(Sponsored by the National Guild of Bees Who Hate Adventurers™)
The Setup
You wander into a glade that looks like a postcard for “Visit the Countryside… AND DIE.” Wildflowers wave like cheerleaders, and that sweet honey smell? Oh yes, that’s nature saying, “Welcome to your funeral buffet.”
The hum starts low. Then it grows. Then it sounds like someone revving an angry lawnmower in your ear canal. You look up. It’s not clouds. It’s them. Thirty bee units of pure hate, fresh from a protein shake and ready to redecorate your spleen.
Roll initiative, sunshine.
Choices and Combat Narration
A) RUN LIKE YOUR PANTS ARE ON FIRE
Narration:
You bolt. Full speed. Trees blur past. You can almost hear your heart whispering, “Why are we friends?” The bees follow, obviously, because WINGS BEAT LEGS, YOU DONUT.
BECMI: Make a Move at 120% or the swarm closes in next round. Fail? You’re now a human pincushion.
5e: Dash action gives you 60 ft., but bees have fly 40 ft. They catch up in two rounds unless you find cover and make a DC 14 Stealth check. Fail? Roll 2d6 poison damage and start swelling like a balloon animal.
Optional Humiliation:
The bees sting the slowest PC (read: the one in plate mail who thought “Cardio” was a bard).
B) FIGHT LIKE A BEE-SLAPPING HERO
Narration:
You pull your weapon and swing like you’re in a musical called “Murder on the Dance Floor: The Swarm Edition.” Your blade slices air, pollen, and your dignity. The bees? They sting. They sting a lot.
BECMI: Up to 5 bees attack one PC each round. Each sting is 1d4 damage + save vs Poison or DIE in 1d6 turns.
5e: The swarm makes 2 attacks per round. Roll DC 13 Constitution save or take 1d6 piercing + 1d6 poison. Drop to 0 hp? Congrats, you’re honey-flavoured jerky.
DM Snark:
“Good news: You killed 3 bees. Bad news: There were 27 more. And now you look like a kebab.”
C) OFFER THEM A SACRIFICE
Narration:
You grab Barry the Bard. He screams something about unions, but who cares? You yeet him into the swarm like an unwanted gift basket. The bees… pause. Barry sings a high note, hits a C sharp, and, oh look, they sting him until he looks like a porcupine in sequins.
Barry dies. Horribly.
The bees? They’re still hungry. Roll initiative. You’re next on the menu, genius.
D) DO THE UNTHINKABLE, ROLL IN THE FLOWERS
Narration:
You fling yourself into the flowers, rolling like a druid at Woodstock. Pollen coats you head to toe. You smell fabulous. The bees? They LOVE IT. They land on you in droves, buzzing like a furry death blanket. Congratulations: you just subscribed to Bee+ Premium Pain Edition.
BECMI: Automatic 1d4 stings. Save vs Poison for each. Fail three times? Say hello to the afterlife.
5e: You suffer Sting Parade (Recharge 5–6): All creatures in 10 ft. cube take 2d6 piercing + 2d6 poison (DC 13 Con for half).
Outcome of Combat:
If you survive, the swarm scatters like teenagers when someone yells “Homework!” Their hive sits in a hollow tree, dripping with golden honey, and probably more bad ideas.
POST-FIGHT PUZZLE: THE HONEY HAZARD™
You limp toward the hive. Inside:
BECMI Treasure: 1d6 jars of honey (10 gp each).
5e Treasure: 3 jars honey, 1 vial Potion of Healing (2d4+2) hidden in the comb.
The hive also has… THE SWEET TRAP.
Trap Description:
The honey glows faintly, like it’s been to a rave. Anyone touching it gets their hand stuck like a toddler in a biscuit tin. Then the floor starts sinking. Turns out the hive sits on amber-like resin, and you’ve just triggered the Honey Lock Puzzle™.
Puzzle Mechanics:
The resin begins to harden around your legs. You have 3 rounds to solve it before you’re a statue in Winnie-the-Pooh’s fever dream.
Choices:
STR Check (BECMI): Bend Bars/Lift Gates. Rip free like a barbarian at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
STR Check (5e): DC 15 to yank out without losing boots (or legs).
DEX Option: Apply oil, water, or something slippery. DC 13 (5e) or 1–3 on d6 (BECMI).
INT Option: Notice the pattern on the comb (hexagonal puzzle). Press the right cells (3 correct in a row) to release a pressure valve. Fail? You take 1d6 acid damage per round as resin eats armour and ego.
Optional Insult for Failure: “You now resemble a caramelised adventurer, available in stores this fall.”
d6 – Random Bee Facts (That You Didn’t Need But Now Can’t Unlearn)
Roll whenever the party hesitates, does something dumb, or when you just want to rub salt in their honey-coated wounds.
1. “Did you know…?”
Bees have five eyes. Which means they can watch you fail from every angle while plotting which body part to sting first.
2. “Fun Fact!”
Male bees can’t sting. They also can’t stop bragging about being the “gentle gender” while their sisters do all the work and homicide.
3. “Sweet Trivia!”
A bee produces one-twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in its entire life. Which is the same amount of respect your plan to roll in flowers just earned.
4. “Buzzkill Alert!”
Bees dance to communicate. Right now, they’re doing the “You’re Screwed Samba.” Full marks for rhythm.
5. “Tiny Terror!”
Bees can fly at 15 miles per hour. Which is faster than you, plate-armour guy. That clanking? That’s the sound of Darwin laughing.
6. “Science Says…”
Bees are attracted to bright colours. That neon cloak? Bold choice, genius. You’re basically a walking ‘Eat Me’ sign.
COMING 5th SEPTEMBER FROM RED CAPE GAMES!
Because your children weren’t confused enough already.
DUNGEON DUNCE is the tabletop tomfoolery your family never asked for, but you’re getting anyway. It’s a family-friendly TTRPG misadventure for parents daring (or daft) enough to lure their kids into the cardboard jungle of dice and despair.
Designed for players who peak at Level 9, because anything higher cuts into nap time, Dungeon Dunce brings classic dungeon nonsense crashing into bedtime routines, school-night sugar crashes, and arguments about who gets to play the talking teapot.
Whether your kid becomes a Slayer with a kazoo or a Mage powered by biscuits, Dungeon Dunce is the chaotic bedtime storybook you never meant to open.
And yes, the first adventure is included. And yes, it's already going horribly wrong.
DISCLAIMER:
Red Cape Games accepts no liability for the moment your darling offspring turns into a tactical genius and begins quoting the rulebook at you like a tiny legal barrister in dragon-print pyjamas.
We are not responsible for:
Children outsmarting their parents.
Parents rage-quitting after losing a duel to a sock puppet dragon.
Emotional damage caused by being out-roleplayed by a six-year-old holding a juice box.
Play at your own risk. Lose at your own peril. And if it all goes horribly wrong?
Don’t blame us, mate. We warned you. Right here. In small, sarcastic print.
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