I’m Not Getting the Respect a Level 12 Half-Elf Paladin Deserves

Ahhh . . . to think, less than a year ago, I was Llyr the Emancipator, courageous defender of Morgwain and heir to the throne of my small but prosperous nation. I can even now remember my last free moments, smiting Orcs and valiantly utilizing my unique Elven ingenuity to deceive a friend-cum-enemy into destroying itself by way of my magical devices.

But, alas, for the next 25½ years I will be known as Prisoner #655321, and my domicile will no longer be the rolling, unspoiled hills of Morgwain, but rather the chain-link-and-concrete complex of the Northern Utah Correctional Facility in Weber County. What, pray tell, was my crime? Nothing short of upholding the sacred and divinely-ordained charge of the Paladin—protecting the world from the forces of evil, whatever face they may take on.

It all started near the abandoned train tracks in Cedar City, where a group of us LARPers (Live Action Role Players, for the uninitiated knuckledraggers out there) were deeply engaged in combat against the swarming minions of Mor-Thûl’ok. Magella Swordhammer, Davnan Shieldheart, and Oolahana Serpentshelm had been surrounded by the burly Orc Blackguards, and with heavy wound damage and a rapidly shrinking supply of mana, their meager Mage Shield was in grave danger of expiring.

I had used my Cloak of Invisibility to hide close by and was planning my next heroic move when, much to my dismay, I saw a strange glint in Davnan’s coal-black eyes. I wanted so badly to ignore it, but as a Paladin I am obliged to combat evil, even when that same evil has been responsible for saving my skin on several occasions.

I immediately cast a Discern Lies spell, which resulted in a mythic black fog—visible only to me—that surrounded Davnan’s head and broadsword. I instantly knew him to be a traitor to our cause (he was half-Orc, after all), and brandished my longbow, overcome by sadness but strengthened by my faith in the Supreme Being, Heironeous.

With my remaining mana, I cast a spell of Divine Favor, increasing the HP Damage of my attack, and let a single, glistening silver-tipped arrow fly directly into the sternum of my erstwhile comrade, Davnan Shieldheart.

Well, long story short, Magella and Oolahana freaked out and called the cops, Davnan (or Craig, as you Normals called him) died, and within the year I was convicted of first-degree murder.

And now, here I am: stripped of my armaments, my precious Cloak of Invisibility confiscated (a one-of-a-kind heirloom from my Uncle Razgooth, no less), and no longer feasting on roast Quillbeast and mead. Rather, I am forced to subsist on a humble pap made primarily of potato, string beans and what appears to have been, at some point, an earth-fowl.

Despite the injustice the law of this land has done me, I do what I can to stay sharp behind these walls. I use the Bless Water spell to make the holy elixir so I might still pour libations to Heironeous, and until One-Eyed Pete attacked me in the shower, I was doing pretty well with conjuring a Death Ward to protect me from assaults of his ilk. He must have cast Dispel Magic (or paid off the hacks), which would make him at least a Level 10. If only I had my grimoire, I could memorize Levitating Soap, Shank of Destiny, or even Anal Shockshield.

Anyway, I’ll need to level-up in order to try the Freedom of Movement spell—turns out Starwalk only works on hooved animals. It’s too bad they don’t have the Players Handbook in here, it would really help me out.

Plus my ass really, really hurts.