The bar looked like a fucking tornado of nerd shit had blown through it. Character sheets scattered across three pushed-together tables, dice in colors that would make a pride parade jealous, miniatures lined up like tiny drunk soldiers, and enough Mountain Dew to float a goddamn battleship. Miguel had strung up some old Christmas lights for “ambiance,” which really just meant the basement looked like a cave where dragons hoarded d20s instead of gold.
I settled into my chair, feeling the familiar electric fire shoot through my left leg—titanium plates and pinched nerves don’t give a shit about game night—and watched Keira arrange her DM screen with the precision of a surgeon prepping for a triple bypass. She’d been planning this campaign for three months, filling notebooks with the kind of detailed worldbuilding that made Tolkien look like he’d phoned it in.
Alright you beautiful disasters, Keira announced, her voice carrying that particular blend of authority and mischief that made my stomach do stupid things even after all these years together. Welcome to The Scarlet Sleeper. Fair warning—this campaign is going to fuck you up in all the best ways.
Phoenix bounced in their seat, ruby ring catching the Christmas lights. River sat beside them in hospital scrubs, one hand resting on Phoenix’s thigh with the casual possessiveness of someone who’d found their fucking person. Sage had already started sketching on a napkin, their bladebound magus character sheet covered in intricate doodles. Remy sprawled in his chair like a cat who’d found the good sunshine, and Lisa—sweet, pragmatic, sixty-something Lisa—adjusted her reading glasses and studied her paladin sheet with the intensity of someone learning to defuse a bomb.
Miguel appeared at my elbow with a rocks glass, and the scent hit me before I saw it—rich, complex, with notes of dried fruit and oak that spoke of years in a barrel. The liquid caught the light like liquid amber, dark and promising.
Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, fifteen year, he said, his sultry-but-childlike voice making the words sound like a prayer. Because I love you and tonight’s special.
I took a sip and holy mother of fuck, it was like drinking velvet fire. Smooth enough to make angels weep, with a finish that lingered like a good kiss.
From the kitchen, Della’s grill crackled and popped, sending waves of garlic and butter that mixed with the bar smell of old wood and new hope. She was making her fuck-you-reality sliders—tiny burgers loaded with caramelized onions, sharp cheddar, and some kind of aioli that could solve international conflicts.
Y’all better not get grease on my campaign notes, Keira warned, but she was grinning. I didn’t spend three months building a Lovecraftian horror show so Phoenix could leave burger prints on the map.
No promises, Phoenix laughed. My monk has high dexterity but I sure as shit don’t.
Ezra lounged in a beanbag chair near the stage, blue hair freshly dyed to match their dice set. Miguel leaned against the bar, watching us with the fond exasperation of someone who knew this was going to be a long fucking night. The speakers bled Rush’s “Tom Sawyer,” Geddy Lee’s voice cutting through the basement like a philosophical knife.
So, River said, adjusting their scrubs and picking up a d20 with the reverence of someone who understood probability theory could be both beautiful and cruel. Do we know anything about our characters’ relationships, or are we going full murder-hobo strangers?
Fuck murder-hobos, Lisa declared, and hearing her swear was like watching a church lady discover tequila. My paladin’s zealous but she’s got a code. Zara doesn’t kill without reason.
Louise says we should establish party dynamics before initiative gets rolled, Sage said softly, then added in a slightly different voice, That’s what Louise says. My sword. She’s very opinionated.
Of course she fucking is, Remy drawled, his Cajun accent thicker than his mama’s gumbo. Ma mère always said, give a woman a sharp blade and she’ll have opinions about everything from soup to salvation.
Your mama sounds amazing, Phoenix said.
She was. Made the best crawfish étouffée this side of the Mississippi and could read a person’s soul through their appetite.
Keira tapped her DM screen. You’re all level three adventurers who’ve been working together for about six months. You’ve taken jobs, bled together, and probably seen each other at your worst. Druid— she looked at me —you’re the medic and the muscle when shit goes sideways. Your brown bear form has saved everyone’s ass at least twice.
Damn right, I said, feeling the familiar weight of my character settling around me like comfortable armor. Willow, my druid, was everything I’d wanted to be before I learned the word transgender—fierce, free, and utterly herself.
Monk, Keira continued, nodding to Phoenix, you’re young, fast, and still learning when to punch and when to run. Magus— Sage straightened —you’re the arcane firepower and Louise is your partner, not just your weapon. Summoner— River smiled —your eidolon is basically your best friend and emotional support abomination. Rogue— Remy grinned —you’re the reason we can’t have nice things but also the reason we’re not all dead. And Paladin— Lisa beamed —you’re the moral compass we don’t always want but definitely need.
Pink Floyd’s “Time” drifted through the speakers, and my throat closed up. Gizmo and I used to sing this in the car when she was little, her voice high and pure, mine trying to find notes that didn’t exist in my range yet. Those days felt like someone else’s life, preserved in amber and impossible to touch.
Mom? Miguel asked gently.
I’m good, I managed. Just… music.
Keira reached under the table and squeezed my knee—once, quick, acknowledgment without making it a thing. That’s why I loved her. She knew when to push and when to just let me breathe through it.
Right, Keira said, her DM voice sliding into place like a key in a lock. You’ve arrived in Seabrook, a fishing town on the Whisper Coast. Population maybe three thousand on a good day. Salt in the air, gulls screaming like they’ve got something important to say, and a general vibe of ‘we’re all slowly drowning but we’re fine.’ You’re here because people have been disappearing.
How many people? Sage asked, and Louise apparently agreed with the question because Sage nodded to her sword.
Eleven in three months. Fisherfolk mostly, but also a merchant, a baker, two dockworkers. No pattern to age or gender. They just… vanish. No bodies, no signs of struggle. The town guard is fucking useless—understaffed and undertrained. The mayor is offering two hundred gold to anyone who can figure out what’s happening and make it stop.
Two hundred gold? Remy whistled. For eleven disappearances? Either they’re broke or they don’t actually want it solved.
Both, probably, Keira confirmed. Welcome to small-town politics and poverty.
Sounds like home, Lisa muttered, and there was history in those words—her farm girl roots, the kind of struggling towns where hope went to die.
You’re staying at the Broken Anchor Inn, Keira continued, rolling dice behind her screen with the ominous rattle of fate being decided. It’s late afternoon. The common room smells like fish and desperation. The innkeeper—Marta, human woman, fifty-ish, tired as fuck—tells you the town meeting is tonight if you want to learn more. Otherwise, you’ve got time to explore, gather information, or get into trouble.
Can I talk to Louise about the magical aura? Sage asked.
Roll Perception.
Sage’s dice clattered across the table. Eighteen.
Louise hums—you can feel it through the grip—and tells you there’s something… off about this place. Not overtly magical, but like reality is wearing a mask that doesn’t quite fit.
Well that’s not ominous as fuck, Phoenix said.
My monk wants to find the highest point in town and observe, they continued. Get a lay of the land.
Acrobatics check.
Phoenix rolled. Shit. Seven.
You climb halfway up the lighthouse before your hand slips on bird shit and you nearly fall. The lighthouse keeper—old human man with one eye and opinions about safety—yells at you in language that would make a sailor blush.
Sounds like my kind of guy, Phoenix laughed, and River squeezed their thigh.
I want to case the docks, Remy said. See who’s talking, who’s not, follow the money.
Stealth and Perception.
Remy rolled both. Nineteen on Stealth, fourteen on Perception.
You’re a fucking ghost. You overhear two dockworkers talking—they’re scared shitless but trying not to show it. One mentions his cousin disappeared two weeks ago. The other says the guard told them it was probably drowning, but the cousin could swim like a goddamn fish. They’re whispering about something called ‘the Red Dreams.’
The what now? I asked.
That’s all you hear before they notice they’re being watched—not you, but they get paranoid and scatter.
Della emerged from the kitchen with a platter of sliders that belonged in a food magazine. Y’all are about to get burger grease on everything and I don’t give a single shit, she announced. Eat or I’ll take it as a personal insult.
We descended like locusts. River managed to grab three before Phoenix could steal them. Lisa took one with the delicate precision of someone who’d learned portion control the hard way but was saying fuck it tonight. Sage balanced theirs on top of their character sheet, somehow not getting grease anywhere.
My paladin goes to the temple, Lisa said around a mouthful of caramelized onion perfection. Zara needs to pray and also see if the local clergy know anything.
Religion check.
Lisa rolled. Natural twenty.
Fuck yes, Keira breathed. The temple is dedicated to Sarenrae—goddess of healing, sun, and redemption. The priestess, Celeste, is a middle-aged half-elf who looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. She’s overjoyed to see another servant of the Dawnflower. She tells you the disappearances started right after the fishing boats started pulling up strange nets—not the fish nets, but something else. Old nets, covered in symbols that hurt to look at. She’s been having nightmares about drowning, about things with too many tentacles calling from deep water.
Jesus Christ, Lisa whispered. Celeste needs a vacation and possibly trauma therapy.
Don’t we all, I muttered.
Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” erupted from the speakers, and fuck me, here came the tears again. Gizmo had learned every word, every operatic shift, could do the “Scaramouche” part with more drama than the original. We’d sing it on road trips, windows down, completely unselfconscious. Before I shattered her trust. Before I became someone she couldn’t recognize.
Mom? Miguel’s voice again, soft.
I’m fine. Keep playing.
Keira’s hand found mine under the table, held it tight enough to hurt in the best way.
My druid wants to examine the nets, I said, pushing through the thickness in my throat. Are they still around?
The guard burned them, Keira said. But you can check the beach where they washed up. Nature Awareness check—you’re a druid, you’ll get bonuses.
I rolled. Twenty-two.
The beach is wrong. The sand has a texture like it’s been crystallized, and there are dead fish—not rotted, but dessicated, like something sucked all the moisture out. You find traces of the nets’ outline—burned into the sand. The symbols are still faintly visible. They’re not from any language you know, but they make your skin crawl and your bear form recoil inside you.
Can I sketch them? I asked.
Absolutely. You get a detailed drawing. Anyone want to make a Knowledge check to identify them?
Sage raised their hand. Arcana? Louise is curious.
Roll it.
Seventeen plus my modifier… twenty.
Louise goes absolutely fucking quiet, Keira said, her voice dropping to DM-serious. Then she tells you these symbols are related to aberrations. The kind of creatures that exist in spaces between reality. Mindflayers, aboleths, things that shouldn’t exist but do anyway. These specific symbols are ritual markers—preparation for something bigger.
How much bigger? River asked.
Big enough that Louise is suggesting you leave town immediately and never look back.
Well that’s not happening, Phoenix said. My monk’s broke and also not a coward.
Two hundred gold would buy a lot of medical supplies for people who need them, River added, their nurse instincts showing.
Ma mère would haunt me if I ran from people who needed help, Remy drawled.
Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Pride And Joy” kicked in, guitar work that could make angels weep with envy.
Town meeting time, Keira announced. You’re all crammed into a building that’s half community center, half fish market. About fifty people showed up—which is apparently good turnout for Seabrook. The mayor is a bloated human man who looks like he’s allergic to effort. But there’s a woman standing beside him—Captain Thera, half-orc, scarred up like she’s fought every fight there is. She’s the one who actually seems to give a shit.
I like her already, Renee called from the bar where she was nursing a beer. She’d been watching us play, occasionally offering commentary.
Captain Thera explains the situation, Keira continued. Eleven missing. No leads. Guard is overwhelmed. She’s blunt as fuck about it—they need help and they can’t afford pride. Someone asks about the Red Dreams. Everyone goes quiet. Thera admits about seventy percent of the town has been having them—nightmares about drowning, about something calling from deep water, about red eyes in darkness. People wake up exhausted, sometimes with strange marks on their skin that fade by morning.
Have any of us had these dreams? I asked.
Perception checks, everyone.
Dice rattled like bones. Phoenix rolled highest—seventeen.
You’ve had them, Keira told Phoenix. Three nights in a row since you arrived. You didn’t mention it because you thought it was just your brain processing trauma. But now that she mentions it, yeah—drowning, tentacles, something whispering in a language that feels like it’s rewriting your thoughts.
Well fuck, Phoenix said, and River pulled them closer.
Is my eidolon affected? River asked.
Roll for them.
River rolled. Ten.
Your eidolon is fine. Whatever this is, it doesn’t affect summoned creatures. But they’re agitated, like they can sense something wrong.
Can I address the crowd? Lisa asked. Zara wants to offer blessing and hope.
Diplomacy check.
Lisa rolled. Sixteen.
Your words cut through the fear like sunlight through storm clouds. You speak about Sarenrae’s redemption, about facing darkness together, about how courage isn’t the absence of fear but the refusal to let it win. About half the crowd sits straighter. Captain Thera nods approval. The mayor looks annoyed that someone’s being effective.
Politicians, Lisa snorted.
After the meeting, Thera approaches you, Keira said. She’s got information but wants to share it privately. You follow her to the guard station—understaffed as fuck, only three guards on duty. She shows you a map. All eleven disappearances happened within a mile of the old lighthouse. And there’s something else—about two hundred years ago, Seabrook was called Scarlet Bay. They changed the name after some kind of catastrophe. Records are sparse, but she found references to ‘the Sleeper’ and ‘the Red Tide’ and ‘the awakening that must never be.’
Jesus fucking Christ, Remy breathed. Cthulhu-ass bullshit.
Exactly, Keira grinned. Thera asks if you’ll investigate the lighthouse tomorrow morning. She’ll provide what support she can, but she’s got three guards for a whole town. You’re her best shot.
We’re in, I said, speaking for the group. What time?
Dawn. She’ll meet you there.
I have a bad feeling about this, Sage murmured, and Louise apparently agreed.
Time jump, Keira announced. It’s night. You’re at the inn. Who’s taking watch shifts?
We divided them up—Remy and Phoenix first watch, River and Sage second, Lisa and Wendy third.
Roll Perception for first watch.
Remy rolled high. Phoenix rolled shit.
About midnight, Remy, you see someone moving through the streets. Not walking—gliding. Their movement is wrong, like their joints bend in directions joints shouldn’t bend. They’re heading toward the beach.
I wake Phoenix, Remy whispered. Quietly. We follow.
Stealth checks, both of you.
They rolled. Phoenix finally got lucky—eighteen. Remy got twenty-two.
You’re fucking invisible. You follow this person—and as you get closer, you realize it’s not a person anymore. Their skin has a gray-green tint. Their eyes—when they turn slightly—are solid red. They’re whispering something, over and over. Remy, you speak enough languages—make a Linguistics check.
Remy rolled. Fourteen.
It’s Aklo. The language of aberrations. You catch fragments: ‘The Sleeper wakes,’ ‘The Red Tide rises,’ ‘Thirteen is the number, thirteen shall open the way.’
Thirteen but only eleven have disappeared, Phoenix hissed.
Math is terrifying, River confirmed.
The person—creature—whatever—reaches the beach, Keira continued. And walks straight into the water. Just keeps walking. No hesitation. The water closes over their head and they’re gone.
Do we follow? Phoenix asked.
Fuck no, Remy said immediately. We mark the location and get everyone else.
Smart, Keira approved. You wake the party. Everyone gets to be tired and grumpy.
My paladin has slept in armor more nights than she can count, Lisa said. Zara’s ready to fight god if necessary.
You all head to the beach. What do you do?
Can I cast Water Breathing? River asked. I’ve got it prepared.
Yes, but it’s got a limited duration. You want to use it now?
We debated strategy. Finally decided—River casts Water Breathing on everyone, Willow wild-shapes into a shark for underwater combat effectiveness, and we go in as a group.
Roll for initiative, Keira said with a grin that promised suffering.
The dice sang out their random judgments. Combat order established, Keira described the underwater landscape—wrong in ways that hurt the brain. Geometric patterns that shouldn’t exist in nature. And there, carved into a rock formation: a circle with thirteen points. Eleven were glowing red. Two remained dark.
And that’s when you see them, Keira whispered. Three figures in robes, standing around the circle. Their hoods hide their faces but you can feel their attention turn toward you. Above them, something massive lurks in deeper water. Something with tentacles and intentions that would shatter sanity.
Roll for initiative, she repeated. Welcome to The Scarlet Sleeper. I told you this was going to fuck you up.
And we rolled, dice clattering like fate’s laughter, while the jukebox switched to Stevie Ray Vaughan and the bar held its breath around us.
“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” - Joseph Campbell
Campbell understood what we discovered through twenty-sided dice and collective imagination—that the monsters we face in the dark are often reflections of the fears we carry in light. In pretending to be heroes descending into horror, we practiced being brave enough to face our own abysses. Sometimes the scariest dungeon is the one inside ourselves, and sometimes the best way to explore it is with friends, dice, and enough profanity to make the darkness think twice.