Rosie and company find themselves outmatched for the first time since the mercenaries banded together. Can they escape with their lives, and if so, what will be the cost?

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

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“I’m a soldier… getting on with it is what we do. It’s actually a blissfully simple life.”

Captain Cynthia’s week-old words echo in my mind. I find myself hiding in the cover of a magical fog cloud I’ve created—a safe little haven surrounded by the heat of battle.

Cultists are in the middle of an all-out assault on the tavern the lads and I had chosen to stay at. Armed with blades, bows, and an array of nefarious spells, they are here to break in and capture my young warrior friend Varo.

I’m backed into a corner, which doesn’t feel “blissfully simple” by any stretch of the imagination. Cynthia must have gone mad from being a soldier for so long.

“Whatever happens, I’ll either be dead, or I’ll move on to my next duty.”

How can she speak so flippantly about death? I’m terrified by the thought I could be dead before this battle is over. Clearly, I’m not cut out for the life of a soldier, but I can’t quit right now. One of the lads, defending the front door outside, floated the idea of fleeing, but no one has acted on it yet. 

Despite my shelter, an invisible wave of pain slams into me like a stampeding horse. I endured one of these a few days ago—the violent judgement of some malevolent, otherworldly being summoned by a nearby cultist. Although I’ve had plenty of general practice willing pain away, this is too much to ignore entirely. My jaw sets as exhaustion shakes my bones.

I’ve had quite enough of fighting these bloody cultists. The uncivilized goblin cult was one thing, but these Orillabods—a noble family—have them too? I should know better than to be shocked after hearing all the horrible stories of things the family has done to my friends. Only the dead gods know what they’ll do to Varo if they capture the poor boy, and damned if I let that happen.

The wave of pain tells me my haven is no longer safe, and I’m not going down without a fight. I step forward from the tavern’s outer wall.

The bar and dining areas are separated by an inner wall, with a shared fireplace bridging the rooms. In my corner of the bar area, I hear cultists who have entered the dining area through the back door and are chanting incantations as they prepare to enter the bar. I have an idea that will slow them down.

With a vial of clear potion in one hand, I emerge from the fog cloud, pulling a vial of red liquid from my purse. It’ll be nice to have options when I find out what’s going on out there.

I’ve barely emerged from the cloud when Varo dashes past me, through the fog, and out of the building.

“Varo!” I say, but his footsteps are already through the front door as he joins the fray. What the bloody hell? He’s leaving Dheavar and me exposed to the mounting ambush?

I suppose Varo’s had enough of being cornered, so we’ll have to fend for ourselves. The cultists are clustered near the door to the bar, and I hurl my red vial over the fireplace at the one in the middle.

-kshh-vwOOSH-

The vial hits my target, shattering on impact and releasing its alchemical contents. Exposed to the air, the liquid creates a burst of flames, setting my target’s clothing alight and scorching the cultists nearby. That should keep them occupied.

“Dheavar!” I catch my elven friend’s attention while the cultists stamp out the flames. He’s on his way to the door that connects the rooms, and I extend the clear potion towards him. He dutifully whisks it away as he runs by. “Pour that on the door to seal it shut,” I instruct.

“Got it!” Dheavar replies, and he does so. Across the fireplace, one of the cultists reaches for the door handle, but it doesn’t budge.

I’m relieved. If Dheavar had been a moment later, the cultists would’ve unleashed their full strength on him.

Take that, you prats. I can’t stop the grin that paints across my lips, and my smug look infuriates one of the singed cultists. My eyes widen. Oh, bother. This is certainly unwelcome attention.

I brace myself as the cultist pulls a dagger into an overhead throwing stance. The dagger is released, and I lose track of it in the flickering fireplace. It reappears, striking me between my chest and shoulder, and I shout in pain.

I’m immediately woozy and stagger back into the thick fog. Our small victory was worth it, though—I’m guessing Dheavar and I bought ourselves a good few moments. Sure enough, I hear the cultists bashing the door repeatedly to no avail.

I’d forgotten about the battle happening out the front door. Suddenly, a second wave of malevolent judgment hits, and the pulse is more than I can handle. The fog turns to a blur, and all I hear is a ringing in my ears. My limbs go numb, and I collapse backwards. Vision fading, my cheek rests against the floor.

My fall must have made an alarming ruckus. As I’m fighting to stay conscious, a hand gently turns my head.

I awake abruptly to the foggy sight of Dheavar crouched at my side, an empty vial of healing potion in the elf’s hand.

“Are you alright?” he asks, waving a finger back and forth in front of my eyes.

“I’m still bleeding,” I reply simply, looking at the rip in my shirt. The dagger’s gone, but blood oozes from my shoulder.

Oops. Probably not the response he was hoping for. I meet Dheavar’s eyes. “Erm, I mean… I’m fine, thank you.” I attempt to sit up on my elbows, but my shoulder gives out from the pain. Dheavar doesn’t look entirely convinced I’m fine, but he stands upright anyway.

Dheavar can be a twit at times, but then there are moments like these where I’d be dead without him, and they make it impossible to hate the hairy-chested historian.

Still, I can’t believe those fingers touched my face. Ick.

Outside the tavern, Thorfinn shouts. “Guys! We gotta run!”

Dheavar makes a move for the exit, and I know it’s finally time to go. I refuse to die today. I struggle to my feet, brush my skirts, and my pride and I follow the elf into the street.

Dheavar and I arrive at a narrow intersection. Thorfinn is long gone, and Varo is fending off two cultists, alone. The cultist in the back completes an incantation, and suddenly Varo turns and sprints the opposite direction, giving up the fight. I suppose we are fleeing that way, then. Dheavar and I follow his lead.

I know a fear jinx when I see one. I consider the scroll in my bag that can counter the jinx placed on Varo, but casting it would take precious time. Besides, running away is already what Varo needs to be doing. We aren’t much faster than the cultists, and I have to keep up.

As I navigate the streets, I pass by an inviting alley. It’s a tempting opportunity to take a single turn and simply disappear. Both the Orillabods and my companions would easily lose track of me in the chaos. I could abandon this fight, the lads, and the life of a soldier—go home to the safety of my old life. I picture the peacefulness of sleeping in my own bed again. I could live with that.

But I don’t turn. I keep on, and it’s the thought of my friends and family that keeps me going—what I couldn’t live with is abandoning them. They need my support, and this is how I’ve chosen to support them.

The coins in my purse jingling with each running step are a reminder of the progress I’ve made already. If I keep going, my nest egg will only continue to grow. It’s all for them, I remind myself.

I reach the next corner where Thorfinn sits atop his war dog Axel. He’s joined by Varo and Dheavar, who have paused their flight.

“Which way?” I ask, wondering where the last two of our group—the gnome and dwarf—have disappeared to. I haven’t seen them for a while, and I hope they’ve already escaped.

Thorfinn turns to face me, but his eyes are dodgy. “Hell if I know,” he says, “I can’t see shit!”

“What happened to you?” Dheavar asks, dumbfounded.

I take a step forward, leaning in for a closer look. Oh, bloody hell. I recognize the effects of dark magic on Thorfinn’s eyes. He’s been afflicted with a curse of permanent blindness.

Ah, well. Perhaps a competent healer can cure Thorfinn of his curse.

Then it hits me. They might, for a steep price. I close my eyes and shake my head, and my purse feels a little lighter already. Yet another setback.

“This way,” Dheavar says, waving an arm as he rounds the corner. Footsteps behind us grow louder as the Orillabod cultists are catching up.

Luckily, Axel is a good boy and can still see. He takes Thorfinn’s blind arse along for the ride as we continue fleeing up the street. Varo, still captivated by the fear jinx, sprints ahead without a word.

My head is spinning as we flee. If any one of us had made another mistake, I’d be dead on the floor of that tavern. The thought makes my throat start to close up.

Counter jinxes and healers can fix fear and blindness. My curse, it turns out, is one that cannot be cured by either magical or mundane methods: I care too damn much.