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After travelling a short distance, the adventuring party considered building a fire to cook some of the bacon cut from the dire boar. Cautioned by the druid, the party’s leader, about bringing notice to themselves, they settled for cooking a small portion over the gnome’s magical candle.
Each got a bite, including the driver. The big warrior, nursing his wounds in the back of the wagon, got two.
The next morning there was excitement. At first Snix thought it was due to the warrior being healed by the gnome. Rather, it was about a dream the big warrior had. It earned comments about being third rank, having eight more hit points after his Constitution Bonus was added, and that he took the Tracking Skill. The party engaged in a social ritual of slapping hands, called “high five.” Even the elf and the big warrior engaged in the ritual with genuine smiles.
The gnome mentioned how he hoped to be next, soon.
The only one not understanding was the female driver. She watched the celebration, not the least bit curious as to what it all meant. Snix’s master had overheard conversations by customers that visited the pawnshop, usually adventurers, that mentioned ranks and hit points, and even something referred to as armor class rating. Higslaff believed it correlated to the amount of protection that various sorts of armor, shields and enchanted items offered while engaged in combat.
The adventuring party soon returned to their normal routine, and verbal snipes.
In the late afternoon, the big warrior rode Four Banger back toward the wagon. The druid was driving, with the elf on the bench seat to his left and the gnome to his right. In the back of the wagon, the driver rested, casually watching the road. The half-goblin thief was frustrated, attempting to repair the undergarment that Snix, himself, had damaged.
Snix’s garment sabotage proved distracting to the elf, and her familiar. The bird flew mostly behind the party, watching for danger, keeping away from the big warrior who scouted ahead.
The elf caught the big warrior watching her large chest bounce as the wagon wheels rolled across a rut in the road.
“Come back to get an eyeful of jiggle joy?” the elf asked, sitting up strait and jutting her breasts out.
The big warrior sneered, then grinned. “Jumbo jiggle joy.” Then his face scrunched up. “Would be more entertaining without a steel codpiece.”
Keeping pace on horseback with the wagon, next to the gnome, the warrior said to the druid, “There’s a couple wagons heading this way, about a half-hour off.”
“Did you observe any other item of concern?”
“Nah, Lysine.” Then the warrior asked the elf. “Your bird see anything trailing us?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. While she did so, the gnome handed the warrior a canteen. After taking a long drink, he stoppered it and tossed it back. “Thanks, gnome.”
The elf’s eyes snapped open. “Petie doesn’t see anything, except a big porcupine.”
“Right,” the big warrior said, and rode back ahead at a canter. His head looking left and then right as he advanced.
When he was out of earshot, the elf asked the druid, “What’s a codpiece?”
“A metallic piece of armor that protects a male warrior’s genitals from injury.”
“Oh,” she said, “like a cup?” She shrugged. “My high school boyfriend played catcher.” She looked ahead, at the warrior. “Serves him right.”
“Marigold,” the druid said, “I believe you have yet to fully comprehend the significance of a nineteen point one Appearance Score.”
“If it means stares galore and ogling at these.” She cupped her breasts, lifted them and turned toward the druid.
The elf being significantly taller than the druid, he was forced to lean right to avoid contact with his cheek and shoulder. “I have observed the effect of such a high attribute and the additional attention your generous feminine attributes attract.” Despite the awkward angle, he shrugged. “I must admit that, despite my constant effort, I have observed your appearance, and your generous assets, in a way that is unbecoming of a gentleman. For that, I apologize.”
Looking away, the gnome said, “Me too, Marigold.”
From inside the wagon, the half-goblin added, “Me too, dudette.”
She leaned back and threw her hands up in frustration. “It wouldn’t be so bad if my clothes didn’t get destroyed all the time. This isn’t the first time my bra’s been destroyed. Luckily I brought along another blouse, but my cloak is destroyed—again.”
The druid cleared his throat. “In my experience, RPG adventures tend to acquire recurring patterns. Those patterns are influenced by the Game Moderator, the world he created, and the players. To a lesser extent, the RPG, including its rules, and even artwork, have an impact.”
He glanced at the elf, who looked at him skeptically. “An eighteen is the normal maximum,” he said.
After a moment of the wagon trundling over the road, the druid spoke some more. “The GM is a dastardly individual, who is both meddling and vindictive. I believe your creation of a character that not only has an astoundingly high Appearance Score, but physical traits that are also outside the norm, may be influencing the trend you described.”
“I can’t help it I rolled four sixes.”
“And you opted to play an elf, a race which is given an automatic plus one to Appearance.”
“I wanted to play an elf, like in Lord of the Rings. I didn’t know I was going to be one.”
“The abnormal height and...” The druid paused. “Other extremely generous anatomical proportion you recorded on your character sheet.”
She interrupted the druid. “That was Gurk’s fault.”
“Not completely,” the gnome said. “You did it to get reaction content for your sociology paper.”
From within the wagon, the half-goblin said, “That’s right. You tell her, Jax.”
The elf looked away, down at the passing ground in frustration. “So, you think that jerk GM that stuck us in this stupid game world is influencing what happens, from where he is. Our world?”
The druid shook his head and shrugged. “Kalgore and I have discussed the possibility.”
“You never told us,” the gnome said.
“If we came to a determination that the GM is influencing events, it would have been shared. Dare I say that you and Gurk and Marigold do not share details of all conversations you have amongst yourselves. But, if something pertinent to our survival, or effort to return to our world, were realized, that you would share it?”
“Yeah,” the gnome said. “That makes sense.”
“So, what you’re saying is, that I should expect my clothes to get destroyed, like, pretty much every adventure we go on?”
“There may be a way to mitigate the effect of such occurrences.” The druid offered a crooked smile. “Minor Mending is a first rank Magic User Spell. It can be used to repair damaged articles of clothing.”
A broad smile spread across the elf’s face. She reached over and hugged the druid.
After being momentarily half-smothered, the druid remarked. “It is fortunate that I do not wear a metallic codpiece.”
Both elf and druid laughed.
The gnome asked, “You’d select Mending during an adventure, instead of Slumber or Mystic Missile?”
The ill-timed question shattered the momentary mirth.
From within the wagon, the half-goblin said, “I’m gonna need to use one of your blouse’s buttons to fix your bra, Marigold.”
“What?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I cut a slit where the wire hooks were, and reinforced it with thread so it’ll hold. I need a small button to finish it.”
She huffed and tore a button from her blouse and threw it back into the wagon, at the half-goblin. “There. You happy?”
“Dude, I wasn’t talking about that button. I wanted to use one from your torn-up blouse.”
“What?” the elf said.
“I didn’t wanna go digging in your pack without permission.”
“Oh,” the elf said. “I’m sorry, my little man.”
The half-goblin brought the button back up and offered it to the elf.
A wicked grin crossed her face. “Keep it, Gurk.” She looked down and adjusted her blouse to reveal a little more cleavage as they trundled along. Gazing ahead at the big warrior, she asked the druid, “How much codpiece discomfort do you think some generous jumbo jiggle joy will cause?”