fixtures are for sale. I bought this table and chairs that used to be in the Stubb’s coffee upstairs for fifty bucks, and until I con borrow my cousin Jimmy’s truck it stays here. Also, I’m assistant manager and about to lose my job after firing everyone who worked under me.” He tapped his soon-to-be-turned-in maroon vest for added effect.

“But still…I dunno…” squirmed Jared.

“Okay, look. There’s a shelf of gaming books by the exit. The Ruins and Rogues Adventurer’s Guidebook, the Creature Compendium, even the Interverse Guide, all 5th edition, all 40% off. Please buy one to support your local failing Frontier Books location. There, I even made a sales pitch. Are we cool now?”

“We’re cool,” said Neal Tate, Blaine’s other Ruins & Rogues veteran. “But just so you know, the 5th edition is the Antichrist. 2nd edition for life.”

“Of course.” Blaine rolled his eyes. Before he could continue setting up the gameboard and Adventure Master screen, he squawked at the sight of Neal placing a small–and bright international orange–bag of dice on the ex-Stubb’s table. “Whoa-whoa-whoa! What are you bringing out the Unholy Rollers for?”

Neal shrugged and dumped out the dice onto the table. “It’s supposed to be a fun game, right?”

The Unholy Rollers were dice that had become indisputably jinxed, a fact which all the players in Blaine’s group believed unquestionably. The Unholy Rollers would unerringly roll a low number when a high one was called for, or a low number when a high one was ideal–unless you anticipated the jinx, in which case it would refuse to work. Worst of all, the effect was contagious. There had been only one Unholy Roller to begin with, a bone-white d20 that had been given out as a tchotchke at a long-ago WyvernCon, but every dice it had come into contact with had acquired the curse. It was a cherished in-joke and a source of much humor among the players.

“Listen, Neal,” said Blaine. “I was able to get Rosetta McFadden to join us as our noob this campaign, okay? I have been working on turning her mild interest in boardgames into actually showing up for months, literally months. I held the game here specifically so she wouldn’t see my apartment–or, gods forbid, my parents’ place, which is where I’m headed when I get laid off and my rent check bounces. You’re not going to jinx me, or her, with the Unholy Rollers. Not this time.”

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