XP in Love

Gabriel Kerk — Gabe

Friday night. Finally. Oh my gods.

I swear I was watching the clock tick down at work like it was the final boss of my real life, just waiting for that magical 6:00PM like some sad little level 2 intern-mage grinding XP by sorting invoices. But now? Now it’s time. It’s time for Arcathia. Blessed be the dice gods.

Arcathia is the game. The crown jewel of tabletop RPGs. Not just the latest update or expansion—this is the real thing, the campaign we’ve been building up to for months. Epic, world-ending, lore-drenched, dungeon-crawling goodness. And tonight we’re finally facing Kalzeruth, the Devourer of Stars, the ancient dracolich of the Obsidian Fold, guardian of Minas Durathar, the Undying Vault. Just saying that name gives me actual goosebumps. And not like “oh I’m cold” goosebumps, but the kind you get when the hero theme kicks in right before the raid. Full cinematic level chills.

We rotate sessions between the guys’ houses—Edgar’s got the best snacks (his mom stocks the pantry like she’s provisioning a spaceship), Kevin has dual monitors and a sick playlist system, and Cory has a killer basement setup with custom lighting and this absurdly comfy L-shaped couch that defies physics—but tonight? Tonight is different.

Because we need a healer. A high-level cleric. And not just like... any old passive “I cast Cure Wounds” type. No. We’re going into this fight full tilt. There’s a necrotic plague aura. Constant AOE. Mana leeching. It’s gonna be brutal. We need someone who knows their buffs from their holy smite.

So instead of gathering in someone’s mom-approved gamer den, we’re heading to The Witch’s Hand.

Ohhh my gods, The Witch’s Hand. I’ve never been but Cory says it’s like this legendary dive bar-meets-tavern-meets-LARP-hub, and I am so hyped I could vibrate out of my skin. The drinks are all fantasy-themed—like there’s one called the “Elven Moonfire” that glows blue and apparently tastes like citrus and secrets, and another called “The Lich’s Kiss” that comes in a skull-shaped glass and stains your tongue black for a full day. And the tables? Reserved specifically for campaigns. Like actual candlelight, parchment maps, full minis, background ambience, character voices required. It’s not just a bar—it’s a whole-ass side-quest. A portal to the realm.

And that’s where we’re meeting our new party member.

I don’t even know his real name. Just that he goes by Salvi online and plays a Level 19 Light Domain Cleric who apparently solo’d the Tomb of Ghraxim. Who does that? The Tomb of Ghraxim is designed to break entire groups. And he solo’d it?? That’s not just god-tier. That’s ascended. That’s “one with the dice” level. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve probably read his character sheet like five times and still get butterflies. Like, there’s this paragraph where he wrote out a prayer to the goddess of light before he smote a demon general, and I might have screenshotted it because I was just... awed? And moved??

I already know I’m gonna be too awkward to talk to him at first. I’m the DPS, technically—dual-wielding rogue, spec’d into shadow evasion and sneak damage—but in real life I’m a squishy charisma dump. My social stats are basically negative. If he so much as compliments my dice I will probably combust.

It’s just... this whole thing feels different, you know? We’re not just rolling dice. We’re forming a fellowship. It’s like, one night, one bar, one ancient dragon, four nerds, and a stranger who might just be the cleric of our dreams. And maybe, just maybe, the most human connection I’ve had in weeks.

And okay, yes, I know we’re all twenty-something work-commuting pop culture quoting anime-rewatching introverts who get more action from game nights than we ever did from prom, but this? This is our moment. This is what we do. When the rest of the world ignores us, Arcathia doesn’t. There, we’re heroes. Champions. Brotherhood forged in fire and code. And tonight... I get to be Gabe the Blade, slayer of phantoms, who once stole the Crown of Dusk from the Vault of Whispers with nothing but a throwing knife and a nat 20.

And maybe... just maybe, if Salvi is half as cool as his profile suggests, we won’t just beat Kalzeruth.

We’ll gain something else too.

Maybe a friend.

I get to The Witch’s Hand, and oh. My. Gods.

You’d miss it if you didn’t know. It’s just this narrow little black-painted door tucked behind an ancient pizza place that smells like grease and oregano and somehow childhood. The sign above is a crooked wooden plank, hand-carved and weathered with age, with a little witch’s hat hanging jauntily off the corner like it’s about to wink at you. There’s a crescent moon charm dangling from the plaque too, chiming softly whenever the door swings open. It’s like the kind of secret passage you’d find in a JRPG after clicking the right brick three times. Totally inconspicuous. Completely magical.

I step through the door—and it’s like I walked into a pocket realm.

The air is warm. Not sweaty-bar warm, but hearth-fire, candle-wax, fresh-ink-on-parchment warm. Low golden light glows from sconces made to look like enchanted lanterns, and behind the bar is this incredible wall—no joke—a full-on apothecary shelf. Floor-to-ceiling cubbies and drawers labeled with tiny hand-scrawled runes, holding bottles and vials and tiny bundles of herbs bound in twine. Every bottle is a different shape, some corked, some sealed in wax, and all of them filled with shimmering liquids in absurd fantasy colors—neon indigo, ember orange, eerie misty green. Like potions. Actual potions. There’s even a slow swirl of glittery something inside a heart-shaped flask labeled “Pixie’s Regret.” I don’t know what’s in it but I already regret not ordering three.

The bartender? He’s got this silver circlet across his brow and a leather vest with runic embroidery down the sides. I’m 90% sure he’s a real warlock. His name tag says “Barthos (Potions & Tap)” in calligraphy. That’s commitment. That’s respect.

And the layout—oh my gods the layout—is everything I dreamed. Little nooks carved out like castle alcoves, each one softly curtained with velvet, like booths in an RPG inn. Tables carved from what looks like reclaimed dungeon wood, complete with candle centerpieces (dripping real wax!) and ambient magical noise—soft tavern music, a murmuring fire, the faint clink of armor from somewhere behind you. There’s even a smell—like parchment and cloves and faint ozone. Someone must’ve enchanted the HVAC system.

And the people?

Oh my gods the people. There’s a guy in full hobbit cosplay—no kidding, waistcoat, feet deliberately dirty, even has a little wooden pipe tucked behind one ear. He’s sitting cross-legged at a table with a trio of elf girls debating over initiative order, and I swear one of them is using Elvish. Like real Tengwar. Fluently. At another table, there’s a goth couple dressed as vampire lords, and the guy is wearing a cloak so dramatic it brushes the floor like wind-blown velvet every time he turns to roll his dice. A halfling rogue is arguing with a barbarian whose tankard is the size of a small cauldron. I walk by and catch someone mid-sentence: “...and then the mimic turned into my ex-wife—” and I didn’t even stop to hear the rest, I was already wheezing.

And I haven’t even found my party yet.

I feel like I’m walking around the hub of an MMO, right before the big group event starts. You know the feeling? That buzzing, charged kind of chaos, where everyone’s equipped and glowing and flexing their emotes just waiting for the boss to drop. I’m trying not to smile too hard. I must look like an absolute dork, just standing here in my jacket covered in enamel pins (yes, that is Sailor Moon holding a longsword, thank you very much), carrying my dice box like it’s the Holy Grail.

I take a step forward and realize I’m legit clutching my phone, because Cory texted the table number—Table 7: “The Gallowskeep Alcove”—which is just. Ugh. I could cry. Why is that such a good name. I scan the place, heart thudding.

Then I see them.

Table 7 is tucked into the deepest, dreamiest corner of the bar like some hidden boss room the devs only put in for the diehards. The chandelier above is this gnarled thing made of twisted antlers and tarnished chains, hanging low enough to cast flickering candlelight across the aged tabletop. Every chain clink makes it feel like something might break through the wall with a roar. I love it. I love it.

Edgar’s already seated like some brooding scholar-warrior, all hunched focus, hands sorting his dice into perfectly aligned rows. D20s grouped by opacity, then sub-sorted by color gradient. He’s got a whole little dice nest going on in front of him, and he’s got this look on his face like if one of them gets out of line, he will cast Banishment.

Cory is doing a slow dramatic sip from a skull mug the size of a soup cauldron. I can see his tongue from here and, yep, it’s already stained inky violet. Lich’s Kiss. Hardcore. His hoodie is unzipped just enough to show his “I rolled for charisma and all I got was anxiety” shirt. I love that shirt. I want to steal that shirt.

Kevin, ever the wizard IRL and in-game, is already projecting his character sheet on his tablet like some modern arcane scroll. The thing’s propped up with a collapsible stand that he definitely brought from home, because Kevin doesn’t not prepare. His screen glows with multicolored tabs and tiny little notes in bold caps like CHECK INITIATIVE ON ROUND 2 and REMEMBER CORY’S WEAK TO POISON.

I drop into the last chair at the table like I’ve been summoned.

“Dude,” I blurt, barely able to hold it in, “this place is so so cool!”

Cory immediately squeals right back with me—“I knowww!”—voice climbing two octaves into pure bardic excitement. We both flail our hands in near-unison, like two spellcasters casting Enthusiastic Friendship at each other. His eyes are sparkling behind his glasses and mine probably are too.

Kevin nods without looking up, muttering, “Arcane aesthetic checks out. I saw a guy wearing chainmail in the restroom.”

Edgar lifts one die—translucent amber, probably his initiative D20—and gives a solemn, priestly nod. “The spirits of tabletop approve.”

I sit forward, bouncing slightly in my chair because I can’t not.

“What about Salvi?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I absolutely do not sound casual. My voice has that too-bright edge like I’m hiding a crush behind three layers of wizard robes and still failing.

Cory rolls his eyes fondly. “Not here yet, fanboy.”

“I—what? I didn’t mean it like that,” I lie, badly. My face is already doing that thing where I feel my cheeks heat up like I just failed a stealth check with a natural 2.

“He said he’s running a bit late,” Cory adds, “some meeting at work ran long.”

Kevin lets out a dramatic sigh without even looking up. “Corporate America. Ruining our sacred commitments. Again.”

“Do you think he’ll show?” I ask way too fast. Too earnestly. Like I’m afraid he won’t and the night will collapse in on itself.

Cory raises an eyebrow and just grins at me. “Gabe. He solo’d Ghraxim. You think this place is gonna scare him off?”

“I just—y’know. What if he forgot. Or... changed his mind. Or got recruited by a different party.” I trail off lamely. “One with, like, cooler gear.”

“He literally messaged twenty minutes ago,” Edgar says dryly, without looking up from his dice. “Sit down and order something”

Kevin finally looks up. “Do we know what he looks like?”

Edgar shrugs. “Profile pic was just a glowing gauntlet and the word ‘Mercy’ in Latin.”

“Oh. That’s so cool.” I say, then clap my hands over my mouth. “I mean, aesthetic. Not—ugh. Shut up, Gabe.”

Cory raises an eyebrow and just grins at me like he’s already writing this moment into the campaign log. “Gabe. He solo’d Ghraxim. You think this place is gonna scare him off?”

I fidget with my dice pouch, the one I made myself with tiny stitched stars and a little patch that says “stab first, apologize later,” and give the weakest little shrug. “I just—y’know. What if he forgot. Or... changed his mind. Or got recruited by a different party.” I trail off, the words tumbling out in an anxious whisper. “One with, like, cooler gear. Legendary loot. Maybe they offered him a +4 mug of charisma and matching dice trays.”

Edgar doesn’t even lift his eyes from his perfect, painstakingly arranged dice grid. “He literally messaged twenty minutes ago,” he says flatly, the way a dungeon master might announce that your deception check failed. “Sit down and order something.”

Kevin looks up, finally pulling his focus off his glowing character sheet to actually engage. “Do we know what he looks like?” he asks, like this is something that hadn’t even crossed his mind until just now, like he’s only just realized Salvi might be made of matter and not pure radiant damage output.

Edgar shrugs one shoulder and flips a percentile die. “Profile pic was just a glowing gauntlet and the word ‘Mercy’ in Latin.”

I pause. Blink. Let that settle in my brain.

And then I whisper, reverent and possibly in love: “Oh. That’s so cool.”

And I immediately clap both hands over my mouth like I just let a dragon’s name slip aloud in a cursed temple. “I mean—aesthetic. Not—ugh. Shut up, Gabe.”

Cory is practically vibrating with joy across the table. “Did you just fanboy over the word ‘Mercy’ in Latin?” he says, already pulling his phone out because I know he’s going to type that into the party Discord with like six crying emojis.

“Shut up,” I groan, letting my head thunk dramatically against the table. “It’s a power move, okay? That’s some celestial paladin drama. You can’t just name yourself after divine compassion in a dead language unless you’ve earned it.”

“Or unless you’re trying to make everyone swoon,” Kevin adds under his breath, which earns him a fist bump from Cory and a betrayed look from me.

“I’m just saying,” I mumble, cheeks already burning, “it’s not not hot. Like. Who chooses that kind of profile image unless they’re confident enough to roll persuasion with advantage every time they walk in a room?”

Edgar rolls a die. “I give this thirst a seventeen out of ten.”

I point at him accusingly. “You’re just mad his backstory had better Latin than yours.”

“I took Latin in high school,” Edgar says with wounded dignity. “I just didn’t make it my whole brand.”

I laugh into my hands and try to play it off, but inside I’m melting. Because yeah. I am fanboying. So hard it’s kind of embarrassing.

But can you blame me?

A glowing gauntlet. Mercy. Latin. This is not some rando from the local Facebook LFG group who shows up with off-brand dice and eats chips straight out of the bag. This is someone who writes lore, who solo’d a dungeon that wipes entire parties, who has probably composed in-character eulogies for fallen NPCs and meant them.

And okay, yes, maybe I’ve read his archived campaign posts like... a dozen times. Maybe I’ve low-key bookmarked his build for “reference.” Maybe when he complimented my rogue spec in the chat, I screenshotted it and stared at it for a full hour while lying on my bed like I was the last maiden in a cursed tower.

After five minutes of nervous hovering and emotionally short-circuiting over the idea of Salvi’s Latin and the philosophical implications of glowing gauntlets, I finally summon the courage to order something.

I get this drink called The Bard’s Moves, which looks like it was brewed in a volcano by drunk fae. It’s radioactive orange, like someone liquefied a sunrise, and it sparkles faintly in the dim light like there’s literal glamour in it. First sip? It punches me square in the soul. Like being kissed and slapped at the same time by citrus gods. Cider and oranges and a hint of chaos. Very bard energy. 10/10 would die to this again.

I’m mid-sip, cheeks puffed out, trying not to cough and embarrass myself, when the entire air around our table shifts.

I feel it before I see it. This hush, like a boss intro cutscene just triggered. Like the world suddenly loaded higher resolution textures and a new track started playing under the ambience.

I glance toward the bar and—

Holy gods above and below.

A woman—no, a vision, a goddess in non-cosmetic gear—is standing there like she walked out of an entirely different campaign. Not fantasy, not cyberpunk, but like... Real World: Prestige Edition. She’s got this presence. Like... polished. Composed. Confident in a way that feels deeply unrelatable but also weirdly aspirational.

She looks like if a high elf from the Moon Court decided to major in business management and minor in seduction. Long blonde hair pulled back in this neat, silky-looking braid that rests over one shoulder like it’s in perfect alignment with her whole aesthetic. Her eyes are blue, like glacial. Sharp. The kind of eyes that probably notice if your shoelace is untied or your password isn’t secure. Her navy dress is tight, fitted, tailored to perfection, with structured shoulders and a slit up one side that says, “I roll initiative when I walk into a room.” She’s wearing heels. In here. On purpose.

And she has a scarf. A silky little dark blue thing tied around her neck like she’s in a noir film and might pull out a dagger at any moment to kill you with class. She’s also holding a purse. Not a gamer bag. Not a crossbody covered in enamel pins and keychains. Like... a purse. Grown-up. Expensive. Probably enchanted. Probably with pockets that sort things by category.

She leans across the bar, speaks quietly to Barthos the Potion Bartender—who actually looks startled, which is wild because I’ve seen him serve an actual tiefling cosplayer with full horns and glowing eyes—and then... she turns. And starts walking toward us.

Correction: glides toward us. The room parts a little. A couple heads turn. A barbarian in a sleeveless leather vest chokes slightly on his mead. Even the chandelier seems to adjust its light to highlight her entrance.

She’s headed straight for our table.

I feel my soul exit my body like I just failed a wisdom save against divine presence. My hands tighten around my drink like I might need to cast Sanctuary on myself.

Edgar elbows Kevin with the subtlety of a fireball. “Dude. Dude. Dude. What the hell—”

Cory is wide-eyed, clutching his skull mug like it’s the only real thing in the world. Kevin looks like he’s trying to calculate the odds of her being in the right place. Or the right plane.

And then—she stops. Right in front of us.

Smiles.

And says, in the clearest, sunniest, most gorgeously normal voice:

“Hi. Are you guys going to the Minas Durathar? To the Kalzeruth boss?”

It takes a full beat of stunned silence before anyone says anything. We’re all looking at each other like, Did we roll a random encounter with a divine emissary? Is this a trap? Do I need to check for illusion magic?

Cory blinks first. “Y-yeah,” he says, voice cracking like a preteen bard at his first lute recital. “We’re—we’re on the... final boss run. Kalzeruth. We’re the, uh—Table 7 party. Gallowskeep.”

She lights up. Actually lights up. Like her smile could be a holy relic. “Oh, perfect! I was so worried I’d gotten the table wrong.”

Edgar squints at her. “Wait. Are you... are you Salvi’s friend?”

She laughs lightly. “Sort of. I am Salvi.”

And that’s when I black out. Not literally. But emotionally? Spiritually?

I implode like a dying star.

Because it hits me all at once:

She’s Salvi.

This angelic goddess in heels. This divine elf-boss-lady with a scarf and an expensive bag. This actual person who looks like she belongs at a Vogue photoshoot but is here, with us, asking about a dracolich named Kalzeruth like it’s just a casual part of her Friday night.

She’s the one who wrote the poetic cleric backstory. Who solo’d Ghraxim. Who called my rogue spec “beautifully brutal.” Who made me scream into my pillow for forty straight minutes last Tuesday while clutching my dice bag like a Victorian maiden holding a locket. My brain still hasn’t rebooted from the reveal. There’s a gentle static filling my thoughts, like the prelude to a cutscene. I can’t look directly at her without getting this heart-skip thing in my chest like I just botched a stealth roll and got spotted by Beauty Incarnate.

And then Cory—sweet summer bard Cory—does the unthinkable.

He says the thing we all thought but were too terrified to actually vocalize.

“I—I—uhm…” He’s already red to the ears, blinking rapidly. “Aren’t you like… a guy?”

Time stops. The tavern ambience fades. The clatter of dice elsewhere in the room becomes distant, like someone pressed pause on reality.

She blinks once. Tilts her head. The most composed, gentle gesture I’ve ever seen. “Oh,” she says, and smiles. Not the tight kind, not offended or cold, just… soft. Casual. “Well no. Sorry—are you like a boys-only party?”

Oh my gods.

I nearly die on the spot. I can feel my soul ascending out of sheer mortified secondhand embarrassment.

“N-no,” Kevin blurts, his voice cracking so hard it sounds like his vocal cords tried to make a run for it. “Like, we just—uh—we expected a guy. Because of… the profile pic. And Ghraxim. And the backstory. And—uh. Latin?”

He trails off like his logic fell down a pit trap.

Edgar—stoic, usually unsinkable Edgar—is suddenly very focused on aligning his dice tray again like it might somehow roll him a better save against this exact conversation. Cory is staring at the table like he wants to cast Misty Step and vanish.

And me? I’m trying very hard not to squeak.

Because we are all too socially inept for this elf-healer-goddess of real life. We’re just four nerds whose combined social stat modifiers could not break double digits, and she—she—looks like she could negotiate a peace treaty between warring realms and then walk a runway after.

But she doesn’t seem offended. Not even a little. She just shifts her weight slightly, the hem of her navy dress catching the candlelight, and says with the calm of someone who’s definitely had to explain this before, “I use Salvi for everything—username, character alias, even for work stuff. It used to be short for Salvia Divinorum, but that’s a whole other backstory. People usually assume I’m a guy online. It’s kind of hilarious, actually.”

I want to marry her.

I want to protect her in battle, in real life, in game, in spirit.

I want to dedicate my next campaign to a bard who sings only of her glory.

I realize I’ve been staring and finally blurt, “You’re even cooler in person.”

Oh no. Oh no. Abort. Abort.

But she turns to me, and the smile she gives me is the kind you’d expect from a celestial healer in a glowing temple after you’ve been resurrected at great cost. “You must be Gabe,” she says, like the name itself is sacred.

I nod, a little too fast. “Yup. That’s me. Gabe. Gabe the Blade. Rogue-DPS. Very... stabby. And grateful. For blessings.”

Please stop talking, I tell my brain. My brain refuses.

“I brought extra dice?” I offer weakly, holding out my pouch like a peace offering. “Some of them are color-coded by damage type.”

She beams at that. “Oh, I love that. Mine are all radiant-themed.” And then she pulls her own pouch from her purse—a real purse! With dividers!—and opens it.

Inside are the most elegant dice I’ve ever seen. Pearlescent white with gold numbering, faint blue shimmer when the light hits them right. They look like they were carved from divine tears. There’s even a little cleric charm looped on the drawstring.

Cory actually gasps. “Those are gorgeous.”

She shrugs, but in that way that says she’s proud. “Custom. Resin cast. A friend makes them. I asked for ‘sunlight in a storm.’”

I die again. This is the third time tonight. I hope someone’s keeping track.

She steps around the table and takes the seat next to me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I hope it’s okay I’m joining late,” she says, already sliding a miniature out of a tiny box she pulls from her bag. “I made a new mini just for tonight—my old one’s from the Ghraxim solo and I figured Kalzeruth deserves a fresh figure.”

It’s a hand-painted mini. Robes, silver-trimmed. Staff tipped with a glowing effect. A divine aura swirl base that actually glows faintly.

I hear Kevin whisper “holy shit” under his breath.

Edgar, finally breaking his silence, leans in to look at the detailing and just says, reverent, “That is some high-tier craftsmanship.”

She just nods, calm and warm. “Thanks. I find it meditative. So... where were we?”

Cory scrambles to recover, already pulling out his notes and map. “We were about to enter the Vault of Silence. Kalzeruth’s aura is draining magic by the second.”

“And you haven’t used the key yet, right?” she says, eyes scanning the table. “The one you got from the Puzzle of Suffering in the Chapel of Lost Names?”

We all just stare.

She smiles.

And I fall a little more in love.