Gettin’ the Band Back Together, Sort Of

Inspirational Song: The Boys Are Back in Town (Thin Lizzy)

After more than a month of delays and last minute cancellations, we finally resumed the primary D&D campaign, the one that Mr S-P moderates. While I made dinner (stir fry seasoned with ginger, sesame, and coconut aminos), the group filtered in and started to review where we left off. I did not remember a single detail of where we were and exactly what we had been doing last. As bits and pieces of the story were told, everyone else chimed in with remembrances as they picked up on it. My neighbor looked at me and asked how they knew any of this. Was it just because they were sober and he wasn’t? I said yes, and for me they are like half my age. Sober and young. I couldn’t compete.

We were supposed to supply up and head out to the next stage of our scripted adventure. I’ll lean heavily on those words “supposed to.” The most outside-the-box thinker in the group immediately threw up a giant detour. I would call it an ad-lib, but he seemed to have this whole script prepared, as if he had been planning it for all of the weeks we were off. It didn’t go as planned. Again, I need to stress my words: It Did Not Go As Planned. Speeches were made, love was unrequited, natural ones were rolled, and long story short, we now have an elf with the head from the original 1950s version of The Fly. We don’t know how long this will last. Could be a day, could be a fortnight. Needless to say, with one of our party horribly disfigured and unable to speak, we did not make any progress on heading out of town to catch the next bad guy. We are debating whether to buy a hooded cloak and a veil, and just tell passers-by that our companion has leprosy. Or we stay in town a day or two, and hope that the magic spell gone wrong wears off. If we stay, my little wizard gnome needs to go wander around and get herself into a mini-adventure, just long enough to gain 70 experience points so she can level up before we go. It would make a big difference in her survivability going forward.

As it is, my foul-mouthed gnome is pointing fingers at the fly-elf, and laughing like an elementary school bully, drawing portraits of his disfigurement to be used as kompromat later. I never said she was nice.