"So," Hytham asked, once they were about to climb the stairs up to Oswald and Hunwald's flat, "how long have you been playing Dungeons and Dragons, Eivor?"

That was a question Eivor should have expected. Her first, innate response, as the bonafide jock who had played rugby all throughout secondary school, should have been to sneer and scoff, preferably while snorting inelegantly and spitting said snot over the sidewalk. But she'd gone past that—had aged past that. So instead Eivor answered, "Just played a couple of times, actually. Hunwald is starting a whole campaign tonight. Or so he told me."

"Interesting," said Hytham. "It's sure to be fun, then."

It hadn't taken much convincing to drag him here; Eivor's flatmate was a new arrival to the blight on the world that was England, and he hadn't made a lot of friends other than the third resident of their shared tenement, a man named Basim. The latter apparently worked in the same history department where Hytham was doing his Masters. Basim did not spend much time at their flat, often fucking off to God knew where to do God knew what. Even after a few months of living together, Eivor didn't know what to make of the guy; most of their exchanges had been done through arched brows and passive-aggressive looks (more aggressive than passive on her end of things). Hytham assured her that Basim was a good sort, but Eivor wasn't quite convinced. For one, creepy bugger could learn how to use a goddamn door to let himself in rather than climb through the window, as he often did. They weren't in some shitty video game after all.

"I think my brother played a few times with his friends," added Randvi. She'd let her hair loose tonight, and now there was a test of Eivor's resolve if there ever was; her stray curls shone like copper in the rays of the setting sun. Randvi then glanced aside, smirking a little. "When he was in primary school, that is."

"How are they?" Eivor asked. "Ari and Thora, I mean?"

Her smile grew fond. "Ari is still a little sh—snot. He's taller than me now, the useless git. Thora has her hands full with her business."

"And the wee ones, I bet."

Randvi laughed. "And the wee ones, yes. Detestable muppets they are. Can't wait til Jul—Christmas," she amended, for Hytham's sake. "It'll do me some good to see them again."

"I understand the feeling," said Hytham. "I'm a bit homesick too."

Eivor threw one arm around his shoulders. "C'mon, let's get your mind off all the shit going in your life. We're here to have some fun, yeah?"

"We are," he said, mirroring Randvi's smile. "Thank you, Eivor."

Eivor didn't knock on the door when they arrived; instead, she shouldered it open, calling loudly, "Hey ho, nerdlings!" On the couch, two curious faces turned to face her: Hunwald, beaming as always, and a girl she didn't know. Ceolbert was sitting at the table, fiddling with some papers. "Hey, Eivor!" he said, waving back.

Eivor put her hands on her hips, wrinkling her nose as if smelling something bad. "Ah, the stench of desperation and virginity! Hadn't smelled that one for years!"

"Har de har," said Hunwald, rolling his eyes. Still, he came to clap her proffered hand. Eivor's cousin was wearing a shirt depicting a pixelated taco; underneath it were written the words, 'It's Dangerous Taco Alone, Take This.' His feet were snugly encased in slippers shaped like unicorns. "Don't just stand there, people, come on in, come on in!"

When Eivor, Hytham and Randvi were finally gathered in the living room (decorated with well-kept houseplants—surely Oswald's touch—and colourful posters of various nerdy properties), Hunwald spread his arms wide and solemnly announced, "Welcome to our humble abode—the Otaku Dungeon!"

"I never agreed to that name!" said a voice coming from the kitchen. Oswald was cooking—of course he was the designated cook around here. Hunwald could have made water burn, while Oswald's pastries were the stuff of legends.

"How is it coming along?" said Hunwald, sneaking up to his brother to grab the spatula the latter had been using to stir the sauce. Ignoring Oswald's feeble protests, he shoved it into his mouth. "Hm! Not bad, not bad… you're definitely going somewhere, yes! But make it spicier!"

"Shoo, shoo!" Oswald said, taking back the spatula and whacking Hunwald with it. As the latter scampered, grinning like a gremlin (she'd taught him well, Eivor mused, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye), Oswald pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "God, but you're useless…"

"At least he's cute," said another voice from the couch. A curvy young lady with red hair was sitting there, failing to hide a smile behind her hand. Eivor recognized her from all the cellphone pictures Hunwald kept enthusiastically shoving in her face. "You must be Eivor," she said, standing to shake her hand. "I'm Swanburrow."

"The pleasure is all mine, oh fair one," Eivor said, bowing and bouncing her eyebrows. Swanburrow giggled, while Hunwald whined from behind, "Oh, come on, Eivor, that's not fair!"

Soon, introductions were made in the cramped space of the dining room. Hytham's very polite greetings were mirrored by Ceolbert's very polite welcome. Meanwhile, Oswald's best friend Tewdwr stiffly shook hands with everyone as if this was a very important business meeting, and not simply an occasion to faff around in pleasant company. Randvi took place among the group as if she had known them forever; she was good with people, that much Eivor had to admit. Already she seemed to have struck a friendship with Hytham throughout the car ride: they shared an interest in social justice and environmental issues, and Hytham had been quite impressed by Randvi's dreams of working in politics at a local level (Eivor had also been surprised to learn they were both fans of murder mysteries and spy fiction; she'd filed that information under 'good things to know').

While Oswald busied himself around the kitchen like a harried little bee, Ceolbert taught the basic rules of the game to Hytham and Randvi. Afterwards, they all scarfed down a rather delicious lasagna, which was made all the better by the addition of a scrumptious chocolate cake (Oswald was on a roll tonight; Eivor wondered what had gotten him so fired up). Once they were done with supper, Swanburrow got up, kissing Hunwald on the cheek.

"Well, I'm off to wrestling practise," she said. "Have a nice night, Hunnie bear."

"You too, my Scandinavian beauty, my suplexing Valkyrie, my northern Venus—"

Rather than have him babble on, Swanburrow leaned to bump her nose against Hunwald's, before turning to leave, waving them goodbye as she lingered in the doorway. Hunwald seemed misty-eyed for a moment, lower lip wobbling.

Then, he clapped his hands, saying, "Alright, alright! May I have your full attention, please? My dear fellows, my dear ladies, I bid you welcome, to the home and mind of one Hunwald Mercer, Dungeon Master—and Twitch streamer of some renown and repute!"

(Oh God, Eivor thought, he still believed this was a viable career path? From across the table, Oswald was rolling his eyes, giving Eivor all the answer she needed).

Hunwald steepled his hands together, grinning mischeviously. "What will you find there, I wonder?"

"Nothing good, I'll wager," said Eivor, prompting him to throw a piece of popcorn at her head. Eivor caught it with her mouth, to Randvi's giggling delight.

Hunwald cleared his throat before continuing, "Yes, well, now that your bellies are full of delicious, delicious cheese (and even more delicious cake, thank you ever so much, Ozzie boy), let's hear it! Describe your characters to the table, oh wonderful guests of mine, let us meet all those heroes starting their adventure tonight…"

Hytham nodded, taking his sheet in hand. "Well, my character is a half-elf rogue named…" He checked his notes, muttering something in Arabic. "Akhom. They used to be part of this guild of assassins and thieves, but they had to escape once they discovered proof that their master had betrayed their brotherhood. After failing to kill him, Akhom went on the run to hide from their former brothers and sisters, who would stop at nothing to see them dead."

"Niiice," said Hunwald, rubbing his hands together; had Eivor imagined it or was there an evil glint in his eyes right now? "Gives me a ton of ideas, I tell you."

"Thanks," said Hytham, reddening slightly. "I'm not, er, used to be making stories. Translating them, yes. Putting them back together piece by piece, fragment by fragment… all in a day's work for me. But coming up with something interesting? Imagining my own narrative, my own characters? That's not usually up my alley, so to speak."

"Your studies must be very interesting," said Oswald, and Eivor stifled a snort. She knew it had been a genius idea to put these two together in the same room; give or take a few minutes, and they were sure to geek out together, Hytham over history and Oswald over… well, the lad was doing his Masters in agriculture and rural development, which was probably very interesting—if your name wasn't Eivor, that is. Maybe Hytham would reveal himself a secret fan of soil science. Maybe.

Oswald's character, which he described after being coaxed away from his cellphone (it was not like him to be so distracted, Eivor mused with a frown), was a halfling druid named Midge Mallark—a sweet old thing with a stooped back and a thick head of grey hair that had a distinct green tint thanks to all the algae that kept growing in it. Dame Midge had left her forest commune—and the dozens of rambunctious grandchildren who ran about the place—to find the source of the corruption currently besieging the woods surrounding her beloved village. She knew how to brew a calming, cleansing cuppa tea—as well as how to transform into a bear of prehistoric proportion that could tear off the jaw of a grown man with her… bear hands.

(Oswald, world's treasure that he was, had laughed and laughed at this bad pun.)

Ceolbert's wizard was a middle-aged (that is, old as balls by human reckoning) elf named Agrippa Scipio ("Named after two of Rome's greatest generals," the lad had admitted, the tip of his ears going red). Scipio had been a soldier of some repute who had lost an arm and a leg while saving his commanding officer from certain death. The army had rewarded this act of great bravery by discharging him from their ranks. Undeterred by this loathsome betrayal, Scipio had chosen to learn the arcane arts, going through grueling years of studies to become a wizard of great power; then, those who had closed their eyes to his potential would rue the day they had kicked him to the curb like yesterday's garbage.

Tewdwr was playing a dwarf cleric—and like the man himself, his character seemed to have a broom lodged somewhere the sun did not shine. Myradin Grymbeard ("How is his beard grim?" Eivor had asked, in genuine puzzlement "Does it have frowney faces in it or something?" Tewdwr had only answered by puckering his mouth as if he was someone's disapproving Catholic Grammie) was the 'hope of the Dwarven people', whatever the hell that meant. Eivor had almost fallen asleep when Tewdwr had enumerated all of Myradin's great accomplishments. There'd been something about a hometown tragically destroyed, a prophecy made by a dying seer, and a dwarven lady with lovingly described tatas falling at the hero's feet, crying out, "Oh my love, I will wait, I will wait always for your return!" Eivor wondered if Tewdwr had even thought of a name for this well-endowed plot device. She had a few suggestions if he ever needed any.

As for Eivor…

She had first declared that her barbarian would be a silver Dragonborn named Thrud ("Would she have dragon tits?" Eivor had wondered at first, to the amusement of Randvi and the exasperation of Tewdwr, whose glare was so potent it could probably burn holes in the carpet). Thrud, daughter of Thrym, was a devout of the faith of Bahamut, the Great King of the Dragons, and she carried his message of redemptive justice through the sacred art of draconic throat singing and the gentle touch of her fists.

Eivor had played the character before, in the few of Hunwald's one-shots that she had joined. Ceolbert had advised her to choose a class that fought on the frontlines ("Much easier to manage than a spellcaster," he'd said in all of his boyish and nerdy wisdom), and so Eivor had happily slid into the skin of a big dumb brute whose only purpose was to scream, "For Bahamut!" and then pummel whatever enemies she encountered into a bloody puddle.

Then Randvi had flickered through the pages of the thick (too thick) game reference manual, falling on a depiction of a small reptilian creature. "Oh, this one is cute," she said. "He's wearing a tiny top hat. I like that."

"Kobolds," Ceolbert explained. "They're often used as enemies in low-level encounters. Not very bright, usually."

"A friend of mine played a kobold rogue," Hunwald added. "Her name was Pancakes, she was tons of fun! She didn't have a nifty hat, but she did have a mushroom growing on the top of her head."

"I'll play a kobold," Eivor said, eyes fixed on Randvi, heart beating madly in her chest, "and her name will be… Toot Toot Boop McSnout."

"I'm sorry, what," said Oswald, while Randvi snorted out a laugh, and that was—quite about the cutest sound Eivor had ever heard in her life. Victory, she thought, not without a hint of chauvinistic pride.

"Are you sure?" Ceolbert said. "Kobolds aren't known for their strength, and you'll need it if you want your barbarian to have a decent damage output—"

"I changed my mind," Eivor blurted out. "I'mma gonna play a bardbarian. Toot Toot will split skulls apart—and sing about it," which prompted Catholic Good Boy Tewdwr to utter, "Jesus Eff Christ."

"But you can't cast spells while you're in a berserker rage," Ceolbert said, his poor, overly rational mind struggling to make sense of such stupidity. "Bard and barbarian don't quite work well together. Maybe you should—"

"I think it's a fun idea," Randvi told Eivor, eyes sparkling. "My Sigrún will gladly have Toot Toot Boop McSnout, stout berserker and skald, along for the ride."

Eivor made a bow. "Then I will certainly make sure to sing of the lady Sigrún's battle-glories while we meander the many paths laid before us by the whims of the wyrd."

Said Lady Sigrún was an aasimar fighter, born with divine blood in her veins. Her goal was to gain the gods' favour through battle to become a Valkyrie, like her distant ancestor. The lady Sigrún was tall, buff, and clad in gleaming plate armour from head to toe. In one hand, she wielded a hammer capable of summoning the fury of the storm; in the other, she cleaved enemies in two with her axe.

God. The game hadn't even started yet, and already Eivor was utterly smitten.