Chapter 10: Chainmail Confessions
The chainmail was heavier than it looked. Emily stood before her dorm mirror, the metal links of the halter top cool and surprisingly rigid against her skin. It was costume jewelry, really, but it caught the low light in dull silver whispers. Paired with her own tight black leather pants, the effect was startling. Not quite Aelia the Dawn-bringer. Not quite Emily, either. Something in between, something that made her stomach flutter with a nervous, defiant heat.
She threw a flannel shirt over it, leaving it unbuttoned.
The common room was already buzzing when she arrived. The usual sticky notes had been pushed aside to make room for a series of folding chairs arranged in a tight circle. Mandy, the newcomer, was laughing at something Liam said. She had a sharp, intelligent face and a streak of violet in her dark hair. And Sarah was in full conspirator mode, a gleam in her eye as she addressed the group.
“Alright, listen up,” Sarah announced, perched on the edge of the table beside the microphone. “New session, new meta-game. I’m instituting a side bet.”
Mark looked up from his notes, a slow smile spreading. “Is this about the fanfic commentary?”
“It’s about investment,” Sarah corrected. “Every time a character makes a choice that’s true to their alignment but disastrous for the party, they get a point. Every time they subvert their alignment for the greater good—or greater fun—they lose a point. Lowest score at the end of the night owes the highest score… a favor.”
“What kind of favor?” Jake, the usually quiet bard player, asked suspiciously.
“The fun kind. No money, no chores. Something creative. To be named later.” Sarah’s gaze swept the room, landing on Emily. “Moral complexity should have a tangible reward, don’t you think?”
Emily felt the weight of the chainmail under her flannel. Aelia was Lawful Good. She was designed to make the ‘right’ choice, even the disastrous one. This bet was a trap set just for her, a beautifully wrapped invitation to fail. She nodded slowly. “Sure.”
“Excellent.” Sarah clapped her hands. “Now, before we descend into the cult’ lair, the narrative demands a moment of respite. You’ve stumbled into a festive tavern. The locals are playing a game.”
Mark seamlessly took the cue, his voice dropping into its narrative cadence. “The ‘Drunken Dragon’ is rowdy tonight. A minstrel plays a bawdy tune on a lute missing two strings. In the corner, a group of rough-looking but merry individuals are engaged in a strange ritual. They circle a clutch of mismatched chairs, moving to the erratic beat of a drum. As the music stops, they scramble for a seat. One is always left standing, and must drain a tankard of vile-looking grog. They call it ‘Goblin’s Gambit.’ They’re one player short. They wave you over.”
In the real world, Mark pointed to the circle of folding chairs. “We’re doing this. In real time. In character. Loser gets a penalty. In-game and… here.”
A laugh of disbelief went around the table. Mandy looked intrigued. Liam groaned. Emily’s heart began a quick, light thrumming against the cold links of her top.
They took their positions, standing behind the chairs. Mark pulled up a frenetic tavern tune on his phone. The music started, jaunty and loud.
They walked, a stilted, shuffling circle of modern kids in a ring of cheap chairs. Emily caught Sarah’s smirk. She saw Mark watching, his eyes missing nothing. The music cut.
Chaos. A clumsy, hilarious scramble. Emily lunged for a chair, her leather pants creaking. She landed, half on it, just as Jake did the same. They wrestled for a second, a tangle of limbs and laughter, before he yielded with a grunt. She was safe.
Mandy, disoriented, was left hovering. The music started again. The rounds continued, a brutal, silly elimination. Chairs were removed. The circle tightened. The stakes felt absurdly high.
Emily lasted two more rounds. On the third, she misjudged, aiming for the same chair as Sarah. Their hips bumped, Sarah’s hand on her arm steadying her for a half-second before shoving playfully. Emily stumbled, and the chair was claimed. She was out.
The final two were Sarah and Jake. The music played. Stopped. Sarah, with a dancer’s grace, slipped into the last chair. Jake stood, hands on his head, puffing.
“The loser!” Mark boomed, narrating. “Jake… or rather, Grayam the Fighter, is left standing, mortified. The tavern roars. The tankard is thrust into his hand. But here, the game diverges. The tavern keeper, a woman with arms like tree roots, takes pity. ‘For the pretty one with the quiet eyes,’ she says, pointing at Mandy’s character, a nervous druid. ‘Share the burden. Share the seat. The music isn’t done.’“
In the common room, Mark gestured to Jake’s chair. “Mandy. Penalty. You’re sharing a seat for the rest of the session. Keeps you in the scene.”
A beat of silence. Mandy blinked, then shrugged, a faint pink touching her cheeks. “Okay.” She walked over to Jake’s chair. He sat, rigid, and she perched sideways on his lap, one arm hooked around the back of the chair for balance. It was awkward, intimate, and entirely within the rules of the bet.
Emily watched, her mouth slightly dry. The dynamic in the room shifted, charged with a new, observable current.
“Comfortable?” Sarah asked, her voice innocent.
“It’s fine,” Mandy said, her voice a little breathy. She didn’t move to get more comfortable, but she didn’t try to minimize the contact either.
Mark resumed the story. “Now, fortified by community spirit—and grog—you must plan your assault on the sewer holdfast…”
The session continued, but the energy had crystallized. Emily was hyper-aware of her own body, the bite of the chainmail, the constriction of the leather. Every time Aelia voiced a rigid, principled plan, she saw Sarah’s finger subtly tap the notepad where she was tracking the bet. Emily was gaining points. Moving toward a debt.
Worse, or better, was watching Mandy on Jake’s lap. At first, they were two separate entities, barely touching. As the hour wore on, Mandy relaxed incrementally. She leaned back into him to whisper a question about a spell. He steadied her with a tentative hand on her waist when she gestured with her character sheet. It was a slow, public negotiation of boundaries, underscored by the fictional danger of cultists and the very real pressure of the group’s attention.
Aelia, in the game, was presented with a captured cultist, young and terrified. Vex advocated for interrogation, her methods implied. The lawful good choice was clear: turn him over to the absent, corrupt guard. The smart choice, the one that would get them the information they needed to save lives, was something else.
Emily looked at Sarah. At Mark, whose eyebrows were raised in neutral curiosity. At Mandy, settled now against Jake’s chest. She looked down at her own hands, pale against the dark leather of her thighs.
“Aelia,” Mark prompted, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “What do you do?”
The chainmail seemed to grow warmer, almost humming against her skin. She saw the points adding up on Sarah’s invisible tally. A favor. To be named later.
Emily took a breath, and let Aelia’s principles fracture, just a little. “I guard the door,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. She didn’t look at the captured boy. “Do what you must. Be quick.”
Sarah’s smile was a slow, radiant thing. She didn’t say a word. She simply made a small, deliberate mark in the air with her fingertip. A point lost. A step taken.
Mandy shifted on Jake's lap, her upper body now leaned back comfortably against his chest, her knees outside of his. Her skirt was riding up. She didn't adjust it.
The microphone captured Emily’s shaky exhale. Somewhere, in Finland or three blocks away, a listener heard it, and leaned closer.