“Mum said I could be anything, so I became a problem.”
You descend into the gob-smacked gloom of the underdark, torch sputtering, courage faltering, lunch regrettably repeating. Just past the stalagmites shaped like your Year 9 maths teacher, it appears.
The Droll.
Part troll, part drow, full-time emo. Pale, lank-haired, covered in piercings, fishnet gloves, and passive-aggressive body odour. Somewhere between a misunderstood poetry student and a failed fashion experiment, it lurches into view.
It snorts.
“You wouldn’t get me,” it mutters, twirling a jagged blade and glaring like you've just suggested Coldplay’s alright.
THE DROLL
AC: 15 (armour made of broken dreams and thrift shop leather)
HP: 84 (pain fuels it, obviously)
ATTACK: +6 to hit, 2d8+3 psychic damage ("Verbal Laceration")
SPECIAL: Brooding Aura – Anyone within 10 feet must make a Wisdom save or spend their next turn writing in a dark journal about how nobody understands them.
YOU MUST CHOOSE:
A) Attack with your sword
You charge. The Droll sighs dramatically and deflects your blow with the flat of its ironic poetry chapbook.
"Predictable," it yawns.
You take 2d8+3 psychic damage and lose your self-esteem for 1d4 rounds.
B) Compliment its eyeliner
It pauses mid-snarl.
"You... noticed?"
It backs off, twirling a strand of greasy hair, and lowers its weapon by an inch.
You gain advantage on your next charisma-based action. You also inherit a deep, irrational love for My Chemical Romance.
C) Pull out your lute and start a sad acoustic version of ‘Highway to Hell’
The Droll freezes.
One black-lacquered tear rolls down its cheek.
"That was... beautiful."
It drops its blade, offers you a mixtape titled “Unlife is Pain Vol. III”, and disappears into the dark to write slam poetry.
Encounter ends. You gain 30 XP and minor emotional trauma.
DM’s Note: If the Droll is defeated in combat, it respawns three days later with more piercings and a worse attitude. The cycle of brooding never ends.
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