After Thorfinn’s flashy display, his heirloom sword’s story sparks bitterness in Rosie. But someone else is more affected in ways Rosie doesn’t expect. Can she put him at ease? Should she?

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

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My savvy negotiating got me an alliance with the war general Lord Spear, and I quickly became mates with his tribune Cynthia, but I’m finding there are some people, or rather creatures, who are simply beyond my ability to influence.

I’m backed up in the corner of a room that might once have been a lush sitting room in a duke’s mansion of old. If it was, it’s been ages since the last time a duke used it to have a break. Based on the tattered carpet and smell of rotting wood that comes from the old wardrobes along the walls, this room has been abandoned for centuries.

My eyes are on the abominable creature that dwells in the room, and I distance myself from it as much as possible. 

The vaguely human-shaped monstrosity has a crooked face and tentacle beard, and it stands upright despite a limp, boneless body. Wearing tattered clothes as old as the room itself, its skin is blackened with centuries of rot.

It is the manifestation of the bogeymen I was told scary stories about as a child—ill-advised stories to be telling children—and I presume it is the mutated vessel of a person or thing that once lived here. I rack my brain for a way to attack my foe, but I’m drawing a blank as it bashes my companions with flail-like arms.

This bogeyman is unintelligible, but I’m certain of two things: it’s angry we’ve disturbed its rest, and it’s uninterested in a peaceful resolution to our differences. I know because I tried to reason with it, but failed miserably.

Varo and Thorfinn fearlessly surround the bogeyman, alternately lunging to strike, then deflecting a counter-attack. Varo, a tall, lanky man with pointed half-elf ears like my own, glares past the bogeyman at Thorfinn, a sturdy halfling no more than three feet tall. They’ve each developed a unique way of wielding their exotic-looking, single-edged blades—katanas, as the lads have called them—and it’s apparent this battle is not only against the monster, it’s over who has the superior technique.

Varo aims to strike, but Thorfinn tumbles forward and springs into the air. Climbing the bogeyman, the halfling’s katana slashes upward through its torso and splits the head with a burst of ashy flesh. The small warrior lands softly, and the monster collapses with a limp thud.

I scan the room, prepared for another monster to leap from behind a wardrobe. All is quiet.

I decide the bogeyman was the only threat, and the room is secure. Nice work by the lads. I approach the corpse, ready for the part where I contribute.

I spent quite a lot of free time in my youth happily studying the properties of various potions and enchanted relics. Reaching into the corpse’s tattered pockets, I recognize many of the items and can make an educated guess about the others. Once I’ve determined whether they’re safe to use, I’ll help distribute them among the group.

While I work, Varo turns to Thorfinn, striking up a conversation with his smaller battle companion. Varo’s face suggests he’s impressed, but his voice sounds grim as ever. “What a move. How did you suddenly learn to fight like that?”

What’s this about? Has Thorfinn improved? I always thought he’d been good. Then again, I don’t have an eye for the subtle art of katana fighting.

“Finally!” Thorfinn perks up, electrified by the question. “I was starting to think no one would ever notice.” He segues into a seemingly unrelated topic. “Katanas are a pretty rare weapon, wouldn’t you agree? Mine was a hand-me-down from my father.”

I wouldn’t know about katanas, Thorfinn, I think bitterly, and I wouldn’t know about hand-me-downs either. The only inheritance I ever got from my parents were memories of a lousy father and an overworked mother. I bite my tongue.

Varo subtly nods his agreement, confirming the halfling’s claim. He usually avoids interacting, but he’s engaging with the subject of katanas.

“In halfling culture,” Thorfinn continues, “it’s said that a katana is made for one person alone, and that person’s blood is infused with the blade itself when it is forged. So if you think about it, the fact that I received mine from my father…”

I lose interest. Whatever Thorfinn is implying, I just watched him wield the weapon perfectly fine, so it is not a problem for right now. The haunted room’s musty scent is an ever-present reminder of the dangers lurking in adjacent rooms. Moreover, we’ve arranged for a small-scale war to happen just outside these catacombs, and we need to be there when it starts. Time is precious right now.

I raise the vial I’ve been holding to where I can see it clearly. I’m hoping Thorfinn notices my disinterest and keeps his story brief.

The potion’s orange and white swirl, like cream stirred through my popular homemade orange custard, is a key property of potions that enhance size and strength. Why would something like this be in a bogeyman’s pockets?

When Thorfinn finishes his monologue, Varo responds, “Yeah. As for me, my katana was an heirloom passed on to me by the Dolor family.”

I say nothing, leaving room for Varo to tell his story next. Knowing what Varo has mentioned about the Dolor family before, it’s hard to feel bitter towards him like I am Thorfinn, and I don’t want to get in the way of a rare opportunity for him to open up.

The Dolor family took Varo in when he was an orphan, but all members of the noble family have since been assassinated, leaving Varo an orphan yet again. The relentless trauma he must have endured explains his reserved nature—I’ve noticed he sabotages every opportunity he has to get close to anyone. I wish he’d let the rest of the lads and me in just a little bit more.

But Varo adds nothing else. Instead, there is a brief awkward pause.

“Right,” Thorfinn continues, “so the other week, I had this dream about my father.”

Thorfinn plunges right into a detailed story about his dream. There is no stopping him, and I tune his voice out again as he recounts having visions of his ancestors.

I pop the potion’s cork and waft the fumes, searching for signs of contamination. I detect notes of what smells like a military training ground—sweat, dirt, and iron—but that is expected for this type of potion.

I’ll have to give this to our brutish friend Thamnug, but warn him it won’t taste nearly as good as it looks. Although, based on the way he eats, I’m not sure he tastes anything.

“…and when I woke up,” Thorfinn speaks with an air of cockiness as he concludes his story, “my katana was hot, and I was able to wield it so much more easily.”

“Thorfinn,” I say, noticing something odd, “why did you wait a whole week to tell us about this?”

What possessed me to ask that? I’ve invited him to continue monologuing.

Thankfully, Thorfinn only shrugs in response.

He must not be concerned with the implications of his vision. Given how passionately he shared his story, I would’ve guessed he was worried about a blood curse or something that needed immediate attention. But it seems all that needed attention was how brilliant he is. Bully for him.

Meanwhile, Varo is brooding in silence. Perhaps he’s preoccupied with a memory triggered by Thorfinn’s story? We’re losing time over idle chat, but these catacombs are a dangerous place for a clouded mind when exploring.

I need to keep the exchange efficient while respecting that I navigate sensitive ground for the twice-orphaned half-elf. “Varo,” I say tentatively, “I’m curious about the story behind your katana as well, if you’re willing to share?”

Take the focus and pressure off him, and make a response optional, in case I’ve misread the situation. The same approach mum used for dad when he was being difficult.

I’m praying a question about family history isn’t later reciprocated towards me. It’s the last thing I want to talk about right now. You hypocrite.

“Meh,” Varo hesitates. “It’s a touchy subject.”

Fair. “That’s quite alright,” I say, quickly shutting the topic down. Not exactly encouraging, but also not an outright rejection, which tells me I wasn’t completely mad to ask. I’m holding on to one last thing I could try to put his mind at ease.

The lads and I scour the room for anything else worth collecting, but find nothing. For all the treasures hidden throughout these catacombs, many rooms maddeningly serve little or no purpose. But now is not the time to dwell on that.

Varo passes by me on our way to the door. I turn to him and curl my lips into a soft smile. He notices, but keeps walking.

“I just want you to know,” I say. Varo stops, but doesn’t turn. “I’m here if you need to talk.”

He looks at me over his shoulder. For a moment, I can see the sadness slowly leaving his eyes. “Thanks,” he responds. “I’ll think about it.”

Baby steps. I think that’s the closest I’ve seen Varo come to letting someone in for a while, and it’s just in time for us to press onward.