The rest of the group was already settling at the table when Chauncey and Logan arrived. Dusty was busily arranging his “magic dice” behind his Immortal Coils StoryTeller screen. John and Josh were flipping through supplemental rulebooks, and Ellie was crocheting a dice bag.
“Hihi,” Ellie looked up from her crocheting and smiled at Chauncey and Logan.
“Ah,” said Dusty, peering over his screen and putting on a mysterious voice, “we are assembled. Gather ye strength, O heroes, for we soon shall begin!”
He disappeared back behind the screen with a dark and maniacal laugh.
Chauncey and Logan grinned and moved to claim the remaining chairs. Logan pulled out his dice and began to set them in careful rows in front of him, each with the highest number facing up. Chauncey fished a bag of Dusty’s favorite candy out of his backpack and slid it toward the head of the table.
“A tithe, O Mighty ST.”
“Ah,” Dusty grinned and snagged the bag. “Sacrifice, as is right and proper! The gods are pleased.”
“Suck up,” jibed Josh.
“You can’t always rely on luck,” Chauncey shot back.
“That’s funny,” John grinned, “coming from the son of Lady Luck, herself.”
“Dame Fortune, if you wouldn’t mind,” Chauncey corrected, setting up his dice, his character sheet, and his custom-minted lucky coin, “and that’s my character. Not me. Just look at my dice rolls last session.”
“He has a point, there.” Ellie smiled and set her crocheting aside in favor of her character sheet for a moment.
“Enough!” Dusty raised an arm theatrically. Theater major. “Let us begin. Welcome, all, to tonight’s session of Immortal Coils. Our story, Masque and Mirror, continues with tonight’s chapter, Razor’s Edge.”
“When last we left our intrepid heroes, these sons and daughters of the gods were faced with—”
Vitus, golden haired, slammed his fist into the featureless wall.
“Razor,” he thundered, “you will not get away with this! I will dance upon your grave, you hear me? Release us at once!”
Eloine, mistress of threads, tugged at his arm. “Vitus, you accomplish nothing!”
Vitus ignored her and continued to rage at the absent Razor.
“Chance,” Eloine called her companion where he sat, back against the wall,” a little help, please?”
Chance pulled a set of Vegas dice from his pocket and sent them rolling across the floor. They came up snake eyes.
“Sorry, El,” Chance replied. “No dice.”
A small grille appeared in the ceiling, and the godling Razor leered down at them.
Jaraj and Jaraj, twin sons of the Graeae, flung spears upward toward that mocking face. They rebounded off an invisible barrier and feel back down.
“Now, we can’t have that,” Razor taunted. “I’ll return when you’re better behaved. Perhaps sometime next year?”
“Kiss my divine keister.” Chance called upon the threads of probability and set a small curse–the best he could manage under the circumstances–upon their captor.
Razor laughed and slammed the grille shut. There was no sign of it ever having existed at all.
From somewhere outside their cell, the party heard a sudden crash and a veritable torrent of swearing.
“Sounds like our friend Razor hit a spot of bad luck.” Jaraj glanced at Chance.
Chance smiled laconically.
“Small rebellions make all the difference.”