The players then had to roll dice to determine the outcome. In all but a rare few cases, they roll 3 1d100s, with modifiers based on the scenario, against a base DC of 50 (also modified based on scenario). The number of times they equal or exceed the DC determine the result, as so:
0 Passes = Failure
1 Pass = Mitigated Success (they succeed, but...)
2 Passes = Success
3 Passes = Enhanced Success (they succeed, and...)
Here, they roll 41, 87, 61 vs. DC 60 - Success!
There's a sort of translucent worm attached to many of the bones, you note with consternation. Blind cave fish dart between the crevices. Away from the entrance, the wall is once again slick with algae.
If there's something poetic to be said about life in death, you're too nauseated to think of it.
?It does make one wonder—? Another audible crack. The bones are older here.
?—well, multiple things. Firstly, who all these bones are from. Secondly, who's putting them in piles. Thirdly...?
The footsteps echo strangely here. Is it really just you and Ellery inside?
?...what is cleaning all the flesh off.?
You have traveled what must be halfway along the wall, but there's been no change in either the smooth, seamless wall or the endless bones. Ellery stops, and motions for you to do the same. He cups his ear.
It's deadly silent. There's no third set of footsteps. There's no ghostly thumping. There's nothing.
Not even the faint lap of the water, you realize. No rush of blood in your ears. Ellery mouths something— says something— but you can't hear it. He can't hear himself, either, by the look on his face.
?Fascinating.?
You turn around. There are four alligators behind you.
They are large, but, you suppose, not double-underline-giant. They have the expected scales and teeth and cold dead glinting eyes. They hang in the water, motionless save the swish of their tails.
"There's a passage up there," Ellery signs. The glow-orb in his hand bobs drunkenly up and down. "But—"
How long have there been four alligators behind you? Are they hunting you? Herding you? Can you fight four alligators? You could take one, probably, but— think positive. You can fight four alligators! Even if their eyes glint in the blue-green light with far too much malicious intelligence. Is this where the bones come from?
"—it slants up. I don't know if it's the right way."
"Tom's bones," you reply half-heartedly.
"Not a chance."
>[1] You don't give a damn about what way the passage goes. You wanted out of this chamber before, and you continue to want out of it now, and you will take the easiest way possible.
>[2] Hold on, you have this handled. Exude a gator-y aura of togetherness, of the type you'd previously experienced. They'll accept you as one of their own. Ignore Ellery.
>[3] Fight four alligators with a switchblade (and win).
>[4] Just keep inching along the wall until you find a more promising entrance. If they haven't eaten you now, they probably won't later.
>[5] Write-in.
You discard your more creative solutions and choose instead to follow Ellery, who is already edging back into the new passage. The alligators accompany you single-file.
?The water's absolutely thick with Law. I know you're dense, Charlie, but you should be able to feel it.?
The water in the passage is absolutely thick with... something. It's warm and almost waxy. The glow-orb has dimmed to almost nothing.
?It's the right direction. But there shouldn't be so much leakage.?
It's too viscous, is what it is. It's challenging to wade through. But there are four alligators behind you, and your goal presumably ahead, and you are not stopping here. Not in the close-pressing darkness.
The passage widens eventually, though it continues to slope upward, and dozens of dead eyes on either side greet you. The hallway is lined with alligators, and as you pass each one it peels off and follows you. Like you were Queen, and they were your retinue, your cortège— a taste of the near future. You're swelled with optimism.
?A cortège is a funeral procession.?
Well, it could be that, too.
You take a final step and it all shatters: the darkness, the silence, the waxy water. It's difficult to comprehend, at first. There's a large sunny cavern. There is quite a lot of shouting. There are... there are…
There are a lot of alligators.
Around you, yes, is an entire flotilla. But before you is something else entirely. Hundreds of them, melted and fused into a writhing, gnashing tower of lizard. Gnashing, mostly, at a man hacking away at its surface.
A crown is tied to the man's belt. The Crown.
You're too late! It echoes again and again. You're too late! You're too late!
?Charlotte Fawkins.?
You’re—
?There is never too late.?
>[1] Write-in.
Write-ins (where the players write what they want to do, rather than picking from pre-defined options) will be included verbatim in blue boxes like this:
These are actual write-ins from my actual players. Some options may have multiple boxes, as multiple people had input.
Additionally, the roll:
78, 70, 98 vs. DC 70 - Enhanced Success!
Ellery, baffled, follows your gaze to the crown on the belt. His expression clears, then hardens.
"Fuck you," he says, too loudly (you cast an anxious glance at the man, who hasn't noticed), and ducks under an alligator to reach you. "Fuck you! You lied!"
?'No, I—'?
"No, I didn't," you say, with your best smile. The one with all the teeth.
"Ah. Ah ha ha. If you haven't noticed, we've been past about a half-mile of algae, and— AND—" You'd cranked the smile up a few more watts— "I see how you look at that thing!"
"Crown," you correct. "It's actually very personal, so actually... none of your business."
"None of my—! You dragged me here under false pretenses!"
"No pretenses." You brush a strand of hair out of your face. "Again, you wanted to come."
"Did I? Is that possible? Because I..." He lowers his voice. "...don't recall ever hearing about it beforehand, and then I wake up and there I am! And now here I am, in a cave with two hundred alligators! Maybe if you had told me, for example, where you were going, or what we were doing, I—"
You are in a cave with two hundred alligators. "Oh, get over it," you say, and turn away.
Two hundred alligators. This is your chance to lead a battalion to glorious victory. If only you had a sword, or a flag, or some such…
?This is stupid. No, sorry. You're stupid.?
You hate it when he gets very close to your ear. It makes the radio-crackle louder.
?You're not listening to yourself at all. You think this will work.?
?It will
?I don't understand how it's possible to think it will work. Alligators. Just because a little Law happened to leak all over these doesn't make them your friends. You don't have friends.?
?At absolute best, you're going to get swept under and I will have to bail you out. Like I do
He was desperate. You were desperate. You're still horribly desperate, positively ravenous for—
?I was not desperate. I was… unfortunately… hasty.?
—for— for— like the alligators.
?Be serious.?
Oh, you are.
You loose a bloodcurdling shriek of exhaustion and frustration and rage and charge forward, your switchblade in the air. In perfect sync, 80 tons of lizard surge forth with you. The man turns, too late, and is bowled over. The main column bellows.
(Ellery, still by the entrance, looks exasperated. You hardly know why.)
>[1] Perfect. Walk over, take the crown, walk away. Leave the alligators to deal with him.
>[2] Take the crown and then perform a little interrogation. Who IS he? What does he want with YOUR crown? Etcetera. Stomp a couple times on his face if you feel it's necessary.
>[3] If the alligators are starving for want of food, who are you to deny these beautiful creatures? Take the crown, and let them eat the man. Yes, you do want to watch. It's what he deserves.
>[4] Take the crown, put it on your head, and gloat like your life depends on it.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
>[5] Write-in.
The bowled-over man is breathing heavily. Pink gack encrusts long gashes down his arms and back, while a half-bitten shoulder oozes a mucous cloud of blood. The column, out of reach, snaps at open water. The Crown is pinned underneath him.
You grab the bad shoulder and turn him over. He gives you the evil eye— you cross your fingers to ward it off— but does nothing. White-striped feathers are pinned to the collar of his jacket. (Is he the one the Courtiers outside were waiting for?)
You take the Crown. You place it on your head. You wonder who made it, and why he hated the monarchy so much. Did there have to be little nobbly bits that protrude into the skull? Did it have to be quite so heavy? And all the crystals— you know 16 is symbolic, but it just looks tacky.
?Damn.?
The man is fumbling for his fallen tomahawk. Fool. Did he think you wouldn't notice? You tread hard on the offending fingers and are rewarded with a crack and a pained inhale.
"Who are you," you demand, "and what did you want with my crown?"
There's a nervous silence.
"Is that a trick question?" the man says. "Kindly don't step on my fingers."
You step on his fingers. He grits his teeth. "Lucky—" (You aim for the intact hand.) "—Duncan Blaine. As you know, Lottie, so I don't know what you're— I know you left on bad terms, but..."
?Hm.?
You've never seen this man before. He's trying to pull the wool over your eyes, so he can steal your crown. You change tactics.
"Shut up!" you say. "I won! It's over! I have the Crown! I'm going to go back up, and I'm going to make all the rules! It's my— excuse me, it's my God-damned birthright! You can't have it!"
"I mean, that was the plan. Well, almost. We've changed tack from the whole surface thing. If you come in with enough humility, they might still let you participate. In a low-level position, you have to understand—"
"Duncan" is saying things you don't understand in the slightest. "No!!" you shriek. "This is— 3 years!"
"Oh, don't get hysterical. More hysterical. Call off the dogs, let me up, and we'll take this thing back to Central, huh? I won't even report the whole mutie thing. For old time's sake."
"If I don't!"
"Then I'll take it and send the hunters out. There is a bounty, you know. Not a big one, but times are tough—"
You stomp on his face until blood comes out the mouth.
(Distantly, Ellery mutters some pagan G.S. It’s interspersed with a lot of "fucks".)
There's blood on your boot, you realize. You'll have to wash it when you get back. And add some padding to the crown. Bring in a goldsmith. You might have to redo the whole thing entirely, really.
"I won," you say to the entire cavern. "I won! It's over!"
(Duncan moans.)
"I won! It's over! It's the end! I'm the heroine! It's all over now!"
(A rustle. 200 pairs of eyes turn to you.)
"I—"
WE
ARE THE CONGREGATION
The column speaks.
WE
STILL HUNGER
WE
MUST
BE
FED
"Well," you say less jubilantly. "Eat this guy."
You gesture to Duncan.
NO
EMPTY
"Okay. What if I don't... feed you?"
WE
WILL EAT
You are conscious of 15 thousand sharp little teeth around you. "What... do you eat?"
LAW
?Well,? says Richard bitterly. ?Don't have a lot of that laying around. Not anymore.?
OR BODIES
>[1] Well, Ellery. Obviously. It's the whole point of him.
>[2] Negotiate. Is there any way they could eat you, but just, like... a little bit? (They do not like negotiations.)
>[3] ?There is a third option. It won't hurt.?
You're silent. The crown is heavy.
VERY WELL
The alligators advance.
?Very well.?
Richard coils around your wrist.
And the tighter he coils around your wrist, the faster and louder your heart seems to flutter in your chest and head— like a beautiful if moderately panicked butterfly, you think and immediately dismiss as simpering nonsense. Positive thinking. You can fight 200 alligators, and God only knows how many more in the column.
Positive thinking. Deep breaths, Lottie, count backwards from a thousand, 999, 997— God blessed!— fine then, recite— recite— you have the Crown! Why don't you just leave?! But you're hemmed in— recite— recite— knock knock jokes (why do you know so many?). Knock knock?
You don't notice your heartbeat slowing down: to quick, normal, slow, deathly. You do notice when your thoughts stall and sputter out with it, leaving you glassy-eyed and quivering, stripped of a voice. Richard strangles your wrist—
And then it's as if you've clawed your way up through several feet of sand. You gasp for air until you come to some relevant conclusions:
1) You are not where you were.
2) You don't know where you are.
(You pat your head and come to 3): you still have the Crown.)
It is unpleasantly cold and a little musty, wherever this is, and far too quiet for comfort. You scrabble for a handhold on the smooth stone (marble?)-tiled floor and doubtlessly further scratch up your nails. There's no handhold to be found, but there is a hand which you— you stop that line of thinking in its tracks. Someone is here, in front of you, and he— it is a he, or else you file away “massive hands” as a weakness for later— is offering you a hand.
It's dark, but not quite pitch: light must be trickling in from some unseen window, because you can just make out the outline of this gentleman. “Pardon me,” you say, and are pleased with how much quaver you're able to suppress, “who are you?”
“Damn,” the man says. “You were supposed to say ‘who’s there'. Can't even accomplish that much."
“I...” you say, because something isn't quite slotting together right. Your head twinges. “Who's there?”
“Wire.”
“W..." Multiple things aren't quite slotting together right. It's so quiet. “What?"
“Charlie,” says the man, silky-smooth and condescending. “Honestly. ‘Wire who’. This is not something that deserves an explanation.”
Oh. You swat away the proffered hand and gather yourself to your feet. “Wire who. Richard, what—”
He is rail-thin and at least half a foot taller than you. “Fiat lux,” he says, as if that explains everything, and the light seems to swell even before he flings open a heavy set of curtains.
“Ah-h,” you breathe, and nearly fall back over: stained-glass light skewers your eyes. You raise your hand to shield against the glare, but there's little you can do when there's shades of pink bouncing against burnished marble floor and arched marble ceiling and every marble wall. The man stands silhouetted against it all. His arms are crossed, as if you are somehow imposing on him.
His face is long and impatient, with a straight nose and cold eyes. Grey creeps up the temples into a meticulous blond coif. It's a hairstyle from your mother's generation, which feels apt— he must be 25, 30 years your senior. His clothes...
“Richard,” you (extraordinarily calm given the circumstances) say. Positive thinking. “What's wrong with your suit?”
The man looks down. A ripple of confusion disturbs his ocean of self-satisfaction.
It's not the suit in and of itself. It fits perfectly well. But it's beige and checkered and obviously cheap and you are certain Richard would not be caught dead in it... if he had any choice. “This isn't you, is it? It's some poor soul you— you possessed—! I do not approve of that! That's not— you can't go around possessing people!”
“Oh, Charlie," the man says, and benignly scratches his forehead. “Don't be hysterical. Wire you always saying ‘knock knock’?”
“Huh?" You are in no mood for riddles.
“...Oh well. No, I didn't possess anybody. Did you really think I'd settle for—”
“That’s not what I meant!"
He continues over you. “It's the other way around. Don't open your mouth like that; you'll catch flies. You've forced me into this frankly shoddy replacement of a body, thanks much."
The words are utter nonsense, but that doesn't stop you from feeling like a fog has lifted. “Like the first time,” you venture. “With the— you know, the alligators. But that wasn't real."
“No,” Richard agrees. "It wasn't. It was in your head. Ergo...?"
You look around, and you want to say: That's not right. My head isn't some sort of... grand... cathedral. It is not made of marble and lined with elegant gilded columns. There are no stained glass windows and no frescoes. No row of doors at the back. No font of water quietly burbles in the center. And, if nothing else, it is not run-down: there are absolutely no cobwebs, no peeling paint, no cracks and stains of any kind…
But you suspect this is not the correct thing to say, half because of the look on Richard's face— eyebrows arched, ready to expound on your wrongness— and half because you can suddenly feel this place and its coldness and emptiness and whiteness lodged in your skull like buckshot. You slump down against a column. “Oh God,” you say. “Oh God, it is. Am I dead?”
He laughs. You don't.
"It's a valid question," you huff, "given the circumstances."
"...No. Maybe a little, but mostly no."
You try to not think about what "maybe a little" means. "So I'm alive, then? Am I unconscious?"
"Don't make guesses!" He gestures broadly. There is a sheen of perspiration on his brow. "...Yes! But not— only for a fraction of a second. It'll... have been as a blink."
"Are you okay?" He doesn't look it.
"Oh, sorry. Sorry I'm busy keeping this whole thing stable. Apologies for straining under your incessant tomfoolery. I'll go right ahead and genuflect, Queen Charlotte—"
You idly trace a thin groove between two marble tiles. “You couldn't get to the point if it bit you, Richard.”
"Well then. Without me, you're going to die."
"No, I— I'm going to... Ellery," you finish lamely.
He's stopped pacing. "You were weak. You hesitated. And it'd be messy, in any case. No, you are going to die."
Something prickles up your spine. "Well," you say. "Maybe I will."
Richard squats down and fixes his gaze squarely on yours. His eyes are blue. "No," he says, "you won't, Charlie."
"You said—" You are flushing. "—that's what you said about the whole— the whole alligator deal, too. And you were wrong, and I was right, so— so— ha."
He takes you by the chin. "Charlie, we've won. It's over. But you have to live. Even if it means—"
"No." Your voice is rising in pitch.
He stands and begins to pace again. “Charlie, it's nothing. A temporary alteration. It's not going to hurt; you'll be perfectly fine, in the long run.”
“No! I've told you!" He's wormed his way into every other corner of your life. Something has to be sacred! Something has to be yours!
He whips towards you and his irises are a glassy blue-black and his face is a mask of animal ferocity. ?You don't have a choice,? he says in a hoarse whisper, a radio crackle back under his voice. ?I will not let you fulfill your childish martyr fantasy. You will thank me later.?
“You need my permission." You refuse to be cowed by a man in a cheap suit. “Honestly, Richard, lose the theatrics.”
?I don't need your permission.?
?It is a courtesy to get your permission.?
?We are past courtesy. We are into necessary.?
That tone of voice is known to you. You nod imperceptibly.
?Good.?
And then, as an afterthought,
?You'll enjoy it.?
That terrifies you most of all.
?Hold on.?
Canary fire surges up your spine. You stiffen, as if shocked, then
Your defenses are wet paper and are, one by one, punched through accordingly. Your mental notes are riffled through. Your memories are held upside down and shaken roughly.
Alterations are made. Just enough to tailor you properly. Do up the hems, and so on.
It does have to fit.
Your legs don't bend that way—
Blood, liquid metal—
Piercing sunlight— trees—
You sleep in your clothes.
Leslie Howard to depict Richard's human form. Now I can just draw it (and Lucky, for good measure):