I know this is angst, but the premise from which the original character was born is quite funny. A player botched a roll on a vision about the butler’s class and saw vigilante. I thought “well shit, that would have been a cool concept, but no” and flavored it as a dream of his. My players then went on to encourage said dream as much as they could.

————

As a dream, it had been rather lovely.

Fighting crime by night, running a household by day. There was a reason it had been Eric’s dream for so long – didn’t every child wish to be a hero, listening with bated breath to the fantastical stories of old or curled up with a book in a quiet corner?

Eric did, at least, and when he grew up and took up his position as the Owen household butler, the dream didn’t go away.

When the mysterious note encouraged him to actually pursue it, he figured it was a sign from above. He wasn’t that old, after all, and he had some money saved, and with the young master’s departure for university and the old lady’s banishment to the seaside, he had plenty of time to occasionally sneak out to take fencing lessons.

And the nights… well, the nights were entirely his own.

As reality, it was exhilarating.

Watching the town from the rooftops, hidden behind a mask and a cloak. With a cheap rapier on his side, Eric felt every moment the hero from the stories.

There was the occasional thief, easily spooked by a blade and some flourishes. There were secret meetings in the dark, later dutifully transcribed for the police in neat, precise handwriting.

There were…

Eric panted, his right arm shaking with the strain of keeping his sword up. His left arm hung limply by the side, every movement torturous, the moon’s glow illuminating the blood and bare skin where the sleeve had been torn.

They weren’t that scary, not really. Amateurs, Eric thought bitterly, but it apparently didn’t matter when there were three of them, two with daggers, one with a longsword.

He should have seen it wasn’t just the one thug threatening the careless couple who’d been walking home from a night out, perhaps dinner at a night restaurant, perhaps a theatre show. Should have taken a better look, should have come up with an escape route.

Ironically, Eric wasn’t nearly as good at defense as he was at attacking, and he wasn’t nearly as good at attacking three people compared to just one.

One thug grinned, and Eric tensed, trying to keep an eye on all three. Back to the wall – nowhere to run, but nowhere for them to circle around.

When? When will they make their move, which of them will be the first? Sweat was running down Eric’s back, and he wondered what would happen if he died there.

A strange noise sounded from the main street. Everyone froze.

“Aaaand I went drinking on Monday night, the ale was mighty good…”

Someone stumbled in their direction, slurring the words of a raunchy song.

“Aaand I kept drinking on Tuesday night, but won’t forget the food…”

A burly, if not a little drunk, man approached the alley. He was dressed finely, and had a sword on his hip. He went on to the details of song’s hero’s Wednesday drinking, and one of the thugs – the one with the longsword – spit onto the ground and made a sign to the others.

Eric’s salvation arrived with the Thursday night of drinking on a dreamy Saturday night.

As the truth, it had been rather frightening.