Make a Will Save

The skeleton scrambled down the halls of the ancient crypt, primal instinct driving it toward its prey. The passageway was pitch dark, but what is light to an undead? The magics holding its bones together guided the creature past rows of corpses in various states of decay.

As it rounded a corner, it saw - if you could call what it did seeing - a small group of adventurers, four in number, huddled around a floating orb of softly glowing light. They seemed completely unaware of the threat lurking in the shadows, their backs turned to the darkness. All the skeleton needed to do now was-

The undead's rudimentary train of thought was interrupted by a sleek steel arrow flying from the permeating darkness, burying itself in the back of the skeleton's skull. The life-giving magic dissipated, sending bones scattering across the floor.

One of the adventurers, a young Half-elf sporting a long blue cloak and wielding a gnarled wooden staff, glanced backward as a pelvis rolled slowly into the aura of light. As he watched, a tall, wiry Elf stepped from the shadows, his long brown hair swept over his shoulders and a supple silver bow clutched in his hand.

The Elf scanned the group, grinning. "Not bad, eh?" he chimed, his voice ringing like so many bells. "Low-light vision does come in handy every once in a while."

One of the group, a burly Half-orc, scoffed. "You got lucky," he muttered, spitting at the incandescent ball in front of him.

The Half-elf frowned as the spittle sizzled on the orb's surface. "Please, Mogrul, let us hear what else Aringsor has to say." With this he turned to the Elf, arching an eyebrow. "You do bring news, don't you Aringsor?"

"Naturally," Aringsor responded. "What kind of scout would I be if I didn't? C'mon, it's just down this way." The Elf set off, waving for the others to follow him. Mogrul grunted, grudgingly lifting himself from the ground as the Half-elf lifted the orb of light and placed it on the end of his staff, shaking it a few times to make sure of the connection.

"Honestly," Mogrul whispered to the wizard as the group followed Aringsor further into the depths of the crypt, "I don't know why we let him tag along with us, Silvus. He's trouble. I caught him in my coinpurse earlier today." The Half-orc lowered his voice again, making sure no one else could hear. "I say we just get rid of him as soon as we get the loot. The we could all get a larger share, and we wouldn't have to put up with him anymore. It's a win-win!"

Silvus sighed, parting the darkness with his staff as the party trudged onward. "No, Mogrul. Aringsor, while insufferable, is an important part of this fellowship. We need his wit and agility, despite how oft they may prove an annoyance." Now a glint shone in the mage's eye, the orb beginning to glow brighter as he continued. "Now, I'll hear no more of your treachery. Watch your tongue, lest you wake one morning to find you lack it."

Mogrul glared at his companion, but said nothing, simply heightening his pace as Aringsor led on.

At last, the party entered a small room. It had a vaulted ceiling and its walls were slick with grime and mildew. The center of the room was raised in a stepped fashion. The magelight shone upon ornate carvings of strange, quadrupedal beings, somewhat resembling misproportioned horses.

Aringsor chuckled as the others inspected the walls and floors, hopping up the steps of the central ziggurat. "Oi, guys. Up here."

The party obliged, climbing the steps after Aringsor. Silvus struggled up the slope, steadying himself with his staff with every step.

As he reached the top he gasped, for what he saw before him was...

~<>~

"... A small, delicate looking box, made of light wood somewhat resembling mahogany."

"Oh, wonderful. More flavor text. Like we actually care about the outside of the box."

"Shut up, Evan. Just let Dave talk," I growled, turning to my friend, a tall, skinny guy just shy of his twenty-third birthday. Evan had the kind of facial scruff you could wash a car with and wore the same tweed flat-cap every time he went out in public; more often than not, he wore the same clothes too.

"Fine," Evan mumbled, running his fingers through his long, unkempt brown hair. "Do go on, Sir David."

David, our GM, glared at Evan, frowning as he continued. "As I was saying, you see a small box, delicately carved and made of a light wood that looks like mahogany. The box is inlaid in a silvery-gold alloy which is beautiful for the eye to behold. The hinges are made of..."

As David went on, I looked around the table. It was three after ten, and all of the other players looked tired - except for Micheal's kid, Mogrul's player, who was currently in the middle of a sugar high - and clearly just wanted to go home. The scenario tonight had been dull and drawn out, and the last dungeon crawl had been pathetically easy thus far.

Two of us had lost characters this round: Abby and Jared. Their adventurers had died from environmental hazards. Those two were just waiting for their chronicle sheets. The rest of us were still venturing through the "Crypt of Darkness" (Yes, that's what it was called), waiting to get this over with and get our loot.

"... You see a small gold latch on the front of the box," David said, finally finishing. He takes a few sips from his glass of water before asking the inevitable and, frankly, unnecessary question. "So," he says, "do you choose to open the box?"

A chorus of "Yes!" answered his question, and he moved on. "So, which one of you wants to open it?"

Evan's hand immediately shot up, waving about the air. "Ooh, ooh me!"

"Fine," David sighed, flipping the page of the scenario pamphlet. "The party is blinded by a bright flash of light."

I knew I should have used detect magic.

"Everyone make a Will save."

Mike's kid looked at David confusedly before turning to his father. "Dad?" he squeaked, his voice cracking terribly. "What's a Will save?"

Evan groaned. "Dude, just roll a D-twenty, then add your Wisdom mod. It's simple."

"Which one's the D-twenty?"

Evan facepalmed, picking up his twenty sided die, a clear plastic, carved numbers, impossible to read thing that he swore was good luck. He rolled it, watching as it bounced in front of him. As he looked down at the number, he facepalmed again, harder. The sound of him practically slapping his forehead resonated through the room.

"You made it," he said scooping up the die and breathing on it. The child cocked his head to one side, staring at Evan.

"But what about the wisdom mod thingy?" he asked in his unbearably high-pitched voice.

"Nat' twenty," Evan replied, sliding further into his chair. "Instant pass on any saving throw. You made it."

I couldn't help but chuckle. Evan's dice always seemed to love other people, no matter what the circumstance, yet he was still ridiculously superstitious about the D-twenty. As long as you treated your twenty well, he insisted, it would treat you well. Remarkably, despite its reluctance to grant him natural twenties on attacks and checks, Evan had never lost a saving throw with that die.

Evan had been playing with his current set of dice for five years now, and within that time he had never lost a saving throw. New players were inclined to think that the D-twenty was weighted, but the regular group knew better. The thing gave him crap throws in almost every other instance. That was the only reason the rest of the party trusted him to scout on his own; we knew we wouldn't need to run in to save his character because he got caught up in some stupid trap.

The rest of the party rolled, all of them passing. The lowest roll was an eight, so I figured the pass must be pretty simple. There was almost no way you could lose this kind of throw.

I picked up my D-twenty, a marbled green and black die with gold letters. It had been a gift from Evan when I first started playing, along with the rest of the set he had just replaced. Shaking the die in my hand, I stared at the playing mat. Our mini's were standing around the box in the center of the room. All we had to do was make this throw, and we'd get our loot and go home.

I let loose the die, watching it roll across the mat, bouncing off of David's cardboard GM screen. David looked down at it from his seat, grinning. "Five," he said, tossing the D-twenty back to me, "you lose the save. Your turn Evan." I groaned. The simplest save I had seen in a long time, and I lost it. This night just got better and better.

Evan smiled, picking up his D-twenty. The little thing shone in brightly, catching the light from the ceiling lamp above our table. "A'right, let's get this done," he chuckled, dropping the die.

It landed flat. No bouncing, no turning. It just landed flat on one side with a little thud. Evan stared at it, unblinking. His mouth hung open and he shook his head.

"Yo, Evan," I chimed, waving a hand in front of his face. "What's up, man?"

A small squeak sounded from his throat, his gaze still locked on the D-twenty. Finally he seemed to find the power to form words again, and he slowly replied, pointing to the die.

"I-I lost," he whispered. "Natural one, no pass."

The table went silent. It had been pretty quiet before, but it seemed as if everyone had stopped breathing. Even the kid, who most certainly had no idea what this meant.

"You're kidding," I gasped, looking to the die. Sure enough, there on its surface was a simply carved '1', it's angles glinting in the lamplight. "Wow."

David closed his pamphlet, reaching into his bag for the chronicle sheets. The rest of the group grabbed their mini's and character sheets, stuffing them into their backpacks. No one needed to say anything; the game was over, it was time to go home.

"You all get the loot," Dave said, breaking the silence. "Even the characters who died. I'll let you carry the gold and supplies on to your new ones."

"Wait," Evan muttered. "Dave, what was the penalty for losing the save? I want to know."

David arched an eyebrow. "Dimensional teleportation. Aringsor and Silvus would have been transported to an alternate dimension for an indefinite amount of time."

I looked at David incredulously. "Whoa, man," I said, whistling. "Pretty OP for a simple trap. That explains why the save was so low."

Dave nodded, shrugging. "Yeah. I'll let you guys keep your characters. That was... Well, tonight's just been pretty unfair."

Dave finished the chronicle sheets quickly, handing them out as we all said our goodbyes and goodnights. All the while, Evan remained in his chair, still staring at his D-twenty. As I watched the last car leave the driveway, I sighed, rubbing my temples with my thumbs. "Yo, Evan," I said, turning to the man, "you don't need to give me a ride home tonight. I can walk, it's not that far."

Evan nodded. "Christ, man," he said, tearing his eyes away from the offending die. "Dimensional teleportation? Is that even in the rule book?"

I shrugged, grabbing my coat from the hook on the apartment door. "I dunno. I've never heard of it before."

"Hm... Welp, see you later then," Evan said, standing and gathering up his supplies. "Should we have next week's game at your place?"

"Yeah, why not? See you then."

"See you then."

As I closed the apartment door behind me I sighed, taking a deep breath of the cool San Francisco air. The smell of fried food and fish wafted up from the wharfs on the shore, and the a refreshing breeze blew in off of the bay. I could hear yelling and laughter emanating from the many restaurants and bars that stayed open this late, and lights were still on at Pier Thirty-Nine. The skyscrapers of Oakland's business district were lit up, casting long tendrils of yellow light across the bay, pulsing with the tide.

Evan's apartment was a pretty nice one, an old, converted industrial loft with big factory windows in a good part of town. He had installed automatic doors in the loading garage where he kept his pride and joy: a '72 Gran Torino fastback. He had saved up as much money as he could throughout high school and college just to buy that car, and he still wasn't done restoring it. I honestly doubted he ever would be.

I began the walk home. I only lived a block or two away from Evan, and it was a nice night, so I didn't mind. As I walked, I thought about what had happened that night. Five years, and he had never lost a saving throw until now. Normally it wouldn't matter, but Evan was practically religious about his dice. He no doubt thought that he had done something wrong, and this was his punishment for it. The guy was probably busy grinding that poor D-twenty to dust right now.

I ca,e to a crosswalk, watching both ways intently before hopping across the street. Don't jaywalk, kids. It's dangerous.

I hadn't made it halfway across when is saw the bus. It was rocketing down the hill on my left, its brakes screeching as it barreled toward me. It was swerving erratically, taking out the occasional street sign on the sidewalk on its way down. It was a Greyhound, judging by the logo on its side.

I just watched as it swerved more violently than before, beginning to slide sideways down the street. I could see the terrified look on the passengers' faces as the bus flipped.

The last thought that went through my head before the bus blindsided me was how surprised I was that they still had Greyhounds in San Francisco.

Then everything went black.