The basement had that particular smell tonight—stale beer, Della’s kitchen magic bleeding garlic and something with paprika, and the metallic tang of too many people breathing recycled air while pretending to be underwater heroes. We’d been at this for six hours, character sheets dog-eared and dice showing their bias, and my ass had gone numb somewhere around hour three.

Miguel materialized beside me with a glass that caught the shitty Christmas lights like liquid fucking gold. The bourbon inside was the color of burned caramel, and when he set it down, the scent rolled over me—vanilla, cherry wood, and something darker that spoke of Kentucky summers and patient aging.

Booker’s Small Batch, barrel proof, he said, that sultry-childlike voice making it sound like a secret between friends. Because you’re about to get your party’s asses kicked and you’ll need it.

I took a sip and holy shit, it was like drinking concentrated sunshine with a punch that could knock out a horse. One hundred and twenty-seven proof of liquid courage that burned all the way down and settled in my stomach like a warm fist of defiance.

Keira had her DM screen up like castle battlements, dice arranged in careful rows like ammunition. She’d been grinning for the last twenty minutes with the particular joy of someone about to make their players regret every life choice that led them to this table.

Alright, she announced, her voice carrying that edge that meant shit was about to get real. You’re forty feet underwater, Water Breathing keeping you alive, staring down three cultists and something massive lurking in the dark above them. Willow’s in shark form, everyone else is trying not to shit their metaphorical pants. Roll for initiative if you haven’t already.

The table exploded in dice rolls and curses.

Twenty-one, Phoenix crowed.

Eighteen, Sage said quietly, then added in a slightly different voice, Louise says we should have brought more people.

Seventeen, River called out.

Fucking twelve, Remy muttered. Ma mère would be ashamed.

Fourteen for Zara, Lisa said, adjusting her reading glasses.

And Willow got… sixteen, I finished, watching my dice settle into their judgment.

From the kitchen, the sizzle and pop of Della making her fuck-off-world jambalaya cut through the tension. She’d been cooking for three hours, building layers of flavor like a jazz musician building a solo—holy trinity of onions, celery, and bell peppers, then andouille sausage that could make angels reconsider their life choices, then shrimp and rice and enough Cajun seasoning to wake the dead.

Bubba sat at the bar nursing a beer, his stoic presence a counterweight to the chaos. Elaine perched on a stool next to him with what looked like a rum and Coke—or maybe a Cuba Libre, hard to tell in the basement lighting—looking like she was ready to offer commentary that would make everyone question their choices.

Cultist one goes first, Keira announced. He raises his hands and the water around him darkens. He’s casting something. Everyone make a Will save.

We rolled. Phoenix groaned. Nine.

You feel something trying to crawl into your mind, Keira said. Whispering in Aklo, trying to convince you that drowning would be peaceful. Take two points of Wisdom damage and you’re shaken for three rounds.

Fuck that noise, Phoenix said, but they marked the damage.

River, you’re up.

River leaned forward, hospital scrubs rustling. My eidolon attacks cultist one. Full attack action.

They rolled twice. Nineteen and sixteen to hit.

Both hit. Roll damage.

River’s dice clattered. Fourteen and twelve. Twenty-six total.

Your eidolon—describe it for everyone—

It’s serpentine, scaled in iridescent blues and greens, with too many teeth and claws that can shred steel. I call them Keeper, and they’re pissed.

Keeper tears into the cultist like they’re made of tissue paper. Robe shreds. But underneath—fuck, underneath the cultist’s skin is that same gray-green color. Their blood is black. They’re not quite human anymore.

Jesus Christ, Lisa breathed.

Genesis’s “Land of Confusion” bled through the speakers, Phil Collins’s voice cutting through the basement with satirical precision. The puppets in that music video had given me nightmares as a kid, and now here we were, playing out our own brand of surreal horror.

Phoenix, you’re up despite being shaken.

I’m going to flurry of blows on cultist two, Phoenix said. Even if my head’s fucked, my fists work fine.

They rolled three times. Shit. Eleven, fourteen, and… natural twenty on the confirm!

Critical hit, Keira confirmed. Roll your damage and double it.

Phoenix’s hands shook as they calculated. Twenty-four damage total.

You swim through the water like you were born in it—monk training plus the magic breathing. Your first two hits connect but glance off some kind of magical barrier. The third punch—you put everything into it—breaks through and catches the cultist in the throat. They make a sound like drowning in reverse. But they’re still standing.

Tough motherfuckers, Elaine observed from the bar. I like it. Make ’em work for it.

Sage, you’re up.

Sage picked up their dice with the careful precision of someone who communed with their weapon. Louise wants to use Arcane Pool to enhance herself. And I’m casting Shocking Grasp through her.

Roll to hit.

Twenty-three.

That hits. Roll damage.

Sage calculated. Fifteen damage, and the cultist has to make a Fort save or be staggered.

They fail the save, Keira said. Louise sinks into the cultist’s chest and electricity arcs through the water. The cultist convulses, their red eyes flickering. Louise hums satisfaction.

She’s bloodthirsty tonight, Sage murmured fondly.

Cultist two retaliates, Keira announced. He points at Sage and speaks a word that makes reality hiccup. Make a Fort save.

Sage rolled. Fuck. Eight.

You feel your lungs seize. The Water Breathing spell is being suppressed. You’ve got one round to get to the surface or you’re drowning.

Can River use an immediate action to recast it? Phoenix asked, panic creeping in.

No, but Willow can, I said. I’ve got Air Bubble prepared. I ready an action to cast it on Sage if they start drowning.

Roll Spellcraft to cast defensively, Keira said.

I rolled. Nineteen.

You shift in your shark form, and a bubble of air forms around Sage’s head. They can breathe, but barely.

Willow, your turn.

I’m biting cultist three. Charge attack.

I rolled. Natural fucking twenty.

The table erupted. Keira grinned. Roll to confirm.

Eighteen.

That confirms. Roll your damage and double it.

I calculated with the vicious joy of someone who understood that sometimes violence was the answer. Forty-six damage.

You are twelve feet of apex predator rage wrapped in druid magic, Keira said. You hit cultist three with enough force to break bones. Your teeth sink in and you taste that black blood and it burns like acid. The cultist screams underwater—bubbles of sound and agony. You’ve nearly bitten them in half.

That’s my girl, Keira added quietly, and warmth flooded through me that had nothing to do with the bourbon.

Marcus had wandered over from the pool table, watching our game with the fascination of someone trying to understand a foreign language. How do you keep track of all this? he asked.

Practice and spite, Remy answered. Mostly spite.

Della emerged from the kitchen with bowls of jambalaya that belonged in a cathedral. The smell alone could convert atheists. Rice perfectly cooked, shrimp tender, andouille with that perfect snap, and a heat level that challenged without destroying.

Y’all are eating while you play or so help me God I will end this campaign right fucking now, she announced.

We descended like locusts. River managed to juggle dice, character sheet, and jambalaya with the coordination of someone used to multitasking in medical emergencies. Lisa took a bite and made a sound that was probably illegal in some states.

Cultist three is barely standing, Keira continued. But something’s happening. The circle with thirteen points is pulsing. Two more lights up—making thirteen total. And the massive thing above you starts to descend.

How massive are we talking? I asked.

Tentacles that could wrap around a house. A body you can’t fully see. Eyes that are each the size of your torso. And intelligence behind those eyes—cold, alien, hungry.

That’s a fucking mindflayer elder or something worse, Sage whispered, and Louise apparently agreed because Sage went pale.

Remy, your turn.

I’m going to try to grapple cultist one and pull them away from the circle, Remy said. Get information later if we can.

Combat Maneuver check.

Remy rolled. Twenty-four.

You swim like an eel on crack cocaine, Keira said. You wrap around the cultist and drag them backward. They struggle but you’ve got leverage and desperation. You pull them about fifteen feet from the circle.

Lisa, you’re up.

Zara calls upon Sarenrae’s wrath, Lisa declared with the fervor of someone who’d found religion late but embraced it hard. I’m using Smite Evil on cultist two and charging.

She rolled to hit. Twenty-one.

That hits. Roll damage with Smite bonuses.

Lisa calculated. Twenty-eight damage.

Your longsword blazes with solar fire underwater—which shouldn’t be possible but fuck physics, you’re a paladin. You drive the blade through cultist two’s chest and light pours out of the wound. They scream and the red eyes dim. They collapse, and something dark and oily leaks out of them into the water.

One down, Phoenix breathed.

The Who’s “Baba O’Riley” kicked in, synthesizer and violin building that iconic sound that always made me think about teenage wasteland and how we’re all just trying to survive the fucking apocalypse.

Cultist one, still grappled, does something desperate, Keira said. He bites Remy.

What the fuck? Remy yelped.

Roll Fort save.

Remy rolled. Sixteen.

You feel something try to take root in your blood—some kind of disease or corruption—but your body fights it off. But you take six damage from the bite and his teeth were like fucking knives.

Ma mère warned me about biting, Remy muttered, marking the damage.

The massive creature above you speaks, Keira said, and her voice dropped to something that made the basement feel smaller. It speaks in Aklo and everyone hears it directly in their minds: “Thirteen opened. Thirteen tasted. The Sleeper wakes. The Red Tide rises. You are too late, surface dwellers. The Tarrasque stirs.”

THE WHAT NOW? Phoenix shouted.

Did she just say Tarrasque? I asked, feeling my blood ice over.

The fucking apocalypse beast? Lisa added. The thing that ends campaigns?

Oh fuck, Sage whispered. Louise is terrified. I’ve never felt her terrified before.

Dani had materialized from somewhere, her scarves and crystals looking wildly out of place and somehow perfect. That’s some dark shit, she observed. Like, ancient corruption dark. The kind that requires serious cleansing rituals.

Round two, Keira announced. What do you do?

We need to capture cultist one alive, River said. Get information. Find out how to stop this.

Keeper can do non-lethal damage, River continued. I attack to subdue.

They rolled. Natural twenty.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Keira laughed. Confirm it.

Nineteen.

Keeper wraps around the cultist like a python made of nightmares and squeezes. Non-lethal critical. The cultist goes limp. Unconscious but alive.

Phoenix, your turn. You’re still shaken.

I’m swimming for the surface, Phoenix said. We got what we came for and that— they pointed up at Keira’s description of the massive horror —is way above our pay grade.

Smart kid, Bubba rumbled from the bar. His deep south Georgia accent made everything sound like wisdom. Always know when you’re outclassed. Ain’t no shame in tactical retreat when the alternative is death.

Sage, your turn.

Louise and I agree—we’re covering the retreat. I’ll ready an action to cast Grease on the creature if it tries to follow us.

Willow?

I’m grabbing the unconscious cultist with my shark teeth—gently—and swimming up. Brown bear is strong but shark is faster in water.

Everyone make Swim checks to break for the surface.

We rolled. Everyone passed, some better than others.

The creature watches you flee, Keira said. Those massive eyes track your movement with intelligence that’s older than civilizations. It doesn’t chase you. It doesn’t need to. Because its work is already done. You breach the surface, gasping, dragging an unconscious cultist. Dawn is breaking over Seabrook. Captain Thera is waiting on the beach with her three guards, weapons drawn. She sees your faces and knows you found some serious shit.

Heart’s “Barracuda” screamed through the speakers, and Ann Wilson’s voice was all teeth and fury.

What’s the cultist look like in daylight? Remy asked.

Human woman, maybe thirty, with the gray-green tint to her skin and those red eyes. She’s got marks on her arms—ritual scarring in the shapes you saw on the nets and the stone circle. She’s breathing but unconscious.

Can Zara use Detect Evil on her? Lisa asked.

You sense overwhelming evil, but it’s layered. Like someone painted evil over an existing soul. The person she was is still in there, buried under corruption.

Can we save her? Phoenix asked quietly.

That’s above my pay grade, Keira said gently. But you can try. Thera orders her guards to secure the cultist. She looks at you and says: “Tell me everything.” So you do. You describe the underwater circle, the cultists, the massive aberration, the words about the Sleeper and the Tarrasque. Thera goes pale—like someone punched her in the soul.

Keira continued in Thera’s voice: “The legends are true. Two hundred years ago, a cult tried to wake something beneath Scarlet Bay. They sacrificed thirteen people to open a path for a mindflayer colony. The colony wanted to wake a Tarrasque that sleeps in the ocean trench a hundred miles from here. The town fought back, killed most of the cult, but the ritual was interrupted, not stopped. We thought it was over. We changed the name, tried to forget. But if they completed thirteen sacrifices—”

“We’re fucked,” I finished.

“Spectacularly,” Keira agreed. “Thera tells you the town needs to evacuate. Three thousand people, nowhere to go, and if a Tarrasque wakes up and comes ashore, evacuation won’t matter anyway. She needs you to find the cult’s base, find their leader, and find a way to stop this before it’s too late. She can offer five hundred gold now, another thousand if you succeed. Also, she’ll deputize you, which means you can arrest people, search buildings, and generally act with authority.”

We’re in, Sage said, and Louise hummed agreement.

Hell yes we are, Phoenix added. River and I aren’t watching three thousand people die if we can help it.

Ma mère raised me better than to run when people need help, Remy drawled.

Sarenrae teaches that redemption comes through facing evil, not fleeing it, Lisa said.

Willow shifts back to human form, I said. And tells Thera we need to interrogate the cultist. Can she arrange a secure location?

She can. The guard station has one cell. She’ll have her most trusted guard watch the door. But she warns you—if this woman’s been corrupted by aberration magic, breaking that hold won’t be easy or pleasant.

Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” drifted through the speakers, and that bass line hit like a fucking heartbeat. “Chain keep us together, running in the shadow.” Words that felt prophetic.

Time jump, Keira announced. It’s mid-morning. You’ve rested, eaten, prepared spells. The cultist is awake, secured in the cell, and those red eyes are watching you with intelligence that doesn’t feel human. Thera gives you access. Who goes in?

My paladin needs to try first, Lisa said. If there’s a soul worth saving, Sarenrae demands we try.

Lisa enters the cell, Keira narrated. The woman’s eyes track you. She smiles, and it’s wrong—too wide, showing too many teeth. She speaks, and her voice sounds like it’s coming through water: “The Sleeper wakes. The Red Tide rises. You cannot stop what has been thirteen times sealed. The Father from the depths calls his children home. We go willingly into the drowning dark.”

Can Zara use Remove Curse? Lisa asked.

You can try. It’s a level-appropriate spell. Roll Caster Level check—this is a tough curse.

Lisa rolled. Eighteen plus my bonuses… twenty-two.

Your holy symbol blazes. Sarenrae’s light pours into the cell like liquid sunlight. The woman screams—not in pain but in rage. Something dark and oily starts to seep from her skin, from her eyes, from her mouth. It puddles on the floor, writhing, before evaporating. The red fades from her eyes, replaced by human brown. She collapses, sobbing.

Holy shit, Phoenix breathed. It worked.

The woman—her name is Dara—tells you between sobs that she doesn’t remember much. She was out fishing three months ago. Something called to her from the water. Beautiful singing. She dove in. Woke up on the beach. After that, everything’s fragments—nightmares of drowning, of things with tentacles teaching her new languages, of taking others to the water so they could hear the beautiful singing too. She didn’t want to. She couldn’t stop herself.

Where’s the cult base? Remy asked.

Keira, can I do Diplomacy to ask gently?

Roll it.

River rolled. Twenty-one.

You speak with the kindness of someone who spends their days healing trauma. Dara responds. She says there’s an old warehouse on the north docks. Abandoned for decades. But below it, accessed through a hidden door, there’s a network of caves. Natural and carved. That’s where the cult gathers. That’s where their leader—the Father—conducts rituals. He’s not human anymore, hasn’t been for years. He’s something else. Something that serves the mindflayers.

How many cultists? Sage asked.

“Twenty, maybe thirty. Most are like I was—controlled, corrupted. But some chose it willingly. They want the Red Tide. They want to drown the world and see what rises from the depths.”

Fucking death cults, Elaine called from the bar. Always someone who wants to end the world. Can’t just let people live their goddamn lives.

Session’s got about thirty minutes left, Keira announced. You’ve got information, a location, and a choice. Do you rest and prepare for tomorrow, or do you push forward today?

We debated. Finally Phoenix spoke up: Every hour we wait, that thing in the trench gets closer to waking up. We rest, prepare, and hit the warehouse tonight after dark. Give them false confidence.

Everyone agree? Keira asked.

We nodded.

Then that’s where we’ll pick up next session, Keira said. You’ve got one long rest, spell preparation, equipment checks, and then you’re infiltrating a cult base in sea caves beneath a warehouse to face a corrupted leader who serves mindflayers trying to wake a Tarrasque. Any questions?

Just one, I said. Are you trying to kill us or make us legends?

Yes, Keira grinned.

Miguel refilled my glass without being asked. Della brought out bread pudding with bourbon sauce that could make angels reconsider their vow of chastity. The bar settled into comfortable exhaustion, the kind that comes from spending hours being someone else, fighting someone else’s monsters, saving someone else’s world.

Because sometimes the best way to deal with your own demons was to roll dice and face imaginary ones with friends who’d catch you if you fell.

“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” - Joseph Campbell

Campbell knew what every dungeon master learns: true courage isn’t the absence of terror but the willingness to descend anyway. We spent six hours facing horrors made of dice and imagination, learning that teamwork trumps individual strength, that redemption is possible even when corruption runs deep, and that sometimes the most revolutionary act is refusing to abandon people when abandoning them would be easier. In pretending to save a fictional town, we practiced saving each other. The monsters we face together are always less terrifying than the ones we face alone.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​