2.25. Labyrinths & Liches, Part One

Bridgeport stinks in the fall.

Not that Lark has any basis for comparison, at least in terms of distinct seasons. Her limited experience tells her, however, that the air shouldn’t be so oppressive, so obviously tainted by hundreds of years of human innovation and intervention. The unseasonable warmth only exacerbates the inevitable: it smells like ass.

But at least the coffee smells normal.

Lark has wanted to leave Aurora Skies for as long as she could remember. She perennially longs for somewhere, anywhere that isn’t covered in snow, surrounded on all sides by water, and populated by hicks. Still, she had imagined something more glamorous: Champs Les Sims in the spring, or Roaring Heights during the annual film festival. Even Bridgeport—with its clubs and celebrities and supernatural intrigue—had seemed alluring before this. But mourning is never glamorous or adventurous or fun.

She finds Dominic in the dining room, in the same black suit he had worn the day before.

“I made coffee,” Lark announces, “you don’t want cream or sugar, right? ‘Cause I think I already threw that stuff out.”

“I don’t need coffee,” he mutters. A clumsily poured glass of wine sits in front of him, accompanied by an empty bottle. Lark pushes the glass aside and theatrically places the mug in its place. She pads to the kitchen and back, another mug in hand, then sinks into a chair.

“Did you sleep at all,” it doesn’t have the inflection of a question, but Lark presents it as such. The bags under his eyes and his crumpled suit already serve as an answer.

He shakes his head.

She can feel his grief, but the stupidest possible question falls out of her mouth anyway: “why not?”

He levels hurt eyes at her.

“Doesn’t matter,” she slaps at the air, “Anyway, with Bjorn and Raven helping it shouldn’t take too long to pack up everything. Then we can put the house on the market, maybe even by next week.”

“That fast?” Dominic sips at the coffee.

“We need to get back home as soon as possible, Dom. The kids have school, and we both have work. Um, sorta.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Lark scrunches her face. “What? The kids’ education, or work?”

He shrugs.

“Look,” she sighs, “are you going to help pack or not?”


“I would prefer not to.”

“Dominic, I get it, I really do. But we gotta get a move on. Every day in Bridgeport is costing us money.”

“You ‘get it’? You’re not an orphan,” he slurs.

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep from rolling her eyes. “You’re almost 40. It’s not like you’re Oliver Twist.”

He takes a deep breath. “Sarcasm is a lot easier than empathy, isn’t it?”

She shoots up from her chair, propelled by anger. “And drinking is a lot easier than packing.”

He rises to meet her. “My father just died, Lark. I don’t know what you’re expecting, but it isn’t so simple to just bounce back from that.”

“All I’m saying is that you’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic,” he frowns, “I see.” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Guilt washes over Lark. He’s allowed to be unreasonable, to make these melodramatic declarations--while his relationship with his father could best be described as strained, it was a bond nonetheless.

But she can’t bring those feelings to the surface. “Just do your part, okay? Your old room is full of crap and I don’t even know where to start.”

His frown deepens. “Anything else?”

“A shower wouldn’t hurt.”

Dominic turns on his heel and wordlessly bounds up the stairs.

“Um, mom?” Bjorn hovers hesitantly in the hallway.

“What?” Lark snarls.

“Is everything okay?” His voice cracks a little, belying both his discomfort and his age.

“Just get dressed and go pack up all the junk in the living room, okay?”

“Fine."

“You too, Raven.”

“Right away, boss,” Raven rolls her eyes.

“Don’t,” Lark sticks out a finger, “I’m not in the fucking mood for it, okay?”

“When are you ever,” Raven mutters under her breath.

The morning passes quickly and productively, at least for Lark. Experience tells her she should feel guiltier for her behavior, and empathy dictates an apology. But pragmatism wins out: she needs to pack up this fucking house. The family lives paycheck to paycheck, an existence cobbled together by Dominic’s small farm and her shitty bar job. They can only afford to go so long without work, and Dominic’s father didn’t have the decency to leave an inheritance upon his death.

Luckily Lark works best while ignoring her feelings. It takes her a mere four hours to pack up the attic, mostly by throwing items together with reckless abandon. Her sense of triumph is short-lived—if only the rest of her family was so callously motivated.

“What are you doing, Fen? I told you to pack up these books!”

Fenrir glances over his shoulder at her. “There’s books about dragons, mom. Real dragons. I hafta read them!”

“There’s no such thing as dragons.”

“What about Dragon Valley?” He looks smug.

“It’s a just a tourist trap. Like a year-round Renaissance Faire, that’s all.”

“Nuh-uh,” he insists.

“Yeah-huh—wait, we’re not having this conversation, okay? Pack ‘em up. Now.”

“But mom!” He whines.

"If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we'd all have a merry Snowflake Day," she snaps. Before Fenrir can respond, she stalks off into another room, slamming the door behind her.

Lark surveys the room. It had once been Dominic’s boyhood bedroom, but with years of neglect and bibliophilic hoarding it had turned into a respectable library. “It’s, um,” she pauses, noting the mere two packed boxes, “It’s looking better in here.”

Dominic, leaning against the ornate shelf, barely acknowledges her. “I haven’t finished. Fell asleep for a bit.”

“Oh,” she swallows her spiteful urges, “Well, you needed the rest.”

He turns a page.

“You find something interesting?”

“Just an old notebook of mine,” he says.

“Oh,” her face brightens, “like a diary?”

His eyes flicker up to meet hers. She tries to maintain her gaze, but her eyes waver. “Not quite,” he replies.

“What is it, then? School notes? Fan fiction? An enemy list? Love letters? Oh my maker, please let it be love letters. What was her name? No, let me guess. Hmm—Sabrina?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Sort of like fan fiction, I suppose. Are you familiar with Labyrinths & Liches?”

“You mean that board game with the monsters?”

“Role-playing game. Tabletop role-playing game, to be more specific,” he says, “anyway, I used to story-tell for my friends in high school, and these are my ideas for campaigns.”

“So this is, like, the blueprints for teenage storytime. That’s,” she struggles for an adjective, “that’s chaste, I guess.”

He laughs, and she savors it. “Not quite. It’s more participatory than that. This,” he waves the notebook, “contains my notes and plans and such for a few of my campaigns.”

“Lemme see,” she snatches it out of his hand.

“Wait—”

She holds up a hand. “Just a little bit, okay?”

‘Just a little bit’ turns into a good fifteen minutes. Lark—having settled into a chair—flips through each page slowly, occasionally biting her lip and glancing up at a pacing Dominic.

He breaks the silence. “It’s bad, right?”

“It’s pretty nerdy,” she admits, “And I have some questions. Like this bit where you outline exactly how the Amazonians reproduce—“

“Please remember that this was a very different time in my life,” he interrupts, “and—as the mother of a teenage boy—try to be a little understanding. Oh maker, I shouldn’t have shown this to you.”

“Why not?” she tilts her head. “It’s cute. I mean, you wrote so much.” To demonstrate, she flips through the pages. The book—complying with her theatrics—falls open to a half-empty page, marked by a photograph.

“Oh wow,” Dominic leans over and picks it up. “I’d almost forgotten about this picture—it’s the only one I have of both of them.” He holds it out to Lark.

It’s a wedding photo, and a faded one at that. She recognizes the groom as Dominic’s father, younger and happier than she’d ever seen him. Even through the dull sepia tone, his bright eyes pierce through. The bride, on the other hand, is unfamiliar. Lark searches her face for any sign of Dominic, but finds nothing. In the bottom right corner is faded, spindly writing: Sebastian Trémaux and Beatrice Trémaux, née Bernard.

“I didn’t realize how much you look like him.”

“It was uncanny. Well, at least until he let himself go.”

“And your mom—she’s so pretty.”

“She was.”

“How is this the only picture you have of them?”

Dominic scratches his arm. “A lot of things went missing once my mother kicked him out the first time.”

Lark tucks the photograph into the notebook. “Here,” she holds it out, “pack this in your carry-on. I want to frame it when we get back.”

“Actually,” he hesitantly takes the notebook, “I have a request.”

“Oh?”

Dominic looks down at his hands. “It might put us off schedule.”

Lark winces. “You know, I think we can afford a day or two more. What’s the request?”

“Well,” he takes a deep breath and leans in, “it’s something of incredible importance, and I ask that you treat it with respect.”

She puts her hand on his chest. “And that is?”

“Lark Bee, will you please join my role-playing game?”

Lark smiles, and extends the closest thing to an apology for her earlier behavior: “How can I say no to that face?”

***

Downstairs, Raven and Bjorn make slow progress.

“We’re out of newspaper,” Bjorn says absently.

“So?” Raven responds.

“I’m not sure how to pack this stuff,” he gestures to the statuette and gemstones on the fireplace mantle, “without some sort of padding."

“Just put them in between two throw pillows or something. Who cares?”

“This would go faster if you helped, you know,” Bjorn says.

“Yeah, but that would require effort on my part.”

“Mom’s gonna yell at us,” he frowns.

“But it will only bother you,” she shrugs, “she’s not my mom.”

Bjorn sighs and flops onto the couch. “This sucks.”

“Yep,” she agrees.

“We should just stay here.”

“In the living room? Okay…”

“In Bridgeport,” he says, “I mean, Dom’s inheriting the house, right? We could just stay here, and mom and Dom could go back to Aurora Skies. Maybe I could even keep Grandpa Trémaux’s car.”

“Spending my inheritance, I see,” Raven snorts.

“Same difference! You’re my sister, so it’s practically mine.”

“Stepsister,” Raven reminds him with a wink.

A shout interrupts them. “Bjorn!” Lark’s voice, propelled by the gift that all moms seems to have, travels distinctly downstairs, “Raven!”

Bjorn clears his throat.  “Umm, my mom’s calling us.”

“Yeah, no duh.”

***

Lark didn’t realize how easy it could be to get lost in a book. She had enjoyed books in the past, for sure, but most of her paperback canon had been read during school hours while deceitfully tucked into a textbook. But this—a rulebook for otherwise boundless imagination—is strangely engrossing.

She flips a page and examines an illustration. “So the Fallen are like demons?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Dominic responds, enraptured in a dog-eared copy of Labyrinths & Liches: The Dungeon Master’s Guide.

“And what can a sorceress do?”

“Depends,” he straightens up and stretches, “usually elemental magic, like fireballs and such.”

“Neat! Would that be a good combo? A Fallen sorceress?”

“I don’t really care for Fallen, but I think it would work fine. An elf or half-elf would also make a good sorceress.”

“Hmm. Decisions, decisions,” Lark bites her lip. The bedroom door swings open, and she glances up at a pair of petulant teenage faces. “Good, you heard me. Settle in, okay?”

“Why,” Bjorn furrows his eyebrows. “Wait, are you reading?”

“Alert the media,” Raven adds, “’Lark Bee picks up book, film at 11:00.’”

“We’re reviewing the rules for Labyrinths & Liches,” Dominic perks up, “your mom agreed to play and—”

“You called us up here to join a role-playing game,” Raven finishes his sentence, “you cannot be serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Lark says, “and this game apparently blows with just two people, so you and Bjorn are joining, too.”

“But we were packing,” Bjorn says.

“Well you deserve a break,” Lark beams.

“But—“

“Sit down,” her smile grows wider. With a grumble, the teens comply.

It takes hours to sift through and explain the rules. The tedium is compounded by Dominic’s encyclopedic knowledge and rigid interpretations. Finally, as the sun dips below the horizon, the cast is more or less prepared.

“Let’s run through our characters real quick,” Dominic suggests, “Lark?”

 “I’m going to play a Fallen sorceress,” she announces, “Demonina, daughter of Satanella.” Raven barely stifles a laugh.

Dominic’s face falls. “Is that really her name?”

“Yup! And she’s from a proud matriarchy, thank you very much. Hence the ‘daughter of’ bit.”

“But ‘Demonina’? Fallen usually have primordial names.”

“Primordial?”

He sighs. “A language that has existed since the beginning of time, one far older than most of the new races like the humans and dwarves. The rulebook describes it as ‘the language of nature.’”

“Fine. Then her name is Oeeawwieooooooowoosh, but no one can pronounce it so she goes by Demonina.”

“Doesn’t ‘Demonina, daughter of Satanella’ presume some sort of Judeo-Christian setting?” Raven asks, “Dad, didn’t you say this was a pagan universe? It hardly seems appropriate.”

“It’s just a fun name, okay?” Lark frowns, “and maybe Demonina means, like, ‘good with magic’ in Fallenese or whatever. Did you ever think of that?”

“No, and I doubt you thought of that either.”

“Raven,” Dominic warns.

“Whatever,” Raven crosses her arms, “I thought we were going for realism in this monster game, but whatever.”

Dominic turns to his right. “And your character, Bjorn?”

“A human soldier named Bear Beetlesbane,” Bjorn grins, “and watch out, ladies. He has a charisma of 20.”

“Really? Charisma?” Dominic’s face falls, “I guess I can make that work. Raven, care to introduce your character?

Raven forces a smile. “Why, this elven cleric you suggested,” she picks up the corner of her character sheet and holds it up, “hmm, Nephinae Rylyss of the Forgotten Woods. Don’t know how to pronounce that, so I guess just call me Neph.”

“Actually, elves don’t typically have nicknames—“

“Father,” she interrupts, “I’m sitting here. I’m holding a character sheet. I’m putting up with goofy names and dumb characters. And I’m doing math for fun. What else do you want from me?”

“Right. Well, since you all are newbies, I’ll be joining—in essence—via an NPC. He’s a half-elf paladin named Percy Ardreth. Could you write that down? I’ll be quizzing you at the beginning of the next session. Please note character names, locations, timelines, and such.”

Raven turns to Bjorn. “Quizzes?” she mouths. He shrugs.

“Oh,” Lark’s eyes widen, “wow, ’next session’? I didn’t realize this would be an ongoing thing. How, um, exciting!”

“I have about thirty encounters mapped out already, so we should be able to play regularly for quite some time. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“I’ll say,” Raven mutters. Her father ignores her.

“Typically the first session entails gathering the party and locating quests,” Dominic explains, “It’d be easy, and typical, to just have us all meet at the tavern—“

“That sounds fun,” Lark says.

“But I don’t want this to be that cliché. So how about we work through each character real quick and manufacture a meet-up later? We’ll start with you, Lark.”

She blinks. “Perfect.”

“We begin our adventure in Dewhurst, a growing village under the rule of Lord Idles of Wishborne Keep. Outside the village is a small but popular fairground called The Crow & Crown.”

“And is that where my girl is?”

“Yes, she’s working as—“

“She’s a fortune teller,” Lark interrupts again.

“Right,” Dominic swallows, “sounds good. Well then. A woman—middle aged, apparently of low birth—enters your tent. ‘I seek a love reading,’ she says.”

Raven and Bjorn snicker, and Lark shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She hadn’t considered the embarrassment factor of this long-form apology, but here she is. “I guess I’ll read her fortune, then.”

“Roll for it,” Dominic gestures towards the dice, “One d20, plus your wisdom modifier.”

Lark picks up the die. It feels heavy in her hand, much heavier than should be possible. “Here goes nothing,” she tosses it onto the table.

It’s invisible, at least to everyone there, but it happens nonetheless: an explosion emanates from the impact of the die. The concussive force knocks Lark back, but she doesn’t—as anticipated—hit the floor. Rather, she feels herself drop into nothingness. And with that, she simply disappears.

The echoing burst draws a witness, investigator one for the ensuing mystery. “Excuse me,” Fenrir huffs as he throws open the door, “some of us are trying to read!”

But there’s no one to hear his complaint.

***

Wherever she is, she’s being torn apart. To name “unknown forces” as the culprit is a tad hackneyed, but it seems to be the truth: something unseen is ripping Lark’s body into pieces. Without the knowledge that she is to be rebuilt, it’s petrifying.

Even when that realization dawns on her, it provides no comfort.

She is new, but wrong.

***

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