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SESSION 1: CHARACTER CREATION / THE OBLIGATORY INTRODUCTORY ADVENTURE

PART 1: MEET AND GREET

PCs: Jango, kenku bard 1 (Gruff); Alistair Fletcher, human wizard 1 (Mike)

This is a slightly embellished account of a D&D game I played with my friends. It is about 50% real and 50% vaguely remembered hyperbole, but hey, all the best stories have a grain of fiction in them. I will be publishing chapters periodically for your amusement. Enjoy!

Note: Kenku are a flightless, crowlike race that can speak only in mimicry, and are incapable of creativity or original speech.

[ Out Of Adventure, shortly after character creation ]

Gruff: So I’ve designed this program for letting Jango talk. Basically what it does is you put in some keywords, and it scans all the words and phrases he’s ever heard before, and brings them up according to those keywords. So like if I type in “tree,” it brings up some sentences containing the word “tree,” and tells me what voice each one was spoken in.

(The DM and Mike exchange looks.)

DM: You are really involved in this.

Gruff: Hey, I come prepared!

Mike: To be fair, at least you’re playing a kenku that talks and doesn’t just play sound effects off his iPhone. [Laughter] I’m okay with this.

DM: Do you have phrases in there already?

Gruff: Oh yeah. Song lyrics, poetry, plays, memes…

Mike: He’s not gonna rickroll the goblins to death, is he?

Gruff: We shall see.

[ In Adventure ]

We open in Strikewyrm, a small, rain-torn village on the very edges of Aurelia. It’s usually very quiet here, without much need of adventurers, heroes, or general nuisances. But there are always whispers of something growing in the darkness…

The Red Dragon Inn is quiet tonight, with just a few tired farmers nursing their drinks and trading gloomy reports on their crop yields. But in the corner, a new performer is setting up what he needs.

He carefully slings his guitar over his chest, strums a few chords, and begins to sing in a quiet, clear voice. “Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, To give sigh for sigh.”

A few of the patrons turn to listen; his voice is oddly hypnotic. One hooded man in the back of the bar is intrigued, and also curious as to who this stranger is – he’s never seen him around town before.

The kenku strums melodically as he sings, “I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?”

When he is finished, there is a smattering of applause, and a few people toss coins into his bucket. The kenku bows politely, accepting the praise.

He goes through a few more songs, then quietly picks up his bucket and leaves the inn, heading out into the dim evening beyond. Unable to resist the curiosity, the hooded man gets up and follows him.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I haven’t seen you around here before. You have a lovely voice.”

The kenku turns and bobs his head. “How kind of you to say,” he says in an elegant male voice, a sharp change from his singing voice. Then, to the man’s increasing bewilderment, he switches again, adopting the tone of a croaky old man. “And who are you?”

The man blinks, unsure how to react. “I’m Alistair. I live here in Strikewyrm. Are you a traveler?”

The kenku chitters like a squirrel, as though he finds this amusing. In a rich voice, he says, “Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there.” Then he makes a sound like jangling wind chimes, perhaps his way of introducing himself. “This is Jango.”

“Why are you here in Strikewyrm? It isn’t exactly a tourist attraction.”

“Worth's unknown, although his height be taken.” Jango makes the sound of goldfinches chirping, which only adds to the man’s confusion. “Familiarity breeds contempt. I like these small towns.”

“Because no one knows you,” Alistair realizes, connecting the dots between these odd collections of seemingly unrelated phrases. “Ah, I understand now. But this seems like an odd place for a bard to make his living. We are not so wealthy that we can afford you in our inns every night.” He is becoming accustomed to Jango’s odd way of speaking, although he still isn’t sure exactly why he does it.

Jango clucks like a chicken, and says in a warm, mellifluous voice, “Fortune favors the bold.”

“True.” Alistair chuckles. “You are a strange one.”

“An odd-looking stranger,” Jango agrees. Then, clicking his beak with wicked delight, “You don't think I'm weird, do you?”

“No, but you are certainly interesting.”

Jango makes a series of bird calls, perhaps his way of laughing hysterically. “I like you.”

“What are you, exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“One of those kenku,” Jango says in a growly voice. Then, back to that elegant voice, “Only speak through mimicry.”

“Oh! That’s interesting.”

“It’s much more than interesting, dollface,” Jango smirks, then chitters with laughter. “Just kidding.”

[ Out Of Adventure ]

Mike: So be honest, what percentage of Jango’s dialogue is memes?

Gruff: Eh… not that much. I didn’t want him to be annoying. Maybe like ten percent.

Mike: You promise he’s not going to break out “We Didn’t Start the Fire” ten seconds into any fire-based combat?

Gruff: …No, I can’t promise that. [Laughter] But at least he’s fun!

[ In Adventure ]

“So are you planning on moving here?” Alistair asks, walking alongside Jango in the streets of Strikewyrm. “Or just visiting?”

“Just visiting,” the kenku says, in Alistair’s own voice.

He shudders. “Don’t do that.”

“It was weird?” Jango tilts his head, switching to a shy woman’s voice. “I apologize.”

“It’s just a bit unnerving, is all. Strange to hear your own voice coming out of someone else’s mouth.”

“Understood,” Jango rumbles, in a deep lizardfolk voice.

Alistair looks at him curiously. “Do you remember everything that’s been said to you? Perfectly, just like that? Surely you’ve forgotten some over the years.”

Jango shakes his head. “I will never forget.”

“That’s incredible.”

“It's more a curse than a blessing,” he grouses, in a soft voice. “Kenku cannot create new sounds, and can communicate only by using sounds they have heard.”

“…Yes, I suppose that would tend to overshadow the benefits.” Alistair clasps his hands behind his back as he walks, and is amused to see Jango mirror him, walking with his easy, meandering steps. “Are you copying me?”

“Just watchin' you,” Jango hums, in a twangy country singer’s voice.

“I suppose that’s flattering.”

“What are you?” Jango asks, in a child’s voice. Then, in a woman’s voice, “Your profession?”

“Oh. Well, I am a poet, of sorts. And I am also something of a novice wizard.”

“I love poetry,” Jango says earnestly. “Recite a poem?”

“One of mine, you mean? Oh, they’re not very good. Really.”

“For me?”

“No, I couldn’t. I’m too nervous.”

Jango looks disappointed. “Oh, very well.”

Suddenly, a cloaked figure comes sprinting out of a nearby alleyway. Jango and Alistair watch, startled, as it goes pounding down the cobblestone road ahead of them, vanishing in an instant.

A moment later, two more figures emerge from the alley. They look around sharply, and Jango sees weapons glinting in their hands.

“Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them!” he calls.

The two figures freeze, and turn around. Seeing the hooded man and the kenku standing there, they confer nervously between themselves in an incomprehensible language; then one of them calls back, “Who are you?”

“I would ask you the same question,” Alistair says. “Why do you have your weapons drawn? This is a peaceful village.”

“None of your business,” the man shoots back. “Have you seen someone run by in a blue cloak?”

“None of your business,” Jango parrots back in his own voice.

The man raises his sword. “Watch your mouth, bird-man.”

“There’s no need for violence,” Alistair says hastily. “Who are you looking for, and why do you chase them with swords?”

“No time,” the other one mutters. “She could be long gone by now. Let’s just search the village and question the rest of them.”

“I’ll not have it,” Jango says fiercely. “Tell the truth.”

“Maybe you should take your friend and buzz off, featherbrain,” the man warns. “We’re on a mission here. We can’t have rabble like you interrupting us.”

“I don’t like the look of you,” Alistair says venomously, “or the way you’re talking to my friend. Either you start talking, or we use force to stop you.” So saying, he takes out a thick leather-bound tome and draws his metal quarterstaff from his back.

“Criminals,” Jango agrees, brandishing his guitar with an artistic flourish, “are not welcome here.”

“Oh-hoh! We’ve got a hero right here.” The man smiles wanly. “Well, if it’s a fight you want, who am I to say no?”

And he dramatically throws off his cloak, the figure behind him doing the same – revealing that they are two hideous draconians, brandishing daggers and hissing fiendishly, facing off against a pair of nervous, fledgling warriors who have only just started to discover their strength.

Their first test has begun.

[ Out Of Adventure ]

Gruff: I just realized that we know absolutely nothing about this situation, yet we immediately challenged the closest people involved to a duel.

Mike: Hey, in Alistair’s defense, he hates when people insult his friends. And they did turn out to be monsters.

Gruff: Yes, but still! For all we know that girl who just ran past us was a necromancer. Or a vampire.

Mike: Or an innocent person being chased by draconians.

Gruff: Haven’t you heard of plot twists?

DM: Okay, speaking as your DM, there is no plot twist where these guys are the heroes. You did the right thing.

Gruff: Are you sure?

DM: Positive.

Gruff: This isn’t secretly a villain campaign where we slaughter innocent townsfolk who just happen to resemble ugly monsters?

Mike: I think it’s safe to assume we’re the good guys.

DM: Yeah, I promise I’m not about to pull a Last Crusade on you.

Gruff: Well, if you do, I reserve the right to sing What I’ve Done during the revelation scene.

DM: No! There is no Linkin Park in this universe!

Gruff: Crawling in my skin! These wounds they will not –

Mike: Alistair strangles Jango. End of game. [Laughter]