Sometimes, it just all comes together in D&D.
When last we left our intrepid adventurers, they were battling through the Walt’s Wasps* hand-lotion factory, to foil the plot of a demon lord who had decided to enslave the world with evil hand lotion.
PALADIN: Seriously? Evil hand lotion? Are you guys sure you don’t want to come back and try again? Maybe something with a little dignity this time?
DEMONS: We know, right?
PALADIN: I am smiting you under protest.
DEMONS: Would you like a pamphlet about our hand lotion?
PALADIN: …This degrades us both.
After dispatching the demons, the party had accidentally split up at the end of last session. (Cue Rooster sitting alone in a room with a portal and his trail rations, playing harmonica, the picture of a sad paladin waiting for the rest of the group.) At last, after a rousing nap, the party went in search of their lost paladin.
RANGER: I want to stay here.
DRUID: There might be more slaad. With tadpoles.
GNOME: They do that impregnate-you-with-tadpole-babies thing!
RANGER: I’m going, I’m going…
On the other side of the portal, they found…a lonely trail ration, and no paladin. Fortunately, they were re-united in the next room.
PALADIN: (dangling thirty feet in the air, in his boxer shorts,** over a vat of molten hand lotion) So, hey, I found the bad guys!
CULTISTS: Death to the infidel! We will boil him alive in our hand lotion of evil!
GNOME: I feel it’s time for diplomacy!
CULTISTS: It is time for hand lotion! And salt scrub!
GNOME: Do you have the salt scrub in lavender?
PALADIN: Don’t mind me…
RANGER: I’m going to shoot something.
A pitched battle ensued! A battle rather more pitched than usual, because all our battle plans mostly involve having a working paladin, not someone who is shouting encouragement from thirty feet up! Our trusty Gnoll fighter can only hold so many enemies at the same time!
GM: And that’s a twenty-six damage and ten ongoing and…whoa.
THIEF: Ow. That’s bad, right?
GM: …you have two hit points.
THIEF: THIS IS NOT SHINY.
GNOME: Let me get that healing potion warmed up for you…
Meanwhile, Fizzgig, the paladin’s trusty pet demon, was rooting around through his*** master’s clothes until he finally seized upon—the holy symbol!
PALADIN: Good boy! Good Fizzgig! Somebody give him a chewy horse-hoof!
GNOLL: Hey, a chewy horse-hoof sounds good right now…
Unfortunately Fizzgig is approximately ten inches high, and the paladin was, as previously mentioned, thirty feet up over molten lotion. But he had a plan!
FIZZGIG: (Spits holy symbol onto the druid’s foot.)
DRUID: …what am I supposed to do with this?
FIZZGIG: Grah! Grah-grah-grah–GRAH!
FIZZGIG: (grabs Lawrence the Toad, the Gnome’s familiar.)
LAWRENCE: (does amphibian interpretive dance while Fizzgig beatboxes.)
GNOME: It was perfectly clear to me.
THIEF: I could swear that all this blood was supposed to be on the inside, not the outside…
PALADIN: I HAVE A BRILLIANT PLAN!
DRUID: Oh lord.
TWITTER: This is a very Rube-Goldberg sort of plan.
The druid, in his spare time, is a shape-shifter. He turned into a flying drake, grabbed the holy symbol, landed on the chain from which the paladin was dangling, and very carefully dropped the holy symbol around the paladin’s neck.
PALADIN: (holding holy symbol in his teeth) ‘Ank oo’.
PALADIN’S PLAYER: I have my holy symbol back now, biatch!
DRUID: I do a backflip off the chain and throw lightning at the Big Bad Cultist standing right there, because I am just that badass.
BIG BAD CULTIST: You’re badass? I have taken almost no damage and am about to set you on fire. Also I am a Warforged and thus nearly indestructible. Let me just cast this spell–
PALADIN: THE POWER OF THE WEASEL COMPELS YOU!
Let us pause here for a moment to explain some of the mechanics of being a paladin.
There is a spell.
It is called Knightly Intercession. It means that if you are a paladin and somebody attacks an ally near you, you yell “I don’t think so!” (or presumably something suitably paladinly) and through sheer power of divine badassery, you instantly haul that attacker to a square right next to you. You then take the attack meant for your friend, because this is what paladins do. And then you get to attack them back.
But if you happen, just hypothetically, to be dangling thirty feet in the air over molten hand lotion, then the square next to you…
Well. Sucks to be them, doesn’t it?
PALADIN’S PLAYER: I have to make an attack, I’m wrapped in chains—so I headbutt him. Then I let him go.
DRUID’S PLAYER: Oh. My. God.
PALADIN: Told you it was a brilliant plan.
GM: ….he vanishes into the molten lotion. There is a lot of splooshing. And he’s out of the combat. That’s it for him.
PARTY: (wild cheering)
DRUID’S PLAYER: You could have told me that was your plan! We have instant messaging!
PALADIN: …I wanted it to be authentic teamwork. It has nothing to do with my inability to find the buttons.
GM: I…you know, there’s only one thing I can do.
GM: (applauds into the mic)
GM: …and now we’re gonna call it for the night, because I got nothin’. Damn. Well-played, you two.
*No relation to any other alliterative lotion company involving hive insects.
**Embroidered with little weasels, of course.
***We’re assuming. Under “gender” his character sheet says “Fizzgig.” This is also his race, class, and primary language.