A Merry Band

Today was a momentous day in the O household.

Today was the day that I finally, at long last, fully embraced my Destiny as a Second Generation Geek, and played D&D...

...with my mom!

Yes siree, this morning my old friends Adam and SCurry came over, and the four of us (with Adam acting as our long-suffering DM) got our role-play on.


Frennyr Scaleson could hardly be blamed for gawking like an idiot when he first caught sight of the travelers.  Sure, he knew as well as the next villager that the mayor of Glasslake had sent out a call for adventurers to deal with their... little problem... but Frennyr was expecting nothing more exciting than a battle-scarred ex-merc, or perhaps even a mysterious, taciturn ranger if they really lucky.  But nothing so exotic as this trio.

The most pedestrian of the group was the elf: small and slight and dark of skin, with hair that hung about her head like an enraged storm-cloud.  At least, Frennyr thought she was an elf, until he got a better look at the second one- she was tall for a female, with skin so white as to be blue, and so unmistakably an elf that Frennyr suddenly realized that first one must be a half-elf.  But achingly beautiful as she was, with glossy black hair braided intricately back from her face, even the full-blooded elf was rendered unremarkable in comparison to their final companion.  Frennyr could not at first imagine what the creature was: well over six feet tall, broad as a young bull, and covered in shimmering gold scales instead of flesh, it did not match the description of any of the races Frennyr knew.  But then someone else on the dock hissed, "Dragonborn!" and he felt like an idiot.  Of course the creature was dragonborn!  He- she?  It was hard to tell, but something about the delicacy of the fins spoke of the feminine to him.  She was wearing chain-mail and carrying a great battleaxe that looked well-cared-for.  The elf had the lean and deadly air of an individual best avoided after dark- or perhaps just in general.  Frennyr glanced again at the delicately-proportioned half-elf.  No warrior, that one- but, the stained fingertips indicated a scholar of some sort.  And scholars usually knew all sorts of useful magic.  He grunted in satisfaction; surely this lot would have no trouble with whatever it was that had been helping itself to the villager's goods.


  1. I wouldn't rule out a little draconic lineage in someone with Frennyr's surname, either...

    1. Alas, Frennyr cannot claim any lineage more majestic than some damn fine fisherpeople...