Chapter Text
The table is perfect.
Dusekkar leans back in his chair with a satisfied smile. Instead of fluorescent lights, the lounge sparkles with evenly spaced candles. Crackling fire is accompanied by a soft tune: the orchestral version of The Power, playing from a small radio.
Pamphlet-like cardboard stands upright, blocking Dusekkar’s view of the rest of the table until he peers over it. Like any other DM — dungeon master, — screen, it shields his players from his assorted files: story notes, character sheets, and other necessities. When anyone casts a spell or proposes an action, a quick look tells him what kind of dice they should roll, among other things.
The table topper — a wooden board that tops the table, — has two types of compartments: circular holes for drinks, and rectangular ditches for game pieces. Glasses sit in the former. Felt pouches, the latter. Each pouch cushions a set of multi-sided dice.
The middle of the topper dips a few inches. An intricate map is pressed into the indented space, then held down by props that ensure each session feels alive. Plastic castles sit next to pose-able dragons, which nestle against spindly fauna—each more expensive than the last.
Limitation breeds creativity. By gods, has he gotten creative.
Of all the items a spectre entrapping him in its domain could grant, he least expected his Dungeons & Dragons equipment. The cardboard, paper and plastic brings him back to when the game had no official name. In an era since forgotten, the epic tales he now tells from beyond the screen were everyday occurrences. Mountainous dragons were the people’s horses. Lethal duels in roaring arenas were common entertainment.
Now, his company’s different. His environment, vapidly modern. The game itself, the parent of innumerous offshoots: books, spin-offs, cinema and video games surrounded by communities barely a thousand years old. Yet, his love for it stays the same. It’s stimulating, unifying—fun. That’s all he can ask for in a situation as dreadful as this.
The doors creak open. Seven’s tail wags behind him as he shuffles inside, as sheepish as usual.
“Hey there, Dusekkar. Elliot’s wrapping things up in the kitchen. Shouldn’t be long,” he says while taking a seat to Dusekkar’s left.
“You two grow more inseparable by the hour. I’m glad to see it.”
“Old grudges die fast when you keep eachother alive,” he scratches the back of his neck, “It still feels surreal, though: him giving me the time of day.”
“The past defines you only if you let it. You’re trying, Seven. We all see it.”
Seven’s smile could thaw an iceberg. “You always know just what to say.”
When Dusekkar proposed a tabletop game to cope with being stuck in a pocket dimension, Seven joined eagerly. In his college days, different tables begrudgingly hosted his roster: tyrannical necromancers, genocidal oathbreakers, and so on. Having grown from being a ‘cringe edgelord’, as Noob would put it, his current character is refreshingly sensible. Benevolent, where his predecessors had been cruel for cruelty’s sake. Dusekkar’s always been a fan of accidental symbolism.
The doors swing open. As he enters, Elliot pats his shirt down with flour-speckled fingers. “Would you believe the oven went bust? Again? I thought the first two times were flukes.”
“Why don’t you get Builderman to help? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“He’s busy, Sev. Also, I don’t want the kitchen smelling like motor oil,” he shudders while sparing Dusekkar a glance, “Sorry. I know he’s your friend.”
He sits next to Seven, and a tender awkwardness settles between them. It’s delicate. Shy.
“No offence taken. It’s a legitimate concern,” Dusekkar chuckles, “However, Seven’s correct. He’d be happy to assist.”
“I’ll be alright,” he insists, fierce hyper-competence shining through his friendly tone. That’s Elliot for you: always on a hunt to prove himself, yet still unshakably confident.
Unsurprisingly, learning D&D came quickly to him. Had there been other options, the game wouldn’t be his first choice; limitation means meeting things halfway. Even then, in everything that he does, Elliot prefers the larger part of a sixty-fourty split. He’s grown increasingly independent of his character sheet since the second session, which was a couple weeks ago. Stellar progress.
The doors don’t make a sound. Two Time’s just there.
“Hello,” they greet while waving politely, already seated across from Elliot.
Seven yelps. A less disciplined Two Time would snicker.
“You really need to work on an entrance,” he laughs.
“It’s more fun without one.”
“As long as you’re on time,” Dusekkar shrugs, “Good morning, my furtive friend. You’re earlier than usual. Excited, I take it?”
“I… may have skimmed over my prayers for today’s session.”
Their expression is pained, like they’re anticipating a wrathful strike from their false god. Pity pangs in Dusekkar’s chest. Until he finds the heart to reveal the truth of their worship, boundaries will have to suffice. They follow them surprisingly well. In the past few weeks, all mention of the Spawn has been brief or ironic. Laughing at oneself is a show of self-awareness, something he hopes they continue fostering.
Religious fanaticism aside, they’re an excellent player. Maybe it’s the verbiage and experiences they’ve garnered from an occult life. They shine with gruesome innovation just as everyone else runs out of ideas, then propose things just crazy enough to work. Sometimes, Dusekkar feels like they’re ten steps ahead.
“Stop looking at the sky. You’ll be fine,” Elliot demands so Dusekkar doesn’t have to. Two Time begrudgingly obeys.
For the next little while, his players ease into conversation. The table buzzes with excitement as Seven, Elliot and Times all predict the outcome of the session. Meanwhile, Dusekkar keeps his eyes on the clock. All these years later, and he’s still tardy. What nonsense.
Finally, the doors blast open. Shedletsky waltzes inside, awfully proud for someone who’s… huh. Only ten minutes late.
“Slept in; Slasher really did a number on me last night. Asshole. Sorry, gang.”
And apologizing for it.
“This is the fourth session I haven’t had to drag you out of your room. Is something in the water?” Elliot snarks.
Water. Dusekkar takes his first good look at Shedletsky, who he realizes just took a shower. Droplets roll down his lozenge-yellow skin, mirroring Dusekkar’s flustered face with reflections too small to see. Damp, defined muscle makes his fire burn hot and his throat go dry.
It’s been several millenia, he reminds himself. Why does he still feel this way? Why is his heart skipping like an enamoured ninety-year-old? What in his soul is still attracted to the man who hurt him so horribly?
“After a lot of feedback, I’ve decided to value the time of my companions and make efforts to adhere to their schedules.”
The table stares, bewildered.
“Or, this is just fun enough to get me out of bed. Take it or leave it.”
“There he is,” Seven chuckles.
“And here I thought the vengeful one’s poison had seeped into your brain.”
At the mention of 1x, an inkling of discomfort. If Dusekkar feels it, Shedletsky must’ve too. Tenfold. Always a performer, he brushes it off.
“You wound me, Times,” he puts a hand to his chest, “Duse, you hearing this? I’m being attacked.”
It’s just so unnatural. Even after all this time, he can’t fathom it. Shedletsky, who once slaughtered mortals like cattle, conversing with them like there’s nothing easier. Shedletsky, who believed himself incapable of wrongdoing, lampshading his shortcomings. Why did this accountable, sensible version of him have to come so late? Where was he when Dusekkar needed him the most?
“Duse?”
He blinks, halfway stuck in a fantasy where Shedletsky needs help ‘drying off’. “Yes, sure, whatever. Let’s begin, shall we?”
The smallest mote of concern makes it through Shedletsky’s filter. It’s gone by the time he eagerly takes his seat, across from Seven and closest to Dusekkar’s right.
Dusekkar clears his throat and shuffles his files together. He then tinkers with the radio, which begins playing a suspenseful tune. “We return to our heroes at the middle of their adventure, where they continue to descend down…”
…the Burrows of Mayhem, a dungeon of twenty floors, each more chaotic than the last.
A burst of offensive magic escapes Ernest’s healing staff, striking something too big to be considered a spider. He sighs in relief as the wretched creature propels backwards and hits the ground with a splat, joining the string of arachnid corpses disgracing the web-laced room.
Some of the corpses have wings. Others, clothes. Last floor had a towering, talking bookshelf that demanded to be sorted correctly, lest it lean over and crush all of them to a pulp. The one before that had them on a dock surrounded by hippocamp infested waters. It took twenty minutes to get the half-horse, half-fish scales out of his hair. It’s all nonsense.
He looks at the floor with balled fists. The cobwebs upset a phobia that’s thankfully minor. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”
“Careful there, friend,” Sadric VII puts a hand on his shoulder, “Discord can hear us from every corner of this domain.”
Something warm creeps up Ernest’s cheeks and pointed ears. Beneath the stench of sweat, blood and rotting entrails, he picks up smoky honeysuckle—Sadric’s favorite scent. Two months prior, in a cozy inn, he had the pleasure of sniffing it directly off his neck. Among other things.
He crosses his arms. “Good! Let it know we’re two thirds down its abode, ready to send it back to whatever hells-touched crawlspace it came from.”
Despite his audacity, he retires from provoking it further. Discord, the concept of chaos given form, has plagued the world relentlessly for the past year. It dreams of a Robloxia where one stretch of the map is subject to zero gravity, and the next is suffocated by giant owlbear feathers. Chocolate rivers, entire civilizations walking upside down—it craves bottomless amusement with no regard for the harm entailed. They all wish to see another day, so here they are: working down to its resting place to either slay it, or die trying. Overconfident fools, all of them.
“Blasted webs. Can barely see a damn thing,” Telamon groans while wiping down his sword, “The more pitiful the creature, the more annoying it must be to compensate. It knows you can kill it with ease, so it curses you for your time.”
Ernest looks towards the front of the room, the place any fighter ought to be. While everyone else resides in the backline, Telamon is an unstoppable force brutalizing anything that gets too close.
He’s human, just like Sadric. At least, that’s what he swears. Ernest has his reservations. What’s with the wings? The unmatched strength? The flawless swordplay? The dark expression whenever he slays something in cold blood, one that says: “You’re scum—so utterly beneath me. I don’t know why you even try.”
Whatever’s wrong with him, he hides it well enough. The same can’t be said for the party’s rogue. A cloaked drow scans the walls, using their darkvision to see what everyone else can’t. Their muted purple skin and pointed ears, longer than Ernest’s half-elf ones, hide beneath their hood. The moonlight sheen of their dagger is beautiful, but discreet. Don’t let their reserved nature deceive you—they’ve had Ernest do things he has no business thinking about. Not while he’s still a humble cleric, anyway.
They find the entrance to the next floor. In one clean motion, they cut through the webs obscuring it—always efficient, always cutthroat. “This way.”
“Not so fast, Nightshade. Ernest needs to tend to the rest of you. I’m unscathed, as per usual.”
Ernest would insist he isn’t a dog, but Dorian does it for him. “At least spare your gaze to whom you wish to assist. Don’t make me withdraw the protection spells I have on you.”
An undousable flame burns within his hollow head as he speaks. Ernest isn’t familiar with fire genasi traditions. From what he’s read about the scarlet-skinned, flame conjuring people, there’s nothing tying Dorian’s red kabocha head to the culture. It remains a mystery, just like Telamon’s entire being.
He holds his greatstaff with two hands, the apparatus of his abjuration magic. Whereas Ernest heals, Dorian shields and wards. Ernest hasn’t seen a wizard of his calibre since he left home with a goal: show dad he’s cut out for life outside the family bakery by any means necessary.
Smugly, Ernest crosses his arms. No healing until Telamon stops acting like a god.
“Swallow your pride just this once. My sides are killing me,” Sadric pleads.
His tome glimmers with red and black wisps. Whereas wizards learn their spells, warlocks borrow them from higher powers. _NULL — the personification of malicious ‘code’, something Ernest feels doesn’t quite belong in this world, — grants him an arsenal of agonizing abilities. He then uses them to… save the world, not conquer it. Somehow, that makes him the weirdest person here.
Silence beats by. Eventually, Telamon rolls his eyes. “Your service thus far has been adequate.”
“And?”
“I’d like for you to nurse everyone back to health. Myself included.”
“Thank you,” Ernest says victoriously, then beckons everyone close, “Gather ‘round.”
Back at the table, Elliot empties his pouch and holds up an eight-sided die. “To cast Mass Cure Wounds, how many of these should I roll? Wait, don’t tell me—” he holds up a hand, “Three?”
Dusekkar nods. “Very good. Go on, then.”
Elliot counts as he drops the piece three times for a sum total of nineteen. He calls the number out, and Dusekkar skims over his copy of Ernest’s character sheet. His stats, armor and weapon all contribute to his every move.
“Accounting for your modifiers, you heal the party for thirty hit points. A unified sigh of relief fills the room as wounds seal and displaced joints reinstate themselves,” Dusekkar says, “For good measure, I’m casting Stoneskin on Ernest. You’ll find it useful for the next floor.”
The nagging one’s yellow magic fizzles away and, despite insisting he hadn’t so much as a scratch, Telamon feels better. He’s prepared to show Ernest a smidge of real gratitude. Then, with a hand on his shoulder, Dorian casts some kind of fortification spell on him. The half-elf thanks him for the trouble, which earns a smile carved in squash.
Jealousy burns in his gut—dull, manageable, but still present. He doesn’t care for Dorian, not really. But it's nice to have someone. To keep them. One trophy amongst many. Dorian’s smart enough to know he’s not the best lover, and yet they dance in secret regardless. Telamon makes promises he knows he’ll break and Dorian, sweet Dorian, believes.
“Uh, hello? Favoritism at its finest,” Shedletsky claims with faux offence.
Elliot smiles, eager to banter. “Oh, please. Telamon’s a nuke and a half! You’re lucky Dusekkar lets him be so strong.”
“Telamon’s your run-of-the-mill fighter. You’re just jealous I get to do all the cool stuff.”
“Cool stuff like what? Nearly getting us party-wiped five times?”
“Get him for me, Sev,” Elliot fists bumps the aforementioned.
“All calculated. You wouldn’t understand my genius.”
“Shedletsky’s right, and Telamon isn’t over-powered.”
Elliot and Seven gawk. Two Time grins, “What? I enjoy being contrarian.”
“They’ve joined the enemy!” Seven says, mortified.
Shedletsky ruffles their hair. “I knew I liked you, kid.”
A lighthearted argument ensues. Amusement washes over Shedletsky’s face as Times argues in his favor, annoyingly skilled at raising points they don’t believe in. Dusekkar fights the urge to groan. For someone so intent on keeping the past under wraps, Shedletsky adores testing his luck.
Before admins and servers, there were legends and clans. Dusekkar was the finest mage in all the lands, as well as the dean of an academia lost to time. Builderman earned his prolonged lifespan by smelting weapons suitable for gods—the first and only human to do so. Brighteyes, Doombringer and the others stunned their respective corners of the world with impossible feats.
Shedletsky stole hearts. Those of his admirers, who swarmed the Height’s many arenas to see him at his most brutal. Those of his foes, who’d occasionally have them ripped from their chests as a show of cold, sadistic power. Dusekkar’s, who’d see the carnage and feel all the wrong things. An enamored ninety-year-old he once was, believing foolishly that he could ‘fix him.’
In reality, there was nothing to fix. Not until Shedletsky realized he was broken—a journey that came after Dusekkar was already used and discarded. Somewhere along the way, he let his old name die silently.
At least, until this campaign. Mortals speak casually of a borderline tyrant, none the wiser. Shedletsky nods along, treating this formidable ‘Telamon’ like a stranger, not the monster he once was. Unless any of them are secretly ten-thousand years old, Dusekkar supposes there’s no real harm being done. Maybe to his psyche, but he’ll live.
Campaign Telamon isn’t the only self insert, but certainly the most egregious of them all. An aasimar who masquerades as human so he can — Dusekkar skims his notes, — ‘understand mortals and all their measly quirks.’ Ugh. Sure, Dorian’s just a red version of himself, but at least he’s charming!
“Until one of you finds it in your heart to brew me coffee each morning, I have no favorites,” Dusekkar says, “Anyways, let's proceed.”
Devious looks fill the table. Dusekkar prepares to be bribed in the coming week. Meanwhile, the party continues their descent down the Burrows—sneaking, outwitting and skewering their way through every trial and tribulation.
There are a few close calls. At some point, Nightshade is the only party member in good health. Through lucky rolls and keen strategy, Times navigates them through cruel odds. Necks snap and bodies fall as Nightshade acts beneath empowering shadow, rendering a room of fiends into oozing lootbags. The work put into boosting their strength and dexterity stats has begun to pay off.
“Do you have to be so crude?” Sadric looks at Nightshade in horror. They’re crouched down, emptying pockets without a lick of empathy.
“I’m quick, not kind,” Nightshade shrugs as they tear through someone’s pantleg. Their victim’s gone commando. Sadric looks away. They don’t bat an eye.
Later, Sadric cheats through a floor with particularly challenging terrain. Seven’s played enough warlocks to have a sleeve full of tricks. The party cruises through his Arcane Doors while their foes choke on Hunger of Hadar: blinding, acrid clouds. Dusekkar can’t help but be a smidge sour.
Telamon soars through a glitchy entrance. “This feels… illicit. I like it.”
“That’s the first time you’ve complimented me, I think.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Sadric hadn’t planned to. Telamon continues flying a proud path a meter above everyone else. As the next room presents itself, languid drifting turns into sharp swivels and loops. Airborne, fey creatures send juvenile hexes from above: Tasha’s Hideous Laughter, Stunning Shriek, and a dozen other things from uncontrollable dancing to inflicted rot.
Dorian shields Telamon from the worst of it—Protection from Evil and Good goes a long way. The aid earns him a smile that has to mean something. Telamon’s bouts of kindness, however occasional, make it all worth it in the end. It’s not sustainable, he knows. He deserves better, he knows. But a drop of water is a desert wanderer’s river. Never in his life has he been so parched.
“At last, the party sits atop a seemingly endless stream of stairs—the last stretch before they encounter Discord face-to-face. Malevolent darkness exudes from the abyss; inflicting deeply unnerving, other-wordly discomfort. One signalling that what’s down there has a penchant for unknitting the very fabric of reality—more than it already has,” Dusekkar smiles wickedly, “Are you all ready?”
The table exchanges unsure glances. Ultimately the answer is ‘no’, but that’s never stopped them before.
One tedious descent later, and there it is: a warped mirage of colors, sensations and sounds—an assault to the senses. Discord in the flesh, if you can even call it that. The clearest thing about it is the all-seeing eye centered in its impossible body. That, and its echoing, seemingly disembodied voice.
“Slithering, dismal worms. Do you truly think you’ve achieved something? Have you deluded yourselves into believing you won’t fall here?” its volume is an offence to the sound barrier, “May your corpses be the first of many: animated, pus-bloated testaments to my newborn kingdom.”
“Whatever you do, do not die,” Telamon whispers, struck with something completely foreign: fear.
It’s an unkind battle. Spells from Discord itself, as well as the possessed remains of everything they’ve fought so far, torch the backline. Skin-eating termites, impossible terrain, trickery that splinters the mind—it’s unbearable. Sadric and Nightshade limp away from Circle of Death, a pungent radius of active decay. Meanwhile, Ernest is Feared into his worst nightmare: a vision of helllish fire scorching away all he’s worked for and all he’s ever known. A ghastly apparition of his father hangs overhead, boring into him with empty sockets.
Dorian chases after Telamon as the avian broils with rage. Blood cakes his wings and runs down his face. He shouldn’t be afloat, and the fact incentivizes Dorian to keep him in range of his protection all the more.
Telamon fights viciously; not to save the world, not to save his party, but because he’s losing. He was born to sever and tear. To build himself a throne of corpses and a scepter of bones—Robloxia’s blade deserves no less. He will die alone, but be crowned the best. No matter what becomes of his pitiful existence, that’s all that matters.
Despite their combined peril, Discord steadily weakens. It’s at its wits end when Telamon’s flying just above its iris—a weak point. The aasimar plunges down, sword sparking with overpowering light. This is it, he thinks. It dies here.
Dorian can sense what he cannot. Arcane wisps bud from Discord’s weary form, a last defence. He tries to cast a nullifying spell right as he shouts: “Fall back, it’s going to—!”
Telamon doesn’t listen. Telamon never listens.
Everything goes dark.
Dusekkar stares at his twenty-sided die, which landed on a one. Usually, the critical fail would be cause for alarm.
He smiles. “A vain spurt of magic escapes Dorian’s greatstaff. Discord, bruised but not powerless, deflects his Counterspell. With the last of its strength, it pries open the many pockets of the world and banishes the party every which-way.”
“We’re so fucked,” Shedletsky panic-laughs.
“Not quite,” Dusekkar shakes his head, “Everyone, roll a six-die.”
Thick apprehension. Clattering plastic.
“Me and Seven rolled a three,” Elliot says.
Times reads their roll. “One, for me.”
Dusekkar peers over at Shedletsky’s hand. “It appears we both got a six.”
“Luck knows we’re best pals. Cool.”
Dusekkar emulates rolling his eyes, then scans the bottom half of a comprehensive flowchart.
Discord Attempts to Cast Mass Banishment → Succeeds → Party separated.
3 - A Test of Courage.
“Ernest and Sadric awaken on a mountain’s crooked summit, which towers over rows upon rows of stone-still soldiers—all distinct from one another, like they’ve been plucked from different corners of the map. Even with all the magic in the world, there’s little to be done about miles of leather and steel.”
“We’ve got this, right?” Seven gives Elliot a glance.
“Right,” both him and Ernest nod despite the odds.
1 - A Test of Wit.
“The heavy footsteps of an orthon rouse Nightshade, who finds themselves in an underground temple. The robust, horned beast patrols alongside a posse of imps. They duck behind a wall right before they’re spotted, inadvertently leading themselves to three imposing doors. The puzzles behind each don’t promise escape upon completion, but an attempt is better than being guaranteed fiend meat.”
“Not optimal,” Times and Nightshade say in unison, “But not impossible, either.”
6 - A Test of Virtue.
Dusekkar breathes.
“Telemon and Dorian have no time to collect themselves. Sparking equipment, broken conveyor belts, metal debris—this factory’s on the brink of eruption. Hostages run amok, while steel watchers survey the panic. They run on simple, arcane programming: eliminate all who wish to leave. Prioritize imminent threats. Will the duo save those in their same situation, or fend for themselves?”
“You’ve always liked moral dilemmas.” The nostalgia in Shedletsky’s voice is bittersweet.
“I—yes. I suppose I have,” Dusekkar mumbles.
Seven leans back in his seat. “What a doozy. I think it’s good we end here.”
“Yeah, I need to prep the kitchen for tomorrow,” Elliot stretches, “I had a lot of fun, though!”
“As did I. Though, I have to ask—can’t I just kill the orthon?” Times asks with something evil in their eye. Oh, gods. As if they weren’t violent enough already, Shedletsky’s rubbing off on them.
“You can do whatever you’d like next session. I believe we’re done for today,” Dusekkar says.
The door opens and the table takes quick notice. Signature blue hair peeks from the crack. Guest looks around—not unwanted, but definitely uninvited. “Uh, sorry to bother y’all. We’re starting soon.”
He jabs his thumb outside of the room, where the jet-black sky crackles with angry streaks of red. Like clockwork, the atmosphere sours. They all know what that means.
“Just great,” Elliot sighs while getting up, “See you guys out there. Good luck.”
Seven follows after him, “Bye Times, bye Shed. Loved the session, Duse.”
Times slinks out shortly after. “Spawn bless you all.”
And then there were two.
Dusekkar half expects Shedletsky to leave without a word. Instead, he joins in on cleaning. If they weren’t empty sockets, Dusekkar would rub his eyes just to be sure of the sight.
“Thank you, but I don’t need assistance.”
“Nah, I insist,” Shedletsky slots his dice into his pouch.
“Very well.”
The silence that ensues is neither awkward nor comfortable, but a secret third thing. The past rears its dual-toned head. With it: laughter, sentimentality, pleasure. Bickering, betrayal, pain. Serviceable days. Lonely nights.
“You were great today.”
Dusekkar nearly drops the radio. “You mean that?”
Something shy and knotted settles in Shedletsky’s throat. “Uh, yeah? I never knew what to expect from the dungeon, every floor was a surprise. The twist at the end had me reeling, dude!”
Whenever it’s hot enough, Dusekkar’s flame audibly crackles. Stupid thing. Shedletsky continues: “And the way you voiced Discord? Hello? So, so good.”
“You’re too kind,” he stammers.
“I say it like it is.”
And that’s all the conversation they need to have, Dusekkar thinks. But no, Shedletsky isn’t done. Some minutes pass before he musters the courage to murmur: “Did you do something to your antlers?”
“I’ve maintained them the same way for the past six centuries. Why, is something wrong?”
“No, not at all! They just… look nice. Always have.”
There it is again, a reminder of where they stand now: the awkward middleground between being coworkers who ignore that shared, turbulent past, and something complicated and unlabeled.
“Shit, that was bad—just forget I said anything.”
“After all these years, you’re coming onto me?”
Shedletsky bristles. “No. Yes? Maybe. What if I was?”
“I’d tell you I’m still owed a formal apology.”
Dusekkar expects dismissal. Shedletsky instead delivers the most shocking thing of the millenia: his sincerity.
“Then, I’m sorry. For everything. I was an asshole, you deserved better, and I hate myself for not giving you that. You don’t have to forgive me, just… look at me when we talk? Please?”
Dusekkar would be justified to decline. His grudge is legitimate, his pain is legitimate. After the neglectful limbo that was their past relationship, he has every right to never entertain Shedletsky again.
However, there’s something endearing about it all: him dressed in layman’s clothes, sheepish as can be, pleading for his gaze to be met. What a drastic contrast to the berserker of yester-eon, who had you beg for an iota of his free time. Something’s changed, and Dusekkar’s willing to recognize as much.
Dusekkar doesn’t quite look him head-on, but it's eye contact nonetheless. “The effect you have on my decision making needs to be studied.”
“Thanks, Duse,” Shedletsky smiles, truly smiles, “I don’t deserve you.”
“You don’t, so go grovel to the goddesses and nymphs of fortune. Wherever they reside now.”
“Some no-name corner of Robloxia, probably. Just like us.”
“It’s truly been a while, hasn’t it?”
Something forlorn clouds his eyes. “Yeah. It has.”
A beat. “So, we’re cool?”
Dusekkar takes his outstretched hand. It’s as warm as it was all those years ago. “We’re ‘cool’, Telamon.”
He beams. “Awesome. Stick by me out there, yeah? Can’t have my DM getting hurt.”
“It’s you I’m worried about,” Dusekkar chuckles, “But very well.”
Shedletsky is out of the door in due time. The three-thousand year weight on Dusekkar’s heart hasn’t quite been lifted, but he floats a little lighter.