Author's Note: My boyfriend claims there are three basic types of players in D&D: The thug, the dick, and the guy who picks away at the rules until the other players go crazy or force him to leave to save the group's sanity. Every game has a pick. You know who you are. Enjoy.
"Something's gotta give is all I'm saying," Bjorn Skullcrusher said, absentmindedly twirling two ten sided bones in his right hand. "Vakar Whiteworm ignores our laws when it suits him, then quotes the sacred book word for word when he thinks it'll give him an advantage. It's irritating."
The other members of the party nodded in agreement with the dwarf cleric's words. The Elven wizard Lord Whiteworm had been living up to his clan name recently, which wasn't surprising. The eighth level wizard had followed their group on many a campaign, only to ruin the adventure with his constant whining and bending of the sacred laws. He was forever getting them in trouble, never willing to pay the consequences, blaming his own team members for his failings, and always finding a way—usually whining until they all caved—to escape punishment.
"You just can't trust the bastard," Bjorn said. "Remember that time we went adventuring in the Cave of the Forgotten? Remember how he was willing to sell us all out to that shadow wraith for that damn magic sword? And the damn thing turned out to be cursed."
"Remember that bullshit story he came up with when we found out what he was up to?" said Jericho Icerider, the party's healer. "'It had me enthralled, guys! Honest'"
They all shook their heads.
"Was he under a spell?" Tuke the Bard asked.
The Almighty Dungeon Master and Invoker of the Sacred Book of Rules rolled his eyes. "Hell no. That pointy eared son of a bitch pitched the offer to the wraith, not the other way around."
"That bastard!" Bjorn said, his dwarven face growing red with rage. "You never told me that."
"You were pissed enough over that princess deal," he shrugged. "He already screwed up your chances to become ruler of Medea. I didn't want to add fuel to the fire."
Bjorn looked angry enough to beat a dracholich.
"Yeah," chimed in Cursewind of Palimoor. The thief took a swig of Dew of the Mountain flavored grog from his chalice and wiped the frothy brew from his lips. "And to add insult to injury, the bastard won't even pony up the money he owes for provisions. What? He thinks nachos and grog pay for themselves?"
The others grumbled in agreement.
"Okay, he's irritating," said Tuke the Bard. "But do you really think it's right to just, you know, kill him off like this? I mean, kick him out of the group? Fine. But killing him is just…cold."
"We tried kicking him out of the group," said the Almighty Dungeon Master. "Like a hundred times, we've tried. Every time we do, he comes crawling back, begging us to give him one last chance, and we always fold. I'm getting sick of it."
"If kicking him out of the group isn't going to fix things, how will killing him off do any better?"
Cursewind gave Tuke a sly smile. "You know how much time and energy that asshole has put into being a wizard, all the life experience he had to accumulate to get the level he's at? Not to mention all the loot he's accumulated."
Icerider said between mouthfuls of pretzels. "If he dies, all of it gets lost or is divided amongst the survivors of the group. You know how he is about sharing."
"He's going to go ballistic," Bjorn said smiling.
"He's going to lose more than loot," the Almighty Dungeon Master said. "I've decided not to reincarnate his ass at the same level as the group after we kill him off. If he wants back in he has to come back at level one. If he accepts my stipulations, he can remain in the party. If he doesn't, he can quit and find himself another adventuring group. Problem solved."
The party stared at the Dungeon Master in astonishment.
"Holy shit!" Bjorn whispered.
"Now that's cold," said Cursewind, though he couldn't hide the smirk growing on his lips. More than a few pieces of Lord Whiteworm's loot should have gone to him. He still bore a grudge.
"He has it coming," Bjorn said. "Maybe he'll think twice before stabbing his buddies in the back just to get his hands on a magic sword that will only turn out to be cursed anyway. Just tell me I get to be the one to make the killing blow…after we beat the fool another asshole, that is."
"Can you do that?" Tuke asked the Almighty.
"I am the great and powerful Dungeon Master. I can do anything I want," he said eyeing the party. "As long as everyone agrees."
"I'm cool with it," Cursewind said quickly. "We still get his loot, right?"
"Of course."
Cursewind, Bjorn, and Icerider simultaneously voted in favor of Whiteworm's demise. All eyes turned to Tukewho gave a resigned sigh.
"Let's do it."
And so it was foretold that Lord Vakor Whiteworm would pay for his numerous acts of treachery with his life. It was also foretold that Cursewind would be in charge of procuring the Dew of the Mountain and snacks for their next meeting. And, with some grumbling, it soon did come to pass.