The Early Chronicles of the Oddlot I: The Dracolich 1. A Beginning

Story adaption by C.T. Avis

Based off the D&D 5th Edition campaign created by Matthew Powers, with original characterization from Blake Pitcher (Leffe), Dan Thompsune (Mordo), Matt Trombley (Dalvin), and C. T. Avis (Ander). Later characterization by Tucker Lester (Tyrael), Josh Parkinson (Enolo), Mike Vittiglio (Westendorf), Calvin Nemo (2zard), and Alix Stoltzer (Nedwyn).

Author’s Note:
If you want to get right into the story, skip to Tl;dr, below.

The following is a high fantasy story based on the traditional element of the subgenre. It contains swords and sorcery, gods and religions that do not exist, beings that are in their hearts malevolent, and general feats of daring-do. I’ve also tried to infuse a bit of the humor that came from the source material. It is being released in more-or-less self-contained episodes that build an overall story arc. Be forewarned, though; you may encounter an occasional two-part cliffhanger.

This is a narrative reconstruction of a collaborative effort. The individuals involved have brought life, energy, humor and meaning to each other through their playing and role playing. I have tried to recreate the spirit of their characters faithfully, though sometimes that’s filtered through the imperfect thoughts of my narrator and character, Ander. In some cases, Ander’s thoughts about his companions will come through. Bear in mind, that this is done in character about other characters, and does not represent the way I, the player, look at my other players. For instance, Ander (not me) has a bit of a problem with another character later on, a tiefling named Tyrael. Ander’s issues with Tyrael are his alone, as I quite like Tyrael’s player Tucker.

In some cases, where either memory/notes have failed me, or as necessary to create a somewhat coherent narrative, I’ve invented things that may not have actually happened in the game. Some artistic license is necessary to craft a narrative. Other times, I struggled to capture exactly the personality that a player intended for a character. I apologize for this failing of mine. I took perhaps the greatest liberties with Leffe, whose player Blake dropped out after a few sessions. I also am guilty of the sin of omission, as much of the humor and in-jokes we generate at the table cannot be fit into the narrative without creating Deadpool like narrative breaks and anachronisms.

I’ve also had to change some character names to follow the unofficial rule about giving two characters names that start with the same letter. Supposedly, doing so leads readers to mix up who is who. We had a lot of characters’ names start with “A”. Accordingly, Enolo’s original name is Anolo; Dalvin is originally Alvin; Hawken is originally Aucken. To avoid a similar problem, Tyrael kept his starting letter, but Twozard became 2zard, which I liked better anyway, because it emphasized his mechanical nature.

I performed most of the writing of this novella in the week of Spring Break 2018. As such, it has a relatively short turn-around time. While I have given it a once over for proofreading, I suspect it has some typos. I hope you can forgive and read around these to enjoy a story that bristles with great characters, humor and excitement.

Tl;dr: This is a fantasy story based on a D&D campaign.


1. A Beginning
I am just a humble ballad singer, with a penchant for magic here and there. Some choose the life, and for others, the life chooses them. I’m in the latter group, but I like it well enough. I’ve lived on my wits, looks and talent for a while, but nothing really got going for me until I joined the Oddlot. The original members seemed like they might have some good stories to tell, stories I could turn into songs to earn my bread. It’s been a little more than I bargained for. I’ve seen hags and nightmares, freed my friend from possession by an evil entity, and fought an undead dragon.

Honestly, I just wanted to tell the stories, not live them.

We started innocently enough, in a tavern in a backwater town called Ellry. The weird name alone should have kept me going down the road that night, maybe risking camping by myself in the wilds. That’s all that was around Ellry, for leagues. I pondered how a town so isolated could survive. I wasn’t even sure which kingdom’s domain it fell under.

I stood and looked a while at it, then out into the forest surrounding it. The town didn’t look like much, but I suspected it held two advantages over the wilds. One, a tavern. Two, buxom lasses. Either of which would provide me with a bed more comfortable that the forest floor. Another strike against staying on the road was the large brute of a man I’d spotted coming my way, but a mile back. I can handle myself fine in a fight against an overgrown farm boy or a surly drunk, but the hulk stomping my way wore heavy armor and had what appeared to be a tree strapped to his back as a weapon.

I turned from the open road and walked through the meager gates to find a large tavern. Even in a little place like Ellry would have one, where the farmers would congregate to complain loudly about the weather, the king, the price of grain, or all of the above. Tavern folk varied very little in such towns.

“Sir Barkeep,” I said after I’d entered inn. “I see you have a stage. Might I earn a room for myself for the night by entertaining your customers?”

“We don’t need—” the words caught in his throat and his mouth dropped open as he looked up from rubbing the same spot on the bar and finally saw me.

“Take a moment,” I said. “I understand.” This wasn’t the first time someone had been struck mute by my appearance.

“Cor, you’re so…pretty.”

“Ahem. I prefer strikingly or ruggedly handsome.”

After I sang him a couple of bars, he gave me the stage that night. He didn’t even charge me for the space, figuring I’d pack the lasses into the place, and therefore draw in the menfolk.

It’s not easy taking the stage alone in an unknown town. More than once I longed for my old troupe of performers and the family feel of it all. But I couldn’t go back to them now. Maybe not ever. Still, I had my lute and a well-used repertoire of songs. My nerves abated and the crowd grew through the night. They even threw me a few coins. Not a lot, but I suspected they didn’t have much. No matter. I’d earned a bed for myself from the barkeep.

During a break between sets, a weird gnome in dusty robes sat tipping tankards and talking loudly. I’d fully intended to introduce myself to the lasses, though perhaps they weren’t as buxom as I’d hoped, but something about the gnome drew me over. He sat next to a short-bearded dwarf who still had the salt of the sea on him, though the nearest port was a week’s ride.

“Dalvin Dahlgood, friend,” the gnome said, noticing my gaze. “C’mon over and listen to my tale. It might just be the stuff of your next song.”

I’d heard such claims before, and they were never correct. Still, I wanted a closer look at a gnome who could drain tankards almost as tall as himself. Next to the gnome leaned his quarterstaff, barely more than a snapped-off tree branch. Pouches lined his belt and a big pointed and brimmed hat sat on the table.

“You a wizard, Dalvin?” I asked.

“Nay, friend! I was never one to while away Silvanus’s good day with my nose in a book, learning a spell. Silvanus speaks to me in the trees, the grasses, the streams. Nature itself grants me my magic, and it chose rightly.”

“You’re a druid then?” I said.

“If such a label is necessary by your society’s standards, then aye. I’m a druid.” Dalvin forced his eyes to focus on me, lingering on my ears. “Ah, you’re an elf. That’s why you’re so pretty,” he said.

“I prefer handsome, and you’re half right,” I said. “My father was a human monk who met my mother on sabbatical to the Silver Forest. My name’s Ander.”

“Seems like we see fewer elves around these days.”

I nodded, not that I agreed, exactly. I didn’t have much trouble finding elves. Or at least, I hadn’t before I’d left the troupe.

“And you?” I asked the dwarf.

“Leffe,” he said. “Formerly of the good ship Topaz, gods rest its crew.”

“The sea is a week’s ride on a good horse. How’d you end up in this bit of nowhere?”

“Oh, that’s a long story.”

“I may want to hear it, and how you survived the shipwreck.”

“In good time, friend,” Dalvin interrupted. “First, listen to my tale of the village I saved from the worst flood since the Year of Storms!”

The Year of Storms had only been two years ago, so he wasn’t claiming much. Thinking him rude, I looked at the dwarf.

“Oh, by all means,” Leffe said, making an offering gesture with his upturned palms. “Dalvin’s story is far more interesting. And I was there to see it.”

“You two have traveled here together?”

“Aye, friend. But say, why the questions?” Dalvin asked.

“I’m a storyteller. I ask questions and then know things.”

“Of course, of course! Well, let me tell you some things, then. It all started when the dam upstream from a village broke during the heavy rains last month…”

Dalvin’s story did turn out to be fairly interesting, though I bet he’d exaggerate his part in it. Still, I took some notes, which pleased him enough to order me a couple of tankards.

Our conversation about Dalvin’s exploits attracted attention. My throat tightened when I saw by whom. The armored warrior from the road had followed me in. Proximity clarified just how muscular he really was, despite the armor plates encasing him.

“Ah!” he roared. “Little man is hero! Mordo like! Mordo great hero someday, too.” The warrior’s accent and grammar marked him as an outlander.

“Who is Mordo?” Dalvin said. The gnome sat eyes wide and mouth agape, tankard held in mid tilt toward his lips. The newcomer’s volume and energy had taken us all aback.

“Mordo is Mordo!” Mordo said, smacking himself on the breastplate with the palm of his strong hand. When we didn’t react—for really, how does one react to such an introduction?—he pulled up a chair and joined us.

Leffe eyed the large man from under a furrowed brow. The dwarf was thin for his race. As he excused himself to grab another round, he carried himself with a bounce in his step where the usual dwarf stomped. I saw only light weapons upon his person and my knowing eye recognized the small kit of picks on his belt. One like it resided in the pocket inside my leather vest. Unless I missed my guess, Leffe had come to a crossroads in his career, and decided on taking the shadowy alleyway of a rogue.

That didn’t bother me any, as long as he kept his hands off my meager coin pouch. I’d resorted to a little shadow work in my day, too. Sometimes venue owners hadn’t felt like paying my old troupe what was promised for a performance. We’d learned to take for ourselves from such blighters.

The locals were getting restless, so I excused myself, gladly, to resume my performance. I’d only strum three cords before a commotion outside the tavern had the audience standing and looking toward the door and windows. Soon after, the screams cut through my supple tones. The townsfolk changed from puzzled to panicked. A few rushed for the door, but it burst open. A woman of middle years streaked into the tavern, unintelligible ravings spilling from her mouth as she clasped the shreds of her blouse to her.

Her pursuers followed.

Ranging from three and half to about four feet in height, the scaly lizard-headed fiends charged blindly into the room. They skidded to a stop on their two feet, tails twitching nervously.

“Kobolds!” Dalvin hissed. Somehow, I’d found my way off stage and next to him and Mordo. Leffe had disappeared. Dalvin would know a kobold when he saw one. The hatred between gnomes and the lizardy little monsters had raged for ages. It took me a moment longer to reach the determination myself, as the three before us had caked white paint and dust over their rusty red scales, and each wore a skull as a helmet upon its crocodile-like head.

The townsmen in the room quickly put two and two together, looking from the accosted, terrified woman to the three kobolds. A burly fellow picked up a stool and smashed it into the closest little monster, flattening it. This snapped the other two from their rigid fear and they scrambled back to the open door. The enraged patrons surged after them, and we found ourselves swept with them. It became clear, however, that the kobolds weren’t looking to just escape. They were looking for backup.

The acrid smell of burning buildings hit our noses almost at the same time that the enemy assaulted our eyes. Dozens upon dozens of skeletons and zombies ravaged the town as kobolds cavorted about them, chasing women and flinging torches at buildings. All the kobolds wore bizarre white paint and skulls.

Our mob faltered. Some pushed to get back into the tavern, the last safe place they had known. Others charged foolishly toward their homes, only to be brought low by the swarm of evil. Others looked ready to fight, but weaponless, could do little against the spear tips, boney claws and gnashing teeth of the invaders.

Dalvin ducked behind me, but it was not in cowardice. I recognized his tone and the nature of his words, if not the words themselves. Perhaps the little druid had some true magic for the situation, and wasn’t the typical braggart I encountered in taverns. Something hardened in the center of me and I found that I’d replaced the lute in my hand for my rapier. I’m a fair duelist, one-on-one, but the blade felt thin and weak in my hand against such numbers. I swallowed away my fears, determined to die fighting, if that’s what Tyr or whatever gods watching demanded of me.

“Yes! Good! Mordo fight now!” Having just announced himself, I didn’t need to turn to see who said it. The mob parted as the warrior burst forth, swinging the tree-like maul from his back and into the faces of the five nearest undead.

Mordo’s attack scored heavily on the scale of epic attacks I’d seen for myself. Dalvin was not as impressed. Almost at the same time that Mordo had moved, the druid had moved, too. He jerked a bit, hopped to the right of Mordo as he redirected his spell, and then unleashed a thunderous noise that blasted away the kobolds unlucky enough to be in the spell’s path.

I moved back in front of Dalvin, knowing well that he’d need time to prepare another spell. From the sickening and repeated wet thunk of his hammer, I trusted Mordo to look out for himself for the time being. My own first victims were the prone kobolds nearest me, hardly a heroic strike, I’ll admit. I might sing about feats of daring-do in the tavern, but real fighting didn’t have time for fair play when life and death balanced on a knife’s edge. To prove my point, a kobold I’d taken for dead sprang up behind me. I spun on my heel in a desperate attempt to intercept his stout spear with my thin blade. Instead of the kobold’s spear point lunging toward me, it toppled over. I saw a crossbow bolt sticking in the base of its skull. From the roof of the inn I saw Leffe beckoning me with his right hand. In his left, he held a crossbow.

“Come up,” he whispered. “Bring Dalvin.”

I glanced back at Mordo. He didn’t seem to be tiring, but with so many enemies around, I didn’t trust just the townspeople to support the lunatic warrior. The pocket around me wouldn’t stay open forever. I grabbed the gnome and heaved him up to Leffe’s outstretched hand. Dalvin, proving that even copious amount of beer hadn’t dulled him, reacted quickly enough to understand what was going on. Soon, Leffe had him safely next to him, where I would have preferred to be. But something in my head or heart wouldn’t let me leave Mordo to fight by himself.

What followed is a confusing mix of blood, pain and terror. Not all of it was my own. A confused malaise seemed to saturate the air and, though I am usually good about remembering the details of even the most hectic battles, for the life of me I cannot remember all of the details of the night. Mostly, the image of Mordo’s hammer sticks with me, as it rose above the masses to come thundering down again and again. A sick stream of blood and viscera stained my boots, and my arm felt heavy as I stabbed, parried, riposte, and repeated until exhaustion made me almost wish for the horde to swarm me.

Small hands did lay upon me, but instead of dragging me down to my doom, I was lifted up. Leffe scowled at me. With Dalvin, he’d pulled me out of the fray. Though we were well down the lane from the tavern now, the dwarf and gnome had shadowed me.

“I said ‘come up’,’” Leffe said. “I could see things a little better up here and had an idea.”

“Couldn’t…leave…the warrior,” I said, gasping for air.

“He looks like he can take care of himself,” Dalvin said, pointing at Mordo. Except for a thick coating of blood on his armor, Mordo looked as fresh as he had at the start of the battle. The stouter and braver townsmen had formed a rough formation behind him. They’d pushed the horde back.

“Hells, guess he didn’t need me,” I said.

“He does, though he doesn’t know it,” Leffe said. “Direct your attention to yon town square.”

For the first time, I noticed that the kobolds had been funneling their fallen back to the square. In my experience, and in all legends, this was unheard of. A living kobold wouldn’t risk himself to protect his living comrade, let alone retrieve the dead from an active battlefield.

“That makes no sense,” I said. Dalvin passed me a water pouch, from which I drank gratefully.

“Check the bigger kobold in the middle. The one with the robes and staff.”

I did so. He seemed to be performing some sort of ceremony on the fallen.

“A funeral rite? That’s unheard of for kobolds.”

“Guess again,” Dalvin said. For the first time, he looked shaken. “He’s a shaman. He’s bringing them back.”

For a sweet moment, I didn’t know what he meant. Then, my stomach fell as I swallowed the realization. The dead at the feet of the shaman stirred.

“We’ve got to stop him,” I said.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Leffe corrected.

“What? We can’t leave these people to fend for themselves.”

“We won’t do much good by dying amongst them,” Leffe said. “You seem like the handy type. Come with us.”

“Now wait a minute, Leffe,” Dalvin said. “I quite agree with our new friend Ander. We can’t just leave the town to the undead!”

Druids had a particular hatred for the undead. Zombies and their like are complete corruption of nature.

“You got any spells for this, Dal?” Leffe asked.

“I…no. It’s the end of the day and I’m ashamed to say I wasted the word of Silvanus on frivolities earlier.”

“Well then, come on, lest you want to go down there and swing that toothpick of yours around before you die.”

“I do,” I said. “Not the toothpick and dying part. The other. Spells. I’ve got something I can try.”

“Try?” Leffe said, unconvinced. He didn’t want to bank on mere effort.

“This will work, trust me,” I said with more confidence that I felt.

I scampered along the roof until I could get no closer to the kobold shaman. He was wiping into a real frenzy now, getting ready to complete his twisted ritual. I cleared my throat, knowing I had to sing each note perfectly for the spell to work. I started low, but built volume as my lullaby unfurled its aura on the contingent around the shaman.

For a moment, the fear in my gut almost choked me. The shaman remained unaffected by the restful charm of my spell. Then, en masse, the cadre around him slumped to the ground. I amplified my voice and the power behind the magic, and more of the kobolds fell, including the back ranks of the fighting force. Though the shaman was unaffected, the clatter of so many of his warriors falling alerted him to the situation. His ritual sputtered to a frustrated shriek and the dead at his feet stopped quivering.

“By the gods, bard,” Leffe said to me. “That’s one humdinger of a lullaby.”

“Works well on the weak and weak minded,” I said. “But that shaman’s too tough. He’ll have them all awake again if we don’t stop him.”

Dalvin, familiar with magical arts nodded. He shouted down to the street below.

“Mordo, my friend! The kobold ranks thin at the back! Act now! Push through and strike at their leader!”

The mighty warrior heard the gnome, and roared with a renewed sense of purpose. He blasted away the undead in front of him with two swipes of his maul and charged for the shaman at the center of town. The shaman shrieked again when he saw Mordo bearing down on him, dropped the kobold warrior he’d been trying to shake awake, and tapped his staff on the ground. A split moment before Mordo’s maul came crashing down on him, the shaman disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Undead dropped without the shaman present. The remaining and awake kobolds panicked. While never working in a tight formation with military precision, they went completely wild and ran into each other or the pitchforks, cudgels and rusty swords of the townsmen. Few got away, paying the ultimate price for their wicked intentions.

I climbed down from the roof and helped down Dalvin and Leffe. Mordo stomped toward us. I expected him to be happy, having performed the heroics he’d so yearned for earlier. Instead, he looked mad and a bit disappointed.

“Why the long face, Mordo?” Dalvin asked. “Surely you gave our bard friend an epic tale to sing your praises with.”

“Is good, aye,” Mordo said, surveying his corridor of carnage. “But not good enough. Mordo sense more undead. The Raven Queen demands all undead be cleansed from the ground.”

“Raven Queen?” I asked, looking at Dalvin and Leffe. Dalvin shrugged and shook his head. Leffe looked more interested in searching the fallen for valuables.

“My goddess,” Mordo said.

“I’ve never heard of the Raven Queen,” Dalvin said. “And I’m well-versed in the religions of the lands.”

“Aye, me too, though perhaps not on your level, Dalvin,” I said.

“You never heard of Raven Queen?” Mordo said, incredulousness pitching his deep voice up a couple of octaves.

“No, sorry.”

“Huh.” Mordo shook some gore off his maul the looped it into place behind him. “That’s okay. Raven Queen probably never heard of Ander either.”

I saw a gleam of something in Mordo’s eye then, my first hint that maybe he wasn’t all muscle and violence.

I didn’t look on while the villagers cleaned up the sleeping kobolds. And by cleaned up, I mean murdered. It’s a tough thing to fathom. The kobolds were monsters and no amount of imprisonment would rehabilitate them, not that Ellry had anything more than a single cell to spare the town drunk. Still, slaying defenseless foes didn’t sit quite right with me. Well, at that point in my career, anyway. Some of the villagers were a bit too enthusiastic about the coup de grace for my tastes, too. I understood to an extent. Buildings had been burnt, friends and loved ones had been hurt or killed, and their sense of innocence shattered. Plunging a knife into a sleeping kobold over and over, though, still nauseated me. I excused myself to the tavern and set down the night’s events in my journal.

Catch the Oddlot live twitch.tv/oddlotdnd
My novels: amazon.com/author/ctavis