A Friendly Game of D&D With Kenji
Posted: Sun Sep 23, 2012 11:30 am
Killgore the Moonsbane hefted his gargantuan blade, the weight of it causing even his immense form to stumble momentarily. He spat on the ground, grinned over at his comrades -- most of them beaten, bloody, and half-alive -- and he took a step forward. And then another. His pace quickened and inertia took over, the top-heavy weight of the blade above his head impelling his charge. The great beast before him ground its jaws together, and it was a noise like waves crashing. The dragon spread its milky, translucent wings and shuffled its body to better face the screaming berserker. The air around Killgore went cold as it rushed past him; the dragon was inhaling, filling its massive lungs in preparation for another hellish, inferno blast. It lifted its head, twisted its serpentine neck back, and planted its huge claws to brace for the release.
And Killgore saw his chance.
Every limb and joint felt pushed beyond its breaking point, his thick leg muscles practically tearing themselves from his very bones, but still he plunged onward. Killgore reached the mouth of the canyon just as the flames began their first crackling spit from the monster's mouth. Leaping up onto a narrow ledge, he pushed off a small boulder, and flung himself just above the beast's scream of fire. One foot briefly contacted the back of its spined skull, and then he was rolling -- down across the great neck, along the crook of the wing, and finally to the ground. He hit and spun, barely pausing to secure his footing before concentrating all of his rage, grief, sorrow, and desperation into one mighty blow. With a deafening scream, Killgore sent his thick, wide foot flying, where it made full and mighty impact with the dragon's testicles. The beast coughed once, the flames catching in its throat, its eyes gone wide, and went as if to topple to the ground -- but Killgore was there below it still, rapidly and forcefully kicking the monster right in its scaly gumballs over and over and over again. It did not seem to be able to stand for the pain, but Killgore's violent groin-kicks were of such speed and strength as to actually keep the behemoth upright.
The dragon seemed to be entering a state of shock, a look of concerned disbelief etched on its lizard-like visage, effectively paralyzed by the horrendous crotch-pain rippling throughout its mighty form like the first landing of a typhoon on the still waters of a peaceful-
"Okay, that's enough," Hisao snapped.
Hisao didn't look like he belonged here. He was new and had an awkward bed head haircut, sure, but the kind obviously done at one of those high-end, fancypants hair salons; not the kind where you slept in because you were playing against those Koreans in StarCraft until the wee hours and woke up 12 minutes before class. He had the build of a jock, or at least appear so though he never took off his suit as if we mortals are not fit to lay eyes upon his flesh, but his most prominent feature is his stupid, childish face. I both envied and despised him and his ugly, newly washed and ironed, well-fitting school uniform. And his parents probably love him, that bastard.
"What? What's up, Elzan?" I purposefully used Hisao's gay character name as much as possible. He didn't seem to get why his dumb name should be so humiliating, even though I made sure my voice was always dripping with scorn and contort my face so he can see that just saying that stupid name actually cause me physical pain. The turd has both parents too. Oh, I fucking hate him.
"Hisao. When we're talking out of character, you can just call me Hisao. Or Nakai if you want to be formal."
"Sure thing, Fag-haircut-sao. Sorry! Hisao, I meant Hisao," I finally conceded, slipping a casual upheld hand over to Aloric, the Dwarvish Cleric, known in this realm as Taro.
Aloric left me hanging; Aloric was kind of a bitch like that. Man, fuck Aloric.
"You can't just kick a dragon in the balls!" Hisao protested, "you're a Berskerer! You've got a twelve foot long Greatsword of Frost!"
"Right, and that's what the dragon's all worried about when BAM! Bearclaw Boots of Battle to the Beanbags. It's the perfect strategy."
"It's all you ever do! How did we defeat the Orcs in the Swamp of Sorrow?"
"Ball-kicks," I answered immediately.
"And the Direwolves at Winterfell?"
"Right in the furry little jewels."
"And the Beholder?"
"Ha! That was a good one! You said he didn't even have balls, remember? So I had to cast a spell of Ball Summoning on him and-"
"Akio," Hisao turned to the Dungeon Master, a sickly little kid with a pimp cane and an affinity for cold, hard cash bribes. "Will you please tell him he can't kick the dragon's balls to death?"
"As long as he rolls for it, he can do whatever he likes," the Dungeon Master replied coolly, the two thousand yen I slipped him before the game paying dividends many times over already.
"Yeah! See," I said, pushing Hisao a little, and trying not to flinch when he raised a fist suddenly in return, "those are the rules. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm waging an epic war against evil because some of us care whether the villagers of Oldrath live or die, Elzan."
The behemoth's legs finally gave out beneath it. Killgore the Moonsbane rolled to one side just before the massive haunch settled to the earth with a thick, meaty thump. Its breath came hard and raspy; its forked tongue lolled in the dust. Killgore looked with pity on the animal -- seeing it at last as just that; an animal, hunting as instinct bade it. He moved to place a hand on its limp thigh and gave it a reassuring pat, then gripped the underside of the leg, and hoisted it above his head. He wedged one foot into the dirt, using the weight of the limb above him as leverage and, holding the prone dragon's legs apart, now he's really ready to start kicking some dragon balls.
"No!" It was Lezard who shouted this time, his malnourished fist slapping against the table, causing all the character pieces to wobble as if an earthquake befell them. He wore a redden face and his glasses nearly falling from his big, ugly, stupid (or some other synonym for stupid because my stupid, ugly vocabulary is a little lacking) nose.
"Akio, when you ask me to play, you said this will be a 'dramatic battle' for blood and glory! Fight wampyrs, gypsy hags, and undead warriors. Not this...this...jolly-making!"
"Nobody is jolly-making, you motherfucker! You take that back!" I slapped the pewter figurine that represented Lezard's character from his sickly fingers, watching as the grim little form of Lazarus the Black Knight Paladin flipped off into the empty classroom tile floor.
"I am sorry," he said shamefully, "that was a little harsh. But it is not fair! For three games, I save my Wand of Death because I know, I KNOW a big fight is coming. And what happens!? I roll a 2! The Wand explodes in my face! You say 'I want kick the dragon in his cajones' and you roll twenty. This is not fair!"
Taro, the quiet kid who played our cleric, coughed softly into his hand. I whirled on him.
"What did you fucking say, Aloric? You bitchin' out on me again? Huh?"
Taro shook his head furiously and shied away from me. He was pasty and short, and also fat; but if push comes to shove, he has a lot of strength that he doesn't yet realize and I have to make sure he never finds out.
"You just keep all of your bitching to yourself, you hear me, Aloric? You gather it up, you put it all in your little bitch-sack and you take it to the bitch-bank!"
"Just take the game a little more seriously," Hisao said, his high cheekbones mocking me with their Adonis potential.
"Fine. But my Belt of the Cheetah casts Haste on me every third round, and that's this one. I get another turn."
"But no more with the dicks and the kicking," Lezard suggested.
After untold eons of rapid rabbit kicks to the groin, Killgore the Moonsbane dropped the exhausted, whimpering dragon's leg and backed up a step to survey the area around him. Buried fires smoldered just beneath the scorched Earth. What little vegetation there was in this barren country had been burned to the roots by the battle, leaving only thin, black, skeletal forms. They crumbled in the arid wind. Aloric the cleric had taken a grievous wound to the hip early in the battle, and Elzan the Ranger was using the lull in fighting to gather herbs for a poultice to tend to his wounds. Lazarus the Black Knight Paladin had planted his longshield firmly into the ground beneath him, lightning-shaped cracks in the dust emanating outward from the point of impact. He was huddled behind it, his eyes closed, his lips moving silently, invoking the names of his dark gods in preparation for another of his perverse battle-curses. All was quiet, save the gentle clink of metal as Killgore unclasped the Cat Skull buckle on his belt and let his Heavy Breeches fall to the floor. With a grunt more of dominance than of lust, he entered the dragon and began to thrust rapidly.
"What!? No! God, what is wrong with you?" Hisao screamed, practically frothing at the mouth. Taro frantically avoided making eye contact, and Lezard simply stared at me, his lips pressed together so tight his mouth formed a cartoonish slash.
"It's imagination, Hisao. I can do whatever I want," I held another high five out to Taro, who bitched his sticky bitchiness all over the place and tried to leave me hanging again. I picked up his sweaty palm and slowly and deliberately impacted it against mine, scowling with my eyes the entire time.
"Kenji, god damn it!" Hisao turned to Akio, the DM, waving his arms in disbelief.
Akio looked uncertain, but I mouthed the words 'two thousand yen' at him over and over until he looked away.
"If he rolls for it," Akio conceded, flipping through the guide to find the appropriate table of numbers that governed the molestation of giant lizards.
"Here," he said, pointing to a neat grid that took up half the page, "with your agility level, you'll have to roll a 19 or higher to penetrate the dragon."
I smiled benignly at Hisao, lifted the die and let it drop straight to the board.
His face lost all color.
"Twenty," Akio recited, "he can rape the dragon."
"That's bullshit!" Lezard stood abruptly, turned even more abruptly, and then stomped off more abruptly than that. What a sore loser.
"I am not sitting here and watching you screw an unconscious Rattelyr Dragon," Hisao yelled, and also moved to leave.
"Fine! That's fine, Hisao! You don't belong here anyway! Why don't you go learn to date and do sports and everything will TURN OUT JUST PERFECT FOR YOU!" I screamed after him, choking back a moment of involuntary tears.
A slow and silent breeze ebbed up from the open window, moving the grass outside in quiet waves as the two boys marched off resolutely in separate directions of the hallway. Taro sniffed.
"Oh, bitch it up, Taro! Just ejaculate your disgusting bitch-juice all over the game!" I screamed, and leapt to my feet. I emptied the rest of my whiskey bottle over the board, gave Taro two for flinching, and ran towards the courtyard before those student council bitches catches us in an unsanctioned after school activity. Again. Two more and I was technically violating some unwritten Yamaku honor code rule or some other Feminist Conspiracy bullshit male harassment.
Halfway to my dorm room, I realized I left my loaded 20-sided die behind.
THAT FUCKING HISAO!
And Killgore saw his chance.
Every limb and joint felt pushed beyond its breaking point, his thick leg muscles practically tearing themselves from his very bones, but still he plunged onward. Killgore reached the mouth of the canyon just as the flames began their first crackling spit from the monster's mouth. Leaping up onto a narrow ledge, he pushed off a small boulder, and flung himself just above the beast's scream of fire. One foot briefly contacted the back of its spined skull, and then he was rolling -- down across the great neck, along the crook of the wing, and finally to the ground. He hit and spun, barely pausing to secure his footing before concentrating all of his rage, grief, sorrow, and desperation into one mighty blow. With a deafening scream, Killgore sent his thick, wide foot flying, where it made full and mighty impact with the dragon's testicles. The beast coughed once, the flames catching in its throat, its eyes gone wide, and went as if to topple to the ground -- but Killgore was there below it still, rapidly and forcefully kicking the monster right in its scaly gumballs over and over and over again. It did not seem to be able to stand for the pain, but Killgore's violent groin-kicks were of such speed and strength as to actually keep the behemoth upright.
The dragon seemed to be entering a state of shock, a look of concerned disbelief etched on its lizard-like visage, effectively paralyzed by the horrendous crotch-pain rippling throughout its mighty form like the first landing of a typhoon on the still waters of a peaceful-
"Okay, that's enough," Hisao snapped.
Hisao didn't look like he belonged here. He was new and had an awkward bed head haircut, sure, but the kind obviously done at one of those high-end, fancypants hair salons; not the kind where you slept in because you were playing against those Koreans in StarCraft until the wee hours and woke up 12 minutes before class. He had the build of a jock, or at least appear so though he never took off his suit as if we mortals are not fit to lay eyes upon his flesh, but his most prominent feature is his stupid, childish face. I both envied and despised him and his ugly, newly washed and ironed, well-fitting school uniform. And his parents probably love him, that bastard.
"What? What's up, Elzan?" I purposefully used Hisao's gay character name as much as possible. He didn't seem to get why his dumb name should be so humiliating, even though I made sure my voice was always dripping with scorn and contort my face so he can see that just saying that stupid name actually cause me physical pain. The turd has both parents too. Oh, I fucking hate him.
"Hisao. When we're talking out of character, you can just call me Hisao. Or Nakai if you want to be formal."
"Sure thing, Fag-haircut-sao. Sorry! Hisao, I meant Hisao," I finally conceded, slipping a casual upheld hand over to Aloric, the Dwarvish Cleric, known in this realm as Taro.
Aloric left me hanging; Aloric was kind of a bitch like that. Man, fuck Aloric.
"You can't just kick a dragon in the balls!" Hisao protested, "you're a Berskerer! You've got a twelve foot long Greatsword of Frost!"
"Right, and that's what the dragon's all worried about when BAM! Bearclaw Boots of Battle to the Beanbags. It's the perfect strategy."
"It's all you ever do! How did we defeat the Orcs in the Swamp of Sorrow?"
"Ball-kicks," I answered immediately.
"And the Direwolves at Winterfell?"
"Right in the furry little jewels."
"And the Beholder?"
"Ha! That was a good one! You said he didn't even have balls, remember? So I had to cast a spell of Ball Summoning on him and-"
"Akio," Hisao turned to the Dungeon Master, a sickly little kid with a pimp cane and an affinity for cold, hard cash bribes. "Will you please tell him he can't kick the dragon's balls to death?"
"As long as he rolls for it, he can do whatever he likes," the Dungeon Master replied coolly, the two thousand yen I slipped him before the game paying dividends many times over already.
"Yeah! See," I said, pushing Hisao a little, and trying not to flinch when he raised a fist suddenly in return, "those are the rules. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm waging an epic war against evil because some of us care whether the villagers of Oldrath live or die, Elzan."
The behemoth's legs finally gave out beneath it. Killgore the Moonsbane rolled to one side just before the massive haunch settled to the earth with a thick, meaty thump. Its breath came hard and raspy; its forked tongue lolled in the dust. Killgore looked with pity on the animal -- seeing it at last as just that; an animal, hunting as instinct bade it. He moved to place a hand on its limp thigh and gave it a reassuring pat, then gripped the underside of the leg, and hoisted it above his head. He wedged one foot into the dirt, using the weight of the limb above him as leverage and, holding the prone dragon's legs apart, now he's really ready to start kicking some dragon balls.
"No!" It was Lezard who shouted this time, his malnourished fist slapping against the table, causing all the character pieces to wobble as if an earthquake befell them. He wore a redden face and his glasses nearly falling from his big, ugly, stupid (or some other synonym for stupid because my stupid, ugly vocabulary is a little lacking) nose.
"Akio, when you ask me to play, you said this will be a 'dramatic battle' for blood and glory! Fight wampyrs, gypsy hags, and undead warriors. Not this...this...jolly-making!"
"Nobody is jolly-making, you motherfucker! You take that back!" I slapped the pewter figurine that represented Lezard's character from his sickly fingers, watching as the grim little form of Lazarus the Black Knight Paladin flipped off into the empty classroom tile floor.
"I am sorry," he said shamefully, "that was a little harsh. But it is not fair! For three games, I save my Wand of Death because I know, I KNOW a big fight is coming. And what happens!? I roll a 2! The Wand explodes in my face! You say 'I want kick the dragon in his cajones' and you roll twenty. This is not fair!"
Taro, the quiet kid who played our cleric, coughed softly into his hand. I whirled on him.
"What did you fucking say, Aloric? You bitchin' out on me again? Huh?"
Taro shook his head furiously and shied away from me. He was pasty and short, and also fat; but if push comes to shove, he has a lot of strength that he doesn't yet realize and I have to make sure he never finds out.
"You just keep all of your bitching to yourself, you hear me, Aloric? You gather it up, you put it all in your little bitch-sack and you take it to the bitch-bank!"
"Just take the game a little more seriously," Hisao said, his high cheekbones mocking me with their Adonis potential.
"Fine. But my Belt of the Cheetah casts Haste on me every third round, and that's this one. I get another turn."
"But no more with the dicks and the kicking," Lezard suggested.
After untold eons of rapid rabbit kicks to the groin, Killgore the Moonsbane dropped the exhausted, whimpering dragon's leg and backed up a step to survey the area around him. Buried fires smoldered just beneath the scorched Earth. What little vegetation there was in this barren country had been burned to the roots by the battle, leaving only thin, black, skeletal forms. They crumbled in the arid wind. Aloric the cleric had taken a grievous wound to the hip early in the battle, and Elzan the Ranger was using the lull in fighting to gather herbs for a poultice to tend to his wounds. Lazarus the Black Knight Paladin had planted his longshield firmly into the ground beneath him, lightning-shaped cracks in the dust emanating outward from the point of impact. He was huddled behind it, his eyes closed, his lips moving silently, invoking the names of his dark gods in preparation for another of his perverse battle-curses. All was quiet, save the gentle clink of metal as Killgore unclasped the Cat Skull buckle on his belt and let his Heavy Breeches fall to the floor. With a grunt more of dominance than of lust, he entered the dragon and began to thrust rapidly.
"What!? No! God, what is wrong with you?" Hisao screamed, practically frothing at the mouth. Taro frantically avoided making eye contact, and Lezard simply stared at me, his lips pressed together so tight his mouth formed a cartoonish slash.
"It's imagination, Hisao. I can do whatever I want," I held another high five out to Taro, who bitched his sticky bitchiness all over the place and tried to leave me hanging again. I picked up his sweaty palm and slowly and deliberately impacted it against mine, scowling with my eyes the entire time.
"Kenji, god damn it!" Hisao turned to Akio, the DM, waving his arms in disbelief.
Akio looked uncertain, but I mouthed the words 'two thousand yen' at him over and over until he looked away.
"If he rolls for it," Akio conceded, flipping through the guide to find the appropriate table of numbers that governed the molestation of giant lizards.
"Here," he said, pointing to a neat grid that took up half the page, "with your agility level, you'll have to roll a 19 or higher to penetrate the dragon."
I smiled benignly at Hisao, lifted the die and let it drop straight to the board.
His face lost all color.
"Twenty," Akio recited, "he can rape the dragon."
"That's bullshit!" Lezard stood abruptly, turned even more abruptly, and then stomped off more abruptly than that. What a sore loser.
"I am not sitting here and watching you screw an unconscious Rattelyr Dragon," Hisao yelled, and also moved to leave.
"Fine! That's fine, Hisao! You don't belong here anyway! Why don't you go learn to date and do sports and everything will TURN OUT JUST PERFECT FOR YOU!" I screamed after him, choking back a moment of involuntary tears.
A slow and silent breeze ebbed up from the open window, moving the grass outside in quiet waves as the two boys marched off resolutely in separate directions of the hallway. Taro sniffed.
"Oh, bitch it up, Taro! Just ejaculate your disgusting bitch-juice all over the game!" I screamed, and leapt to my feet. I emptied the rest of my whiskey bottle over the board, gave Taro two for flinching, and ran towards the courtyard before those student council bitches catches us in an unsanctioned after school activity. Again. Two more and I was technically violating some unwritten Yamaku honor code rule or some other Feminist Conspiracy bullshit male harassment.
Halfway to my dorm room, I realized I left my loaded 20-sided die behind.
THAT FUCKING HISAO!
) So i think my biggest problem with this fic is that Kenji doesn't seem much like Kenji.