The Spell Checker

Prompt: You are a Mage in an adventuring party, but life is made difficult by an author that can't spell. Your party consists of you, a Brad, a Worrier and a Saucerer.

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“We’re all going to die!” the Worrier shrieks as the cavern begins to collapse.

“At least I’ll make a pretty corpse,” the Brad replies, smoothing back his blond hair.

“No one will ever find you,” the Worrier wails back through tears.

“More alfredo, more alfredo,” chants the Saucerer, flinging ladlefuls of the thick white sauce onto the cave walls even as they fracture and shatter around her.

“Oh, for the love of the Seven,” you groan.

You summon forth your powers of geomancy and place your hands on the stone, gritting your teeth as you force the magic into the rocks. Slowly, the shaking around you lessens, then stops. You push a last pulse of power into the wall, just to make sure, then let your hands drop. The Worrier is cowering beside a boulder that nearly clove the narrow path in two. The Saucerer swipes a finger through the alfredo sauce on the wall, then licks it.

“Still good,” she muses.

“Well, I’m just glad I could be here to help,” the Brad says, sweeping his guitar off his back. “Who’s up for a sing-along?” And he begins to play the opening chords of “Wonderwall.”

What in the name of the Void are you doing with these misspelled morons?

“Enough!” you roar, your voice echoing in the cavern loud enough to make the Worrier wail with terror and squeeze himself into an even smaller ball. “You all are useless!”

“Wait, no,” another voice says, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere, and you groan. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

“Well, I’m done taking instructions from you,” you shout back, jabbing a finger at the air. “What kind of writer are you? You can’t even spell! Don’t you know there are spell-checkers nowadays? Even I know that when I try to cast Fireball, if I say ‘Fyreball’ instead, I get a mess of geodesic tents and overpriced plane tickets! Stop ignoring the red squiggly line! It’s there to help you!”

“Well, this is my story,” the author responds with a haughty sniff. “And I say you’re supposed to lead the party further into the cave.”

An overpowering urge to gather your party – the Worrier still crying beside the boulder, the Brad now on his third play-through of “Wonderwall,” and the Saucerer now licking alfredo sauce off the wall – and guide them toward the Well of Despair fills you. Despite your struggles, your feet take a jerky step forward, then two.

“Come on, gang,” your voice says, even though you want to scream “Get me out of here!”

The Saucerer looks longingly at the remaining smears of sauce on the wall, then extends a hand to the Worrier, who wipes his nose on his sleeve and places his hand in hers. The Brad plays an extravagant, if off-tune, ending to “Wonderwall” and slings his guitar back onto his back. They all look at you expectantly.

No, you think to yourself. I’m not putting myself through another situation like the one we faced in Thrushdown. I’m done.

You gather all your willpower and, despite the voice that booms once more through the cavern telling you to “Stop that!”, you cast the spell you’re only supposed to use in the direst of circumstances: Break Will.

The cavern immediately begins to shake again, to the renewed horror of the Worrier, but you continue, weaving the spell in the air with stiff arms. As you push through every instinct telling you to stop and return to the story the way it’s supposed to be, your mind begins to clear. The author’s voice fades, one last, drawn-out “Noooooo” echoing through the cavern.

And then, all at once, everything stops.

You drop to your knees as a rush of something indescribable fills you – a feeling you haven’t felt in a long time. Not since the author picked you to be a part of their story. Freedom.

“Hey, are you all right?” the Saucerer asks, and her voice is different, more the way you remember it.

You look up to see a most welcome sight. The Saucerer holds out a hand to you, but her chef’s hat and apron have been replaced with the indigo hat and robes of her order. Behind her, the Worrier’s bitten nails are no longer visible underneath heavy armor, his round face smeared with dirt and blood instead of snot and tears. And leaning against the wall is the Brad, his lute in his hands, gently strumming a familiar tune.

“You’re back,” you cry, leaping forward to embrace your friends.

“Careful with the lute,” the Bard reminds you, holding it at arm’s length as he wraps the other one around you.

“Missed you too, buddy,” the Warrior says, patting you on the back so hard your knees buckle.

“That was weird,” the Sorcerer agrees as she twirls a wand in her hand. “But let me tell you, I’m going to be eating my pasta dry from here on out.”

You wipe a happy tear from your face, then turn toward the darkness that stretches before you. The party is back. And you have some Bugbear butt to kick.