The Pearl Inside of Anything

Friday, June 19th, 10:45 a.m., Beowulf final

"You only get the monster you deserve... for flip sakes, what's that supposed to mean?" Bran mutters, staring at the paper on his desk.

"Mr. BraNOWSKI!" barks Mr. Morris from the front of the class. "This is a time to TEST your knowledge, not TALK." Mr. Morris pauses and gestures to the rest of us. "Resume, everyone, resume. That was your one and only warning, Mr. Branowski."

Poor Bran. And he's supposed to be an expert in monsters. If he's stuck on that question it means he's still on page 1. I'm in a sharing mood but he's two rows away from me. I've even scraped my hair to one side, but today he's not even trying to look over. Maybe that's a good thing. Like he's reformed. My answer wouldn't be much help to anyone I guess. Something inside me questions the question. Like anything bad that happens to you is somehow your fault?

Okay, here goes, ask a stupid question...The monster you deserve may just be the monster with the biggest hair. It's the monster with the longer legs that wears a size 00. The one you absolutely know you can't beat by conventional means. The one who says you should've known better, but you walked right in anyway. Your monster is the one who belongs where you do not but want to be anyway. By the way, this question is crap. As a wise man said: "Hair is so not fair". Or something like that.

Friday lunchhour, back at the campaign table

"We have a situation," says Bran, looking up at us from over his D&D binder.

"Already?" says Dirt.

"Things are not looking good," says Bran grimly. "You're in a tight corridor and I'll tell you this much, there are traps everywhere. Wendy, roll to detect."

I roll but can't tell what the numbers mean. Bran can. "Nope," he says nothing registering. Walvis?"

Ben rolls. The dice topple and go still. Dirt and Bran shake their heads in unison. "Walvis, a goblin just slashed your sword-fighting arm. Two hit points. That makes you a minus one."

"So, am I dead?" says Ben, sounding hopeful.

"Merely dying. But Wendy, I mean, Borwyn, can heal light wounds. Borwyn?"

I glance at my level one notes. Hah! Knew it, this is a set-up to drain my magic powers. Like I care, but still...

"Just a minute," I say. "The rulebook says I only get one spell a day. Maybe I want to do something else with it."

"Like what?" says Dirt.

"Like maybe I want to, uhm—" I glance at my notes again. "Uh, throw some obscuring mist, or summon a monster."

"Why would you want to do that?" asks Ben. "Aren't we already surrounded by evil?"

"Aren't you supposed to be unconscious?" I ask him.

"Fair enough," says Ben, he pushes his chair back a bit, puts his hands behind his head leans back and looks nonchalantly up at Vetruvian Man.

"I theenk you be for fighting," says Mr. Kovaks.

Now I am flipping madly through the rulebook. "Wait! Wouldn't it be easier if I just created a passwall and we all just got out of this dungeon altogether?"

"I'm sorry," says Bran smoothly. "Are you a Wizard level five?"

"Well, no, I..."

"Do you happen to be carrying a pinch of sesame seed?"

"Uh, no I don't think so..."

"Well then, you might just want to keep your alternative ideas to yourself and get our man Walvis back on his feet. Borwyn," says Bran commandingly, "Cure. Light. Wounds!"

"Okay, but can I just conjure up a Band-aid?"

"Borwyn, there are no Band-aids in the Year 1304," says Bran, sounding a lot like a certain Mr. Ogilvie. "I knew it," he sighs. "This is why girls can't play D&D."

"Hey!" I smack him in the arm. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Girls ask too many questions," says Dirt. "Not enough intuition."

Outrage makes me sit up straight. "I will have you know I am highly intuitive." I grab the dice and roll. "There, that's got to be enough."

"Enough to what?" asks Ben, looking at me calmly.

"To save you," I say.

"Well, how about that," he replies, tilting his chair back down and lowering his arms. "Good roll."