The basement reeked of nervous energy and Della’s kitchen sorcery—tonight she was making her goddamn legendary fish tacos with some kind of lime crema that could probably negotiate peace treaties. The smell of blackened mahi-mahi and fresh cilantro cut through the usual bar funk of old wood and older dreams, mixing with the electric anticipation of seven people about to descend into fictional horror.
My leg was screaming tonight—titanium plates and pinched nerves don’t give a fuck about game night—but I’d learned years ago that sometimes you push through the pain because the alternative is missing out on life. The heating pad under my ass helped, and the promise of whatever Miguel was about to pour would help more.
He appeared like a tattooed ghost, glass in hand, and the liquid inside caught the Christmas lights like captured fucking starlight. Deep amber with hints of ruby, viscous enough to coat the glass, and the scent rolled over me in waves—caramel, oak, dried apricot, and something darker that spoke of time and patience.
Parker’s Heritage Collection, wheat whiskey, eleven year, Miguel said, his voice doing that sultry-but-childlike thing that made simple words sound like poetry. Because tonight you’re going into the caves and I want you fortified.
I sipped and Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, it was like drinking liquid velvet wrapped in fire. Smooth as sin with a complexity that unfolded in layers—sweet wheat grain, vanilla bean, charred oak, and a finish that lasted long enough to write sonnets about.
You trying to get me drunk before we fight cultists? I asked.
Always, he grinned.
Keira had her DM screen up, and behind it I could see her notes—pages and pages of detailed cave layouts, enemy stat blocks, environmental hazards, and probably seventeen different ways to traumatize her players. She’d been planning this session for two weeks, crafting encounters that would test every skill we had.
The core party was here—Phoenix practically vibrating with excitement, River in scrubs again because they’d come straight from a double shift, Sage sketching on napkins while communing with Louise, Remy sprawled like a lazy cat, and Lisa adjusting her reading glasses with the determination of someone about to smite evil in Sarenrae’s name.
But tonight we had an audience. Bubba sat at the bar nursing a beer, his stoic presence like a lighthouse in fog. Renee leaned against the wall, all muscle and carefully controlled strength, watching us with the intensity of someone analyzing combat strategy. Miranda had claimed a chair near the stage, looking every bit the MILF she was, holding space for other people’s pain while carrying her own. And Grubby—sweet, quiet Grubby—sat in a beanbag near Ezra, both of them looking like they needed this fictional adventure more than they needed air.
Alright you magnificent disasters, Keira announced, her voice carrying that particular DM authority that meant business. You’ve had your long rest. Spells are prepared. Equipment is checked. The sun has set over Seabrook and you’re standing outside the old Merrick Warehouse on the north docks. It’s a hulking piece of shit—rotted wood, broken windows, the kind of place where tetanus goes to breed. Captain Thera has three of her guards securing a perimeter, but they won’t follow you inside. Too dangerous, and she needs them for the town. Any last-minute preparations?
I want to cast Mage Armor on myself, Sage said. And Louise wants to know if we can detect magic before we enter.
Roll Perception for Louise.
Sage rolled. Seventeen.
Louise hums—a discordant note that makes your teeth ache. She tells you there’s magic everywhere here. Not concentrated in one place, but seeping through the building like oil through floorboards. Aberration magic. Old and patient and wrong.
Well that’s not fucking ominous, Phoenix muttered.
The Cult’s “She Sells Sanctuary” bled through the speakers, Ian Astbury’s voice cutting through the basement like a serrated blade wrapped in silk. The guitar work was all shimmer and menace.
My eidolon scouts ahead, River said. Keeper can see in the dark and move quietly.
Stealth check for Keeper.
River rolled. Twenty-three.
Keeper is a fucking shadow with scales. They slip through a broken window and you see through their eyes—your summoner bond allows it. The interior is exactly as shitty as you’d expect. Collapsed shelves, rotted crates, about six inches of standing water on the floor. But in the back corner, there’s a trap door. New wood, out of place. That’s your entrance.
We move in, formation, Lisa said. Zara takes point because paladin armor and Sarenrae’s protection.
Marching order? Keira asked.
We established it—Lisa front, then Sage and Louise, Willow in the middle ready to shift forms, Phoenix and River together because they were practically joined at the hip, Remy bringing up the rear because rogues watched your back.
You enter the warehouse. The smell hits you first—rot and salt and something else. Something that smells like the ocean’s basement, if oceans had basements. You wade through the water, and it’s cold enough to make your balls try to crawl inside your body. The trap door is there, exactly where Keeper indicated. It’s locked.
I can handle that, Remy drawled. Disable Device check.
He rolled. Twenty-six.
You pick the lock like you’re reading it a bedtime story. The trap door opens onto a ladder descending into darkness. No light. Just the sound of dripping water and something else—rhythmic, like breathing, but too slow to be human.
I cast Light on a coin and drop it down, Sage said.
It falls about thirty feet before hitting stone. The light reveals a cave—natural formation, but the walls have been carved with the same symbols you saw underwater. They’re glowing faintly, that same red as the cultists’ eyes. The breathing sound is louder down there.
We descend, I said. Carefully. Willow’s ready to wild shape if shit goes sideways.
Everyone make Climb checks.
We rolled. Lisa got a natural twenty. Phoenix rolled a six.
Lisa descends like she was born on ladders. Phoenix, you slip on the third rung, catch yourself, but make enough noise to wake the fucking dead.
Of course I do, Phoenix groaned.
The breathing sound stops. Then you hear voices—that same watery quality, speaking Aklo. They know you’re here.
Initiative, Keira announced with a grin that promised suffering.
Della emerged from the kitchen with fish tacos that looked like they belonged in a food magazine spread—perfectly charred fish, fresh cabbage slaw with that lime crema drizzled like edible art, all piled on handmade corn tortillas. The smell alone could convert vegetarians.
Y’all are eating these right goddamn now or I’m throwing them at your heads, she announced.
We descended like starving wolves. Miranda grabbed two, biting in with the appreciation of someone who understood good food. Grubby took one carefully, like it was something precious. Renee snagged three because her bodybuilder metabolism could process entire cows.
Rolling initiative while eating tacos feels very on-brand, River observed.
We rolled. Phoenix got highest—nineteen. Then River, Lisa, me, Sage, and Remy bringing up the rear with a fucking ten.
Four cultists emerge from deeper in the cave, Keira said. They’ve got that same gray-green skin, those red eyes, but these ones are armed. Tridents, nets, and something about them suggests they’ve been training. They’re not shambling converted fishermen anymore. These are soldiers.
Fuck, Remy breathed.
Phoenix, you’re up first.
I’m stunning fist on the lead cultist. Flurry of blows.
Phoenix rolled three times. Fourteen, nineteen, and… shit, another natural twenty.
Confirm the crit.
Seventeen.
You come off that ladder like a fucking missile. Your first hit catches the cultist in the kidney. Your second breaks their nose. Your third—critical hit—you drive your palm into their solar plexus with enough force to stop their heart. They drop. The other three hesitate, and you see something almost like fear in those red eyes.
That’s my kid, River said proudly, squeezing Phoenix’s leg.
Bubba rumbled approval from the bar. Quick, decisive, no hesitation. That’s how you survive when you’re outgunned and outnumbered. Hit first, hit hard, hit where it hurts.
River, your turn.
Keeper grapples cultist two. Full attack, trying to pin them.
River rolled. Combat maneuver… twenty-four.
Keeper wraps around the cultist like a python made of nightmares and fury. The cultist can’t move, can’t cast, can barely breathe. They’re trapped and terrified.
Can I use that as an opportunity to cast Cure Light Wounds on Phoenix? River asked. They took damage in the last session and didn’t get fully healed.
You can. Roll it.
River rolled. Nine points healed.
Phoenix feels warmth spread through their bruised ribs. River, you’re nursing them back to health while your eidolon does the fighting. Very on-brand.
Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing” drifted through the speakers, Mark Knopfler’s guitar work doing things that shouldn’t be legal. The music was all precision and controlled fury.
Lisa, you’re up.
Smite Evil on cultist three. Zara charges with righteous fury and Sarenrae’s blessing.
Lisa rolled. Twenty-two to hit.
That hits. Roll damage.
Thirty-one damage, Lisa announced.
Your longsword blazes with solar fire. You drive it through the cultist’s chest and light pours out like they’re a broken lantern. They scream—not in pain but in release—and the red fades from their eyes. They whisper “thank you” before collapsing. You just freed another soul.
Jesus, Lisa breathed. That’s heavy.
Welcome to moral complexity, Keira said gently.
Willow, your turn.
I’m wild shaping into cave bear and attacking cultist four.
I rolled. Nineteen to hit.
That hits. Damage?
Twenty-three.
You explode into eight hundred pounds of fur and fury. Your claws rake across the cultist’s chest, shredding robe and flesh. They stagger backward, bleeding that black blood, but they’re still standing.
Sage, you’re up.
Louise and I attack cultist four. Arcane Pool enhancement, Shocking Grasp through the blade.
Sage rolled. Twenty-one to hit, eighteen damage.
Louise sinks into the cultist’s shoulder and electricity arcs through their body. They convulse and collapse. Three down, one pinned. Combat’s basically over.
The pinned cultist tries to cast something, Keira said. But Keeper’s grip tightens and breaks their concentration. Remy, your turn. What do you do?
I want to interrogate this one. Intimidate check while Keeper holds them.
Remy rolled. Eighteen.
You get in their face and speak in Cajun-accented Aklo—because of course you learned it after last session—and the cultist’s red eyes widen. You tell them in their own corrupted language that you can either make this quick or you can make it last. They break. They tell you the Father is deeper in the caves, conducting a ritual. He’s trying to establish a permanent connection to the mindflayer colony. If he succeeds, the colony can send reinforcements. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. The cultist begs you to kill them. Says it’s better than serving.
Can Lisa use Remove Curse again? Phoenix asked.
She can try. Lisa?
I’m trying. Same spell, same hope.
Lisa rolled. Caster level check… nineteen.
Not quite high enough. The curse is stronger in these caves, closer to the source. The cultist screams as Sarenrae’s light touches them, but the corruption holds. They start convulsing. River, give me a Heal check.
River rolled. Twenty-two.
You recognize seizure symptoms. This person is dying. The corruption would rather kill the host than release them.
Fuck, River whispered. I stabilize them. Keep them alive even if we can’t free them yet.
You do. Barely. They’re unconscious but breathing.
The Police’s “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” came through the speakers, Sting’s voice doing that thing where joy and melancholy fucked and had complicated feelings about it.
You’ve got a fork in the cave, Keira announced. Left tunnel slopes down, smells like the ocean, and you can hear that rhythmic breathing again. Right tunnel slopes up, is drier, and you hear chanting—multiple voices in Aklo. Both lead somewhere important. You need to choose.
We debated. Finally Remy spoke up. The chanting is the ritual. That’s the Father. We stop him, we stop the reinforcements. The other tunnel can wait.
Everyone agreed?
We nodded.
Right tunnel it is. You move carefully, weapons ready, spells prepared. The chanting gets louder. The symbols on the walls pulse brighter. And the temperature drops—not cold like winter, but cold like something’s stealing warmth from the air itself. You reach a chamber and—
Keira paused for effect.
—roll Perception, everyone.
We rolled. Sage got highest with twenty-one.
Sage, Louise screams a warning directly into your mind. The chamber ahead has seven cultists arranged in a circle around a stone altar. On the altar is a person—alive, terrified, gagged. Sacrifice victim. But the important part? Standing behind the altar is something that used to be human. The Father. He’s seven feet tall, his skin is translucent enough to see things moving under it, his eyes are solid black, and his arms end in tentacles instead of hands. He’s mid-ritual. And he knows you’re here.
Oh fuck, Phoenix breathed.
He speaks, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater and from inside your skull simultaneously: Keira dropped into character. “Surface dwellers. You cannot stop what has already begun. The Thirteen are taken. The path is opened. The Sleeper stirs in the deep. My masters will reward me with transcendence. Join us. Embrace the Red Tide. Or die knowing your world drowns after you.”
Can I counter with my own speech? Lisa asked. Diplomatic but firm?
Try it. Diplomacy check at a steep penalty—he’s too far gone for normal persuasion.
Lisa rolled. Natural twenty.
The table erupted.
Holy shit, Keira laughed. Okay. Okay. Zara channels Sarenrae’s light and her own conviction. Tell me what she says.
Lisa took a breath. “We are not afraid of you. We do not fear the depths or the darkness or your corrupted masters. We are the children of sun and surface, of choice and free will. Your path leads only to death and emptiness. But there is still time. Still hope. Still redemption. Come back from the edge. Choose light over drowning. Choose yourself over slavery.”
The basement had gone dead quiet. Even the music seemed to pause.
The Father… hesitates, Keira said softly. For just a moment, something human flickers in those black eyes. A memory of who he was before the corruption. Before the tentacles. He opens his mouth and—
—the seven cultists attack to protect him from doubting. Roll initiative.
Goddamn it, Lisa breathed.
We rolled. River got highest this time—eighteen.
River, you’re up first.
Keeper, get the sacrifice victim off that altar. I’ll cover you.
Acrobatics for Keeper to dodge past cultists.
River rolled. Twenty-four.
Keeper is liquid fucking grace. They weave between cultists, grab the victim—young woman, maybe twenty-five, absolutely terrified—and pull her back toward your group.
I cast Cure Moderate Wounds on her, River said. Get her stable enough to run.
You do. She’s crying, thanking you in gasps. Phoenix, your turn.
I’m attacking the nearest cultist. Standard flurry.
Phoenix rolled well—all three attacks hit. Decent damage. The cultist staggered but stayed up.
Lisa, your turn.
Zara moves to protect the rescued victim. I’m casting Bless on the whole party. We need every advantage.
Smart. Everyone gets +1 to attack rolls and saves against fear. Willow?
Still in cave bear form. I’m attacking the cultist Phoenix wounded.
I rolled. Natural twenty.
AGAIN? Keira laughed. Confirm it.
Nineteen.
You’re rolling like the dice love you. Critical hit. Roll damage and double it.
I calculated. Forty-eight damage.
You literally rip the cultist in half. Like, viscerally. Claws through the torso, organs everywhere, and the cave echoes with the sound of tearing. The other cultists hesitate. Even the Father looks impressed.
That’s my girl, Keira said again, and I felt warmth that had nothing to do with bourbon.
Miranda called from her chair, Remind me never to piss off a druid. Jesus.
Sage, your turn.
Louise and I attack cultist number two. Shocking Grasp again.
Sage rolled. Hit, eighteen damage.
The cultist drops, electrocuted and smoking slightly. Five cultists left plus the Father. Remy?
I’m going for the Father. Sneak attack if I can get flanking.
He’s isolated. No flanking. But you can try a regular attack.
Remy rolled. Twenty to hit.
That hits. Damage?
Twenty-six with sneak attack dice.
You come out of nowhere and drive your dagger into what you think is the Father’s kidney. Black ichor sprays. He roars—not in pain but in rage—and those tentacle arms whip toward you. Roll Reflex save.
Remy rolled. Thirteen.
One tentacle catches you across the chest. Take twelve damage and make a Fort save.
Fuck. Fort save… sixteen.
You resist whatever poison or corruption that tentacle carried, but your chest feels like you got hit by a truck made of nightmares.
Supertramp’s “The Logical Song” drifted through the speakers, Roger Hodgson’s voice cutting through with questions about identity and becoming what the world demanded versus what you truly were. Felt prophetic as fuck.
The Father’s turn, Keira announced. He gestures with those tentacles and speaks words that make reality hiccup. Everyone make Will saves.
We rolled. Phoenix failed with an eight. Lisa failed with a ten. Everyone else passed.
Phoenix and Lisa, you suddenly see your worst fears made manifest. Phoenix, you see River dying, hemorrhaging blood, and you can’t stop it. Lisa, you see Sarenrae turning her back on you, declaring you unworthy. You’re both shaken for three rounds.
Jesus fuck, Phoenix whispered.
That’s what fighting aberrations is like, Grubby said quietly from their beanbag. Their voice was rare enough that everyone turned. They don’t just attack your body. They attack your mind. Your sense of self. Everything you believe about reality.
You speaking from experience? Renee asked gently.
Always, Grubby said, and the weight in that single word could crush mountains.
Round two, Keira announced. Three cultists attack. One goes for Lisa, one for Sage, one for Willow. Roll AC.
We called out our armor classes. Only Sage got hit.
You take fourteen damage, Keira said. The cultist’s trident punches through your Mage Armor and into your shoulder. Louise screams fury. Sage, how many hit points do you have left?
Eight, Sage said quietly.
You’re in danger. River, you’re up.
I cast Cure Moderate Wounds on Sage. Immediate action.
You’re using up spell slots fast. Roll healing.
River rolled. Fourteen points healed.
Sage, you’re back to twenty-two. Phoenix, you’re up but you’re shaken.
I don’t care if I’m scared. River’s not actually dying. I attack the cultist who hurt Sage.
Phoenix rolled all three attacks. Hit twice.
Twenty-eight damage total, Phoenix announced.
The cultist staggers, bleeding. Still up. Lisa, you’re up but you’re also shaken.
Sarenrae hasn’t abandoned me. That’s a lie. I attack the cultist on me. Smite Evil.
Lisa rolled. Twenty-three to hit, twenty-nine damage.
Solar fire consumes the cultist. They scream, the red fades from their eyes, and they collapse freed. Lisa, you feel Sarenrae’s warmth. The fear fades. You’re no longer shaken.
Thank you, Lisa breathed.
Willow?
Attacking the cultist Phoenix wounded.
I rolled. Hit for twenty-one damage.
Cave bear finishes what monk started. The cultist goes down. Three cultists left. Sage?
Louise and I attack the one who stabbed me. We’re pissed.
Sage rolled. Twenty-two to hit, twenty-three damage.
Louise buries herself in the cultist’s chest and electricity makes them dance. They drop. Two cultists left. Remy?
Another attack on the Father. He’s the real threat.
Remy rolled. Hit, twenty-four damage.
You’re carving him up like a fucking Christmas ham. Black ichor everywhere. But he’s still standing, still casting. He roars and slams both tentacle fists into the ground. Everyone make Reflex saves.
We rolled. Most passed. Phoenix failed again.
Phoenix, a crack in the cave floor opens beneath you. You’re falling. Acrobatics to catch yourself.
Phoenix rolled. Eighteen.
You catch the edge, hanging by your fingertips. River, immediate reaction—what do you do?
Keeper grabs Phoenix and pulls them up. No question.
Keeper does exactly that. Phoenix, you’re safe but prone. The Father laughs—wet, horrible sound. The two remaining cultists flank Willow. Both attack. One hits for sixteen damage.
Fuck, I muttered, marking it down. Down to thirty-four hit points.
Your turn comes back around. River?
Keeper attacks the Father. Full attack.
River rolled both. Both hit. Thirty-three damage total.
The Father is bleeding ichor from a dozen wounds. He’s wavering. Phoenix?
I’m getting up and attacking a cultist. Fuck this cave.
Phoenix rolled. Hit twice. Twenty-six damage.
That cultist goes down. One left plus the Father. Lisa?
Zara goes for the Father. He needs to be stopped.
You’ve got reach with that longsword. Roll it.
Lisa hit. Thirty-two damage with Smite.
Your blade drives into his chest cavity. He screams—all his mouths, including ones you didn’t know he had. The tentacles flail. But he’s not dead yet. Willow?
Cave bear rage. Full attack on the Father.
I rolled both. Both hit. Forty-one damage total.
You’re a tornado of claws and teeth and righteous druid fury. You tear chunks out of him. He’s barely holding together. Sage?
Louise and I finish this. Shocking Grasp, everything we have.
Sage rolled. Critical threat. Confirm… natural twenty again.
The table lost its mind.
Roll full damage and double it, Keira said.
Sixty-four damage, Sage announced.
Louise HOWLS victory. She and Sage move as one. You drive your blade through the Father’s skull and electricity makes his whole body light up like a fucked-up Christmas tree. He convulses. The tentacles go rigid. His black eyes roll back. He whispers: “The Sleeper… still… wakes…” And collapses. Dead. The last cultist sees their leader fall and runs deeper into the caves. You let them go or pursue?
Let them go, River said. We need to stabilize, heal, and figure out what’s next.
Smart. Combat’s over. You’ve killed or freed most of the cult. The ritual is interrupted. The altar cracks down the middle. The symbols on the walls start to fade. The rescued victim is crying and thanking you. Captain Thera’s voice echoes down from the warehouse above—she heard the fighting and wants to know if you’re alive.
We’re alive, I called back in character. Mostly.
You’ve dealt a massive blow to the cult, Keira said. But you heard the Father’s last words. The Sleeper still wakes. The Tarrasque is still stirring. This battle is won, but the war isn’t over. You need to find the mindflayer colony, find out how to stop the full awakening, and do it before three thousand people become seafood. Session ends there. Questions?
Just one, Phoenix said. Are you going to let us win this campaign or are we all going to die horribly in session twenty-nine?
Yes, Keira grinned.
Miguel refilled my glass without being asked. The bourbon was still perfect—velvet fire and patient complexity. Grubby came over and sat beside me, their presence a quiet comfort.
You okay? I asked softly.
Yeah. Just… watching you all save each other. It’s nice. Reminds me people can be good.
I put my arm around their shoulders. Held them while the bar breathed around us and the music played and the world continued being complicated.
Because sometimes the greatest magic isn’t in the spells we cast but in the spaces we hold for each other. In the chosen family we build. In the stories we tell together to remember that even in the darkest caves, there’s light if we’re brave enough to carry it.
“We are not trapped in the darkness. We are the ones who learned to make fire.” - Andrea Gibson
Gibson understood what every tabletop gamer knows in their bones: that courage isn’t about not being afraid, it’s about bringing light into dark places anyway. We spent hours fighting imaginary horrors, learning that teamwork trumps individual strength, that sometimes the scariest monster is the one that attacks your sense of self, and that redemption is always possible if we’re brave enough to offer it. In pretending to save a fictional town, we practiced the revolutionary act of refusing to abandon each other when abandoning would be easier. The caves we descend into together are never as terrifying as the ones we face alone.