A Roll of the Dice
whispers in the cherry red booth
of the local diner.
the equinox is approaching,
a merging of day and night.
an auspicious day, even for the uninitiated
like me.
only a week away.
i watched as they each ordered the same meal—
toast with butter.
they ate slowly, crust first.
that was perhaps the clearest indication:
something was very wrong with them.
an ordinary man may have feared them,
moved to the farthest booth, or taken his meal to go.
but i, in my privileged position,
had the booth immediately adjacent:
primed for eavesdropping.
at the word “sacrifice,” my attention was caught.
“… the virgin prepared?”
“of course. ready and willing. unaware, of course, of their fate.”
“good. The Order of Tyche will at last achieve
the goddess’s favor.”
the savior within me
roared and beat its chest.
to slaughter an innocent woman!
so young! so pure!
and blissfully ignorant of her cruel, twisted fate!
i could not stand it.
for many long, treacherous moments, i debated.
how to act? how to proceed?
i was trapped, at an impasse, protests
frozen in my throat.
finally, i resolved
to approach, a script
forming in my mind.
“excuse me, sirs? I heard you mention
Tyche?”
they stiffened, turning like clay on the potter’s wheel
to face me.
“who is asking?”
“well,” i said, the words
flowing fast and free
now that the opening hurdle
had been cleared.
“as a history enthusiast, i know
Tyche is the goddess of fortune.
and, well… fortune is something
i could certainly use these days.”
already, a tragic backstory was forming in my mind,
the likes of which would make Melpomene herself
weep in sympathy.
the men glared at me with suspicion.
“you think we can grant you fortune, fool? you think
we are some kind of magicians?”
“well, no… but evidently you are scholars.”
flattery, like the butter on the bread,
makes the lie easier to swallow.
“evidently,” i continued, “you must have knowledge
of the world that i do not,
to be such successful men.”
i gestured at their black suits.
the taller of the two, with piercing blue eyes,
seemed to accept my deception. the other,
his shorter, shrewder companion, continued to glare.
“we do not provide handouts,” he said.
“a position such as ours requires dedication.”
“of course,” i said. “what must i do?”
the two men exchanged glances.
the taller man shrugged.
the shorter man grinned.
and just like that, i was in.
i told them my traumatic backstory,
and they nodded with approval.
like a mouse among rats, i learned their ways.
how to earn the favor of the goddess,
how to prepare my body to be the ultimate host
(hint— it involved an unhealthy amount
of carbohydrates).
the equinox was fast approaching,
and still, i was no longer any closer to finding
the woman that they planned to make their victim.
i was beginning to lose hope.
the diet, the stress, all of it was getting to me.
and then, of course, there were the trials.
tests of strength, skill, knowledge.
they told me they needed to find out where I fit
in their Order.
at last, i received my robes,
and the dice that marked my reliance
upon Tyche and her blessings.
every decision was to be made
upon the roll of a dice:
for better or for worse.
finally, the day of the sacrifice came.
the preparation was over.
i watched as their leader, the short, shrewd man,
hid his face behind a wooden folder,
scrambled with his devices
in an unholy ruckus.
his associate, the tall, blue eyed man,
was in charge of the offerings,
great bowls heaped with delicacies:
cool ranch doritos and barbecue-flavored lays
(the cuisine of a true psychopath, i was sure).
we gathered in a circle.
my heart pounded.
i looked around, waiting for the sacrifice
to emerge.
“behold,” cried the short man
(I’d learned since his name was Liam, but
within the confines of our cult he insisted upon
the title of Master)
“the night is come,” he cried,
“where our latest initiate
faces his first trial.”
those surrounding me began to chant with joy,
each one using my cult-assigned name,
Ladon the Cleric
(after assessing my skills,
and my miserable failure at each,
they decided that, since they had no Cleric,
it would be simple enough to train me
in their sacred magic
to aid their cause).
“the sacrifice begins,” the Master cries.
“the woman is brought forth.”
i looked around.
no woman in sight.
“Ladon, as our Cleric, it is you duty
to hold the sacrificial blade.”
the group fell silent, and each looked at me with
anticipation.
i kept waiting for them to hand me a knife.
for a woman to appear.
for the ritual to commence.
yet they were looking at me as if it had already begun.
“Ladon,” the Master prompted.
“what do you do
with the sacrificial blade?”
i looked down at the sheet of paper they gave me.
i’d never examined it closely before— apparently,
it was the summary of my abilities.
there, in the top left corner, was a logo:
a twisting dragon, and the damning words,
a glaring representation of my ignorance:
Dungeons and Dragons.