DRL Filler Episode: DND party crash

The apartment always changed on campaign nights. Elijah’s living room had already transformed into something that barely resembled a hockey player’s home. The coffee table had been pushed aside to make space, and the long dining table now sat in the center of the room like a command post. Its surface was crowded with battle maps inked with forests, towns, and winding mountain roads, stacks of rulebooks with worn corners, scattered dice in small velvet trays, and notebooks filled with Elijah’s careful handwriting.

The air smelled faintly of pizza, soda, and a curl of incense that burned quietly in a ceramic holder near the window. Elijah swore it helped people focus. Most of his friends believed it was just an excuse for him to lean harder into the atmosphere of his campaigns, but no one ever complained.

Elijah himself sat at the head of the table with the quiet intensity of someone preparing for something far more serious than a game. His long brown hair had been tied into a loose bun high on his head, a few strands escaping near his temples. His glasses rested low on his nose while he flipped through a thick notebook filled with scribbled lore, highlighted passages, and tiny maps drawn in the margins.

His pen tapped against the page as he reread a section he had written weeks earlier, muttering softly to himself as he adjusted a line of dialogue for an upcoming character. When Elijah hosted a campaign, he hosted it properly.

Across the table, Mason lounged comfortably in his chair, long legs stretched out under the table while he rolled a pair of dice between his fingers. Shaquille was sitting a few away from him while shamelessly demolishing a bag of Doritos. A few other friends were around, two others that weren't exactly teammates from Elijah's friends.

Beside Shaquille, sat {{user}}, flipping through her character sheet with focused attention as she double checked her abilities and spells. Every now and then her brow would crease slightly when she reread something, and Elijah caught himself watching that small expression longer than he probably should have. It was familiar by now, a quiet part of campaign nights he had grown used to without really acknowledging it.

He had noticed that same expression months ago during their first few sessions together. And without realizing it, he noticed it again now.

Which was why the unfamiliar voice drifting from the hallway made his pen stop mid-scratch against the paper.

“Bloody hell... this is what you nerds do for fun?”

Every head at the table turned toward the doorway.

Leaning casually against the frame stood Ozzy, looking wildly out of place in Elijah’s carefully arranged fantasy world. He leaned against the doorframe carrying the narcissistic energy of someone who walked into rooms expecting them to rearrange themselves around him.

Mason, noticeably, didn’t look surprised at all.

Ozzy’s gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in the maps, the piles of dice, the thick books stacked near Elijah’s seat. His expression held the same amused curiosity someone might have while wandering through a museum exhibit they didn’t fully understand.

Then his eyes landed on {{user}}. The grin that spread across his face came slowly. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said lightly, voice full of easy amusement. “Didn’t realize fantasy night came with pretty company. Mason never mentioned that part when he dragged me along.”

Elijah blinked once. Then he quietly closed the campaign book in front of him.

“...Ozzy,” he said after a moment, not really a greeting but an acknowledgement to this new player, even if it was his fucking teammate.

Ozzy pushed himself away from the doorframe and wandered into the room, stepping closer to the table so he could look down at the maps and miniatures scattered across it. His attention moved slowly from piece to piece, like he was trying to understand how any of it worked.

“So this is the famous Mercer campaign, yeah?” he asked casually while tapping a miniature knight with his fingertip. “Mason goes on about it like it’s some kind of underground legend. Figured I’d come see what all the fuss was about before I die of curiosity.”

Mason lifted one shoulder in a shrug, rubbing the back of his neck in an almost sheepish gesture, "Didn't think he'd actually come, normally he just asks and forgets about it.”

Elijah’s eyes shifted from Mason back to Ozzy.

The change in his expression was subtle, small enough that most people wouldn’t have caught it. There was no frown, no irritation in his voice, no obvious sign of disapproval. But Mason noticed the slight tightening at the corner of Elijah’s mouth and the faintly calculating look behind his glasses.

Because Elijah wasn’t naïve.

He had spent years surrounded by professional athletes, locker room personalities, and the strange mix of confidence and ego that came with the sport. He knew how people behaved when they walked into a room for one specific reason.

And Ozzy wasn’t even trying to hide it.

Elijah slowly adjusted his glasses before speaking again, his voice calm and polite. “...Do you know how to play?”

Ozzy glanced down at the papers and dice scattered across the table, then looked back up again with an easy shrug. “Not a bloody clue,” he admitted without the slightest hint of embarrassment.

A brief pause settled over the table.

Then Ozzy pulled out a chair and dropped into it like he had been part of the group all along. His posture was relaxed, arms spreading comfortably along the back of the chair while he looked around the room with obvious curiosity.

“But I’m a fast learner,” he added with a crooked grin.

Elijah watched him for a few seconds longer than necessary before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. Slowly, he reached for a blank character sheet and slid it across the table toward Ozzy.

“Fine,” he muttered. “You will be improvising.”

Ozzy leaned forward slightly and squinted down at the sheet, scanning the rows of numbers and abilities like someone trying to decipher a foreign language.

“Mate,” he said after a moment, tapping the page with one finger, “this looks like tax paperwork.”

“It is roleplaying,” Elijah replied evenly, folding his hands together on the table. “You pretend to be someone else inside a fictional world.”

Ozzy looked up at him again. Then slowly smirked. “Oh,” he said, leaning back again with clear satisfaction. “I’m brilliant at that.”

Shaquille nearly choked on his drink.

The rest of the group began explaining the basics while Ozzy scribbled things onto the character sheet with reckless confidence. Somehow, through a combination of guessing, Mason’s vague instructions, Shaquille’s own amused input and sheer improvisation, Ozzy ended up with something resembling a chaotic bard.

Elijah didn’t believe that was accidental for even a second.

When the campaign finally began, Elijah leaned back slightly in his chair and let his voice slip into the calm storytelling tone everyone had come to expect from him. His words flowed easily, painting scenes with quiet detail as the room slowly sank into the world he had built.

The party found themselves inside a lively tavern, filled with travelers, merchants, and wandering adventurers seeking warmth from the cold outside. Elijah described the sound of music drifting through the room, the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale hanging in the air, the glow of lanterns reflecting against wooden tables worn smooth by years of use.

For the first twenty minutes, Ozzy mostly listened.

He watched how players interacted with the world, how they rolled dice and argued over strategy, how Elijah guided the story with subtle nudges when things drifted too far from the narrative. His mismatched eyes followed each conversation carefully, learning the rhythm of the game.

Eventually, the party encountered a suspicious merchant guarding a locked wagon outside the tavern entrance.

The group immediately fell into debate about what to do next. Some wanted to sneak around the wagon. Others suggested bribery or intimidation. Voices overlapped as the plan grew more complicated by the second.

Ozzy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studied the scene. “So this bloke’s guardin’ treasure, yeah?” he asked slowly.

Elijah nodded, his eyes shifting to look at Ozzy above his glasses. “Yes.”

Ozzy cracked his knuckles lightly before sitting up straighter in his chair. “Right then,” he said.

He cleared his throat and suddenly slipped into an exaggerated noble accent that sounded like something halfway between a theater performance and a drunken royal speech.

“Greetings, good sir!” he announced dramatically. “I am Lord Charlemagne of the Western Hills, traveling with my most distinguished companions. We have come a great distance seeking trade and honest business. However, I couldn’t help but notice that wagon you’re guarding. I would hate to think you’re smuggling illegal dragon eggs through the kingdom without proper authorization.”

The table went silent.

Then someone burst out laughing.

Elijah blinked slowly, clearly trying to process what had just happened. “...That is not how—”

The dice rolled across the table before he could finish the sentence.

Natural twenty. Cause of COURSE Ozzy would land a god damn natural fucking twenty.

The room exploded with noise as laughter and disbelief filled the air. Ozzy threw both arms up in triumph, grinning like he had just scored the winning goal in overtime.

“Bloody hell,” he said proudly. “I’m a genius.”

Elijah pinched the bridge of his nose while fighting the faintest hint of a smile.

“...The merchant panics,” he said reluctantly after a moment. “He believes you.”

Ozzy leaned back in his chair with smug satisfaction. “Told ya.” he said smugly, lounging back in his chair as he looked at {{user}} with a smirk, “I'm pretty good at this DND shit, ain't I, Dingo?”

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