Rosie expected to be the hero of the battle. When she instead needs to be rescued, her teammates don’t lose faith in her, but she just might.

Actual-play flash fiction from a TTRPG campaign in which I am a player.

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Absolutely perfect.

The goblins in the campsite have only just realized our approach, so this will be a breeze. Huddled near their campfires, they scramble to their feet and rush to prepare for battle.

A well-placed smokescreen spell would plunge the little devils into helpless chaos.

I reach into the bag belted around my waist and produce the scroll containing the necessary spell while the lads rush by, drawing their steel implements made for barbaric hitting and slashing. They get in the goblins’ way, which allows me to complete the incantation uninterrupted.

I speak it, but nothing happens.

What’s going on? I’ve extracted magic from scrolls this way many times before, and it works for me more often than not. Now, in the heat of combat, I’m falling flat. Ugh.

A few goblins escape out either side of the camp, circling to our flank. Two of the lads plus our tenuous ally Boffa – a goblin warrior and delightfully sarcastic woman – have stayed near me, and they confront the enemy goblins. A pocket has formed around me, from here I can safely have another go at the scroll.

One more try should do it.

“Get ready lads!” I say, and attempt the incantation once again.

And again. I recite it over and over, shuffling to stay at the center of safety as the battle swirls around me. I can’t seem to land the correct pronunciation or cadence. I know this isn’t the sort of thing that can be guessed by chance, but I begin desperately chanting at random.

Thorfinn slices down another goblin and turns, staring at me from his war dog’s saddle. His head tilts quizzically, as if to urge, “Any time now would be great.”

Embarrassing. Serves me right for drawing attention to myself. It seems I’ve made a promise I can’t keep.

Standing in my idle stupor, a goblin’s needle-like arrow strikes the back of my upper arm. It’s more surprising than painful, but still… I clutch the wound and turn to find the assailant.

An archer has found a nice rock perch in the back lines, across from Varo and Boffa. He lines up another arrow in my direction.

Before I can call for help, Boffa is already pushing past the goblin warrior in front of her. Varo protests the reckless departure; Boffa ignores him and is stabbed in the back by the warrior as she runs by. She ignores the hit as though nothing happened, meanwhile blood starts pouring down her back.

Varo is a big boy, he’ll be fine on his own.

I’m lucky our savage goblin ally values me more than Varo. She draws the archer’s attention as she barrels across a patch of dry grass, shouting with anger. She takes the archer’s next arrow in stride, and with one massive swing of her horsechopper, the goblin is brutally struck down.

“Thank you, Boffa.” I mutter sheepishly.

Thorfinn directs his war dog to step back from the front lines and addresses me. “How the hell did you get hit? Did you step into the way of that arrow?”

I shake my head quietly, feigning annoyance at his comment. In truth, I’m annoyed at my floundering, and I think Thorfinn detects that.

It’s too late for my shrewdly selected scroll to be of any use in the battle. I wait in my pocket of safety while the rest of the goblins are either killed or flee.

I stand amidst the enemy corpses, stunned. I’d sauntered into the battle expecting to do most of the work. Now, I wonder whether I’m a dead weight that’s being dragged along.

After the last goblin horde we defeated, I’d readily volunteered myself to be the designated keeper of every trinket we plucked from the spoils. This time, I stand back, allowing the others to have the first go.

Thorfinn approaches me, holding out a vial. “I need your help, Rosie. What’s this?”

“Oh?” I hesitate, then take the specimen of sleek glass. Realizing what it is, my palm starts sweating – I don’t want to risk damaging it, so I offer it back. “This is quite a potent healing potion, rather rare. Best used when you’re badly injured.”

Thorfinn refuses the vial. “You hang on to it,” he says. My face drops, so he continues, “Think about it – if it’s really as potent as you say, which I’m sure it is, I’ll need someone to administer it for me. I’ll be too hurt to drink it myself.”

Normally, I’d consider myself the ideal person to hang on to the potion. But I’m feeling outside of my own body, and I’m no longer convinced I should be keeping valuables.

The halfling atop his war dog reaches his hand halfway toward my shoulder, but pulls away, scratching the back of his head instead. “Hey, it’s fine. Really. I still know you’ll save my ass when the time comes. You were just… out of your element today.”

Look at him, getting flustered trying to cheer me. I suppose his explanation seems more plausible than “I’m dead weight.”

I look down at my hand curled around the glass of light blue liquid. Maybe he’s right. I won’t always be in the spotlight of victory. I don’t need to be.

I deposit the vial into one of the many safekeeping compartments in my bag, and my prominent dimples perk up as I crack a half-smile.