“The rest of you ingest alcohol too, I assume?” Russell kept probing.
“Sure,” Terry confirmed.
“Yup,” Glenn added.
“Against my better judgment, yes, I take a deep draw from the mug,” Tim sighed.
“You should trust your judgment more, Tim,” Russell said. Behind his screen, he rolled several dice. After what seemed like a very long amount of time rolling given the fact that nothing had been done other than drink, Russell looked back up at the group. “So, let’s recap for a moment. Does everyone remember when I warned you this whole week that the new module I bought was going to be more realistic, and that meant accounting for weight and food and the like?”
The other players nodded, confused looks spreading across their faces.
“And do you remember how no one bought rations or water when making their characters, so you all wound up starving in the forest earlier?”
“Until yours truly stepped in and found us some food,” Mitch declared.
“You found mushrooms. And you found them when you rolled a critical failure. Didn’t you think that was mildly odd?” Russell asked.
“Whatever, it’s just a Foraging check. Barbarians are made for ass-kicking, not flower picking,” Mitch said.
“Right, but then you brought the mushrooms back to camp and made a soup that everyone ate. That was about four hours ago, in game time, giving the mushrooms ample time to digest and enter your system—a system you just introduced alcohol into.”
“You have a point here?” Mitch asked.
In response, Russell pulled one of his books from behind the screen. It was the module he’d referenced—a pre-made campaign that saved a Game Master from having to create every detail in the imaginary world and instead, handed him one ready to use. The book was already turned to a page with a picture of a mushroom and several paragraphs about said fungi. Russell handed the book to Mitch. “Read the third paragraph.”
“The Drunken Devil is a nickname assigned to this mushroom because of its peculiar effects. It is easily recognized by anyone with the Naturalist skill, and is therefore avoided due to its danger. While The Drunken Devil usually only causes sickness and vomiting six hours after ingestion, if at any point in the twenty-four hours following ingestion the character consumes alcohol, it reacts with the mushroom, causing severe damage and often . . . death,” Mitch said, his voice trailing off near the end.
“Do we get saves?” Glenn asked hopefully.
“I had you make them when you ate the soup. You all failed. And given the damage I just rolled, I’m afraid all of your characters’ heads slump over, slamming into the table,” Russell said.
“So . . . we’re dead?” Tim asked.
“Yes, you are. Consider this an object lesson in listening when I give you fair warnings about changing up the game style. This is also why I had you make backup characters. I figured you guys might blunder into something like this.”
There was the sound of shuffling paper as his players produced new character sheets, tossing away the old ones and leaving them forgotten. To others, though, the deaths of those four characters were anything but forgettable.
“Damn, Grumph, you slipping whiskey into the mead again?” Gabrielle asked as the four strangers dropped their mugs and collapsed onto the table.
“No,” Grumph replied, his half-orc voice like two stones scraping together.
“Then I guess these boys just can’t hold their mead,” Eric ventured, adjusting his armor for the umpteenth time that night and taking another sip of ale. Russell hadn’t mentioned it, but both Eric and Gabrielle were good-looking humans, with Gabrielle more of a classic, blonde beauty, and Eric dark-haired with vibrant eyes. The next voice to speak most certainly did not emanate from an attractive being, though. Not even by gnome standards.
“I suppose the proper procedure here is to loot their purses and dump them outside,” the shadowy-looking gnome said, working his way across the bar. Thistle’s black clothes didn’t quite conceal the crooks in his bones or the strange gait with which he moved.
“Thistle, you know I’m a guard. I can’t just let you loot drunk people randomly,” Eric sighed.
“What if I were to put them up in a room? Then removing their gold would simply be them paying for that service, and since they are not awake to haggle, they can hardly complain later if they feel it was a poor deal. Once services are rendered, there are no refunds.”
“I’m not sure …” Eric wavered.
“The other option is to toss them in the street, and you know how a vulnerable adventurer draws the monsters,” Thistle pointed out.
“Okay, okay, you win. Just gold, though. Stealing equipment would be going too far,” Eric warned.
“Aye, I am fully abreast of general propriety. Gabby, come give me a hand here,” Thistle called.
“Yeah, sure,” Gabrielle agreed. For the daughter of the local mayor, she was oddly undisturbed by carrying out acts less savory than a proper lady of society should be comfortable with, hence why she and Thistle had not quite a friendship, but at least a familiarity with one another.
Together, they went over to the party's table and began removing the gold pouches from the fallen adventurers. Gabrielle was on the heavily-armored one when she smelled something familiar. It took her a moment to place, but as soon as it registered, she jerked back up to a full standing position and began backing away slowly.
“Shit,” Gabrielle swore.
“What’s wrong?” Eric asked her, rising to his own feet in concern.
“They’re dead,” Gabrielle said simply.
“What do you mean ‘dead’?” Eric asked.
“What do you think I mean? Dead, gone, no longer with us, passed on, moved on, bugbear food, are you getting this?”
“But, I mean, how? All they did was walk in and drink Grumph’s mead,” Eric said.
“Yes. That’s what killed them,” Gabrielle confirmed.
“WHAT!” Eric shakily drew his sword and turned around to face the half-orc that loomed at least a foot taller than his own thin form. “Grumph, why would you poison some innocent adventurers?”
“Way to go there, Lord Shaky of Valiantville, but that’s not what I meant,” Gabrielle clarified. “They ate Drunken Devil in the woods at some point and then had alcohol. That will kill most people quicker than an axe to the gut.”
“How can you be so sure?” Eric asked.
“The smell coming from their mouths. It’s very distinctive. It’s one of the deadly plants my parents had a tracker teach me about, since I end up kidnapped in the woods a lot. This was right near the top of the list; they showed me victims as well, so I would recognize the symptoms and scents in case it was ever slipped to me. It’s sickly-sweet and yeasty — the same smell coming from their open mouths right now,” Gabrielle explained.
“This is... this is bad,” Eric said, sheathing his sword. “I mean, this sure looks like Grumph poisoned them.”
“Oh, don’t be such a wench,” Gabrielle chastised him. “It’s not that big of a deal. We throw the corpses in the woods and let the monsters take care of the rest. Look at their equipment; these four are nobodies. No priest will be calling their spirits, or checking on why they died if they vanish. Easy fix.”
“Not quite, I’m afraid,” Thistle said, shambling over with a scroll in his hand. “I discovered something while scouring their belongings that complicates matters.”
“Great,” Eric said. “More trouble.”
“That’s putting it lightly. According to this writ, these four were on their way to the court in Solium to receive a quest from King Liadon himself,” Thistle said.
“Wait, so they were summoned to appear before the king in order to receive a quest?” Gabrielle asked.
“Correct, which means from the minute they received this scroll, they have technically been emissaries in the employ of The Mad King, the one who is known to burn whole villages at the slightest perceived offense,” Thistle confirmed.