Chương 1: What’s the Worst Possible Outcome of a Critical Failure?

Dim light barely illuminated the cramped room. Our group was shoulder to shoulder, fighting for our lives. The world felt still, frozen in time, as I pondered what to do. Everything came down to my decision in this moment. That was in real life. Conditions in the game were eerily similar. I took another look at the battle map. Five enemies clustered around us. We were on our last legs, and it was us or them.

"I cast fireball." The DM raised a skeptical brow. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The rest of my party didn't seem so amused.

"Jesus, Drew. You're not an evocation specialist. You can't just designate which targets not to hit," Molly said.

"This space isn't big enough. You're going to hit us, too," Zach pointed out.

"I didn't ask how big the room was. I said I cast fireball." I counted out my six-siders. I'd bought special dice for occasions just like this. Heavy, cold, metal anodized a deep red. I'd picked them up at a comic con recently, and I'd been itching to use them in the most dramatic way possible. This seemed like one such occasion. We were staring down a total party kill. It could be from my fireball, or it could be from the enemies threatening us. It was their turn after mine.

At least my fireball would give the rest of my teammates a chance to cut the damage in half if they made their saves.

"Wait. Let's increase the dramatic tension," Dan said. Our dungeon master leaned back in his chair.

"Let's have everyone roll their saving throw before you roll damage."

"Me too?" I asked.

"You too. Let's see what you get." I let out a slight chuckle. I didn't care whether I lived or died. Glory would last long after my charred husk was consumed by the dungeon. An epic moment was immortal. I picked up my twenty-sided die and rolled it across my dice mat. As it tumbled against the leather edges before settling, the other members of my group called out their results.

"Seventeen," Justin said.

"Twenty," Molly reported.

"Twenty-six," Zach added.

"What about you?" the DM asked me. This was going to be rough.

"I got a one. Critical failure."

"Oh, boy. Rest in peace," someone said.

"It's been nice knowing you. We'll remember you," someone else added. So what if I didn't make the save against my own fireball? So what if it was a crit fail? It wouldn't be hard to roll up an entirely new character after this. And if the party wiped, well, it might be fun to try a whole new world with a whole new me. If I was gonna go out, I was gonna go out shooting. The tabletop was littered with bottles of wine and expensive whiskeys.

Dan had just opened a cask-strength Scotch he'd brought back from a recent trip to the UK, which we'd been sampling generously as we played.

"Here's the kill shot," I announced, eyeballing a friendly amount into my glass.

"See you on the other side, I hope." The dram went down smooth as liquid brushfire. I could have coughed a fireball. Fitting. I rattled the eight dice in my hand. They clanked together with satisfying weight. The sharp edges of the metal cubes felt deadly enough to cut through skin and bone, given sufficient velocity. I chucked the dice at my mat. All eight of them ricocheted off at an astounding speed. They bounced around the room, defying physics and careening off walls, and then headed right back at my skull.

Apparently, that critical failure of a saving throw had real-world implications. I was too slow to dodge. Somehow, each die hit me consecutively, right in my most vulnerable spot. The strangely familiar, copper taste of my own blood filled my mouth. Everything went dark.

"Hey. Are you awake? Are you drunk?" I blinked my eyes open. It was brighter than I remembered. And I was lying down, too.

"I had a few," I admitted. Everything around me was still blurry. Even without detail, it was pretty clear that I wasn't on the floor of Dan and Molly's house. They had just installed luxury vinyl flooring. No, underneath me was just dirt. Maybe a bit of mud. Possibly some kind of grass. I'd actually had more than a few, and my head was spinning, but even in my state, I could tell the difference between dirt and LVP.

"Well, there's no sleeping here. Public drunkenness is already a nuisance, but when you try to turn a drainage ditch into your personal flophouse, that's where the law draws the line." I blinked away the blurriness and strained to see who was speaking. From where I was lying, it was hard to tell. The voice came from somewhere above me, hard and authoritative. It was a woman's voice, but it wasn't Molly's. In fact, it was completely unidentifiable.

No offense to Molly, but she wasn't much of a role-player, and her character voices were usually half-hearted trash. This woman's tone was on another level. It was all natural and unforced, carrying a strange accent I couldn't quite place. It sounded European, but I couldn't decide whether eastern, western, or somewhere in between. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"Wait. Are you telling me it's against the law to sleep?" I pushed myself up onto an elbow. The ground gave way slightly, and the coolness of water soaked my clothes. Definitely there was mud with this dirt.

"No. But it's against the law to sleep in public when you're drunk."

"And if I'm not drunk?"

"It's frowned upon."

"Well, I'm not drunk."

"And I'm frowning upon you. But let's not forget, you said you'd had a few drinks. According to the law, you could very well be classified as drunk." That sounded like a cop itching to give a highly fallible field sobriety test. Common wisdom said to reject them outright and demand a breathalyzer. The only problem was, I wasn't sure I'd pass. Now, if I were playing my wizard, I'd have a shot. He didn't have proficiency in persuasion, but his charisma score gave him a small bonus.

I wasn't sure I enjoyed the same advantage—especially not while lying in a ditch. Finally, the world came into focus. Wherever I was, it was midday. A gentle breeze blew through the grasses on the walls of the steep gully I was lying in. Next to me, a parched trickle of a stream gurgled past. I was sitting in mud and reeds. Above me, a stern blonde woman stood with her arms crossed. She wore a few pieces of thin but well-placed armor over her body. A sword hung from her hip, resting against her thigh.

A small shield was visible on her back. I shook my head. How hard did those dice hit me? Was I dreaming about Amara, the fantasy world where we'd been playing our role-playing game? If so, my dream was incredibly lifelike. And also, if that were the case, then apparently I was just as single in my dream as I was in real life. Why else would my mind conjure up such a gorgeous woman? Even under her armor, I could tell she had an athletic yet generously proportioned build.

A bare shoulder hinted at muscle beneath skin that shimmered exotically in the sunlight. Strands of blonde hair flew back in the wind, and her amber eyes pierced deep into mine. Pushing myself up further, I tried to brush off as much debris as I could. Mud stuck to my clothes, which were soaked with the stinky, wet goop. She cleared her throat, visibly impatient.

"I don't suppose this is all a dream, is it?" I asked. She scowled and shook her head.

"If it is, then it's more of a nightmare for me. Where did you get those hideous clothes?" I looked down. I was wearing my favorite black Radiohead T-shirt, which had a few holes in it from age, plus a stretched-out collar. My jeans were a size too big, cinched tight with a brown leather belt from Costco. I'd had to stab a new hole in it recently to fit around my slimmer waist. A zip-up hoodie completed the ensemble.

It was supposed to be sort of a brownish yellow, but with all the mud, it was mostly just brown now.

"I guess the shirt is a bit old," I allowed.

"You call that a shirt?" She scoffed. I looked down again, wondering if I'd missed something. I hadn't. Apparently, she was just being mean. I shrugged and grumbled an oath under my breath.

"Don't suppose you have anything useful to contribute here? I'm not sure how I wound up in this ditch, but I'd love a hand getting out. And I wouldn't mind knowing where I am." The woman peered at me suspiciously. Her arms left her hips only to cross over her chest. Somehow, despite adjusting her position, she managed to look just as critical as before.

"I know exactly how you ended up in there."

"Really? How?" My curiosity came through.

"Yes. You got inebriated on some backwoods distiller's moonshine in a disreputable part of our land, moronically stumbled your way to our quaint hamlet, and tripped in while you were blind drunk." I scratched my chin.

"No, that doesn't sound right."

"You likely hit your head at the bottom, knocking you unconscious. If you don't remember any of this, well, the head trauma could probably explain that too." I let out a labored sigh and rolled my eyes. If this woman was going to be both difficult and antagonistic, then that was fine. I didn't need her help. The incline ahead of me looked challenging, but not insurmountable. It was too steep to simply walk up, and the loose ground would make it tougher.

In our tabletop RPG, it'd split the difference between difficult terrain and a climb. Somehow, that meant I'd go half speed on either. In the game, that is. I doubted I could move so quickly here. I'd finally started going back to the gym, and I'd even cut down my portions lately, but I wasn't American Ninja Warrior material. Not yet, at least. Simply climbing out of the ditch looked tough enough for me. Still, I gave it a test step.

Placing a bit of my weight against the loose gravel, I heaved myself up, then almost immediately slid back down. I barely kept my balance.

"Ha! More proof. You stagger around just like a drunkard."

"Dammit, lady. I'm just a bit out of shape is all." A heavy breeze rustled past, swishing reeds and grasses against each other with a gentle hiss. The faint smell of brine carried from somewhere. In the distance, a gull screeched. I wanted to screech, too. If not out of frustration, then out of confusion. Was I near the ocean? The woman took a deep breath, then let out a heavy sigh.

"If I help you out of this ditch, be warned. You'll be under my jurisdiction. Around here, what I say goes. Do you understand?"

"No, not really." She looked like a LARPer who took herself too seriously.

"I'm the town constable. And I won't have any drunken louts napping about Seaport, do you hear me?"

"I barely drink anymore. Really, I'm not going to be a problem," I assured her. Maybe part of that was stretching the truth. I'd definitely cut down in the last several months. Unfortunately, being a bartender meant I had access to a great deal of alcohol all the time. In fact, if I wanted to be good at my job, I had a professional obligation to do what I called "research."

That is, I knew the difference in flavor profiles between bourbon mash bills, could tell you the historic significance of new American gin versus London dry gin, and had a special place in my heart for all the different distinctions between rum distilleries throughout the tropics. I was a complete cocktail nerd with encyclopedic knowledge. My understanding of wine was coming up quickly, and I was starting to get the hang of some of the more esoteric corners of the beer world as well.

So yeah, I drank less than I used to, but I still drank a whole lot. And before those dice hit me in the head, I'd had at least 3. Maybe 4.

"Anyway, it's a deal. Please, just give me a hand." I reached out lamely.

"Fine." The woman reached into a satchel at her side and pulled out a coil of thin rope. I blinked back surprise. Who kept a coil of rope on their person? With a look of disgust, she tossed the line down to me. Her lip curled, as though the mere thought of letting the cord get muddy made her physically ill. Or maybe she just didn't want me touching it. I grabbed it, and with a bit of grunting on both our parts, she hoisted me out.

With some embarrassment, I breathed heavily at the top, hands on my knees and doubled over. She merely looked on, unimpressed. Her judgmental sneer cut me deep, especially considering that I'd been trying to better myself. Apparently, all the mornings I'd gone hungry while intermittent fasting had been worth approximately jack and shit. She dusted her hands off.

"All right, stranger. Here's the deal. Drunkards are allowed to sleep in four places around here: in the comfort of their homes, in town down the road, in the inn, or in a jail cell. I know you're not from around here, so the first option is off the table. If you'd like to continue your nap, I just need to know which of the three you choose." I pondered my options for a beat. If she was in charge here, the town down the road didn't seem like such a bad option.

Yet, if I were going to get my bearings before moving on, it might be better to find a room at the inn. Before I could make my choice, she grabbed me firmly by the arm.

"If you don't choose quickly, I'll choose for you. And you'll have plenty of time to think of a better option while you dry out in the jail." Suddenly, the inn seemed like the obvious choice. Then again, I hadn't seen the place yet.