I don't remember the game fully closing.I remember assuming it had.
I remember not waiting to see if it agreed.
That was the first thing that bothered me.
I remembered creating him, though. Very clearly. Sitting too close to the screen, late enough that everything felt urgent by default. The stat numbers appeared, unremarkable but not immediately alarming, and I remember staring at them, waiting for something else to happen.
Nothing did.
So I assumed that was it.
Level one. Human. Bard.
I chose bard because it sounded safe.
Not powerful. Not fragile. Just… flexible.
The description promised a little of everything—some fighting, some magic, some talking my way out of trouble. A class for people who didn't know what they were doing yet, but didn't want to admit it.
Jack of all trades, it said.
That sounded responsible. Practical. Mature.
Only later would I learn that this phrase almost always ended with master of none, and that the game was perfectly comfortable letting me discover that on my own.
The manual sat next to the keyboard, unopened. Thick. Intimidating. The kind of manual that didn't want to be skimmed so much as studied. Charts. Tables. Words like THAC0 that looked less like explanations and more like threats.
I flipped through it once. Saw diagrams. Paragraphs. Commitment.
Closed it.
I figured I'd learn as I went.
That, in retrospect, was the mistake that made all the other mistakes possible.
I remembered leaving Candlekeep. Gorion's voice, heavy with urgency. The night air snapping cold against optimism. Imoen at my side, already moving like this wasn't her first time outside the walls.
She had joined automatically.I hadn't questioned it.
The cutscene bled into control before I was ready.
And then I remembered the bear.
At first, it hadn't done anything.
It just wandered.
Back and forth within a small patch of forest, moving with the steady, purposeful rhythm of something following rules I couldn't see. No sound. No warning. No indication it even knew we existed. Just a large black shape pacing like it had been assigned a space and intended to keep it.
I remember thinking, Okay. Neutral.Not friendly. Not hostile. Just… there.
So we stood there.
Imoen shifted beside me. I didn't move.
Not because I thought it was safe—but because I was waiting for clarity.
The bear continued pacing. We continued existing. Nothing changed.
Then the music started.
Big. Sweeping. Heroic.
I froze.
The bear hadn't changed. Same pacing. Same indifference.
Only the music had decided something important had just happened.
A half-second later, the bear switched states.
No growl. No roar. No warning.
Just a sudden, absolute decision that I was now the problem.
And because I was in front—because I had a sword and no one had told me otherwise—I did what seemed reasonable at the time.
I charged it.
Short sword out. No plan. No buffs. No understanding of what "tank" meant beyond stand closest and hope.
I swung once.
Missed.
The bear hit me.
There was no second chance. No dramatic retreat. No moment where Imoen drew aggro or saved the day.
My hit points vanished. The screen didn't linger.
Because when you die, the game doesn't care who's still standing.
The world faded out.
Not red. Not violent.
Just… replaced.
The screen cut to a pre-rendered animation that felt deeply offended by how stupid my death had been.
A hand appeared in darkness. Reaching. Dramatic. Earnest.
The skin burned away first, flaking and dissolving like it had places to be. Beneath it, bone emerged—clean, polished, far more dignified than I deserved.
Then the bone crumbled into dust.
All of it slow. Ceremonial. Funereal.
As if the game were saying, This was inevitable.
I stared at the screen.
Then I said, out loud, to an empty room:
"Bards suck."
Then I quit.
I didn't wait for anything.
No confirmation. No fade-out. No polite question asking if I was sure.
I hit quit the way you slam a door—hard, impatient, and already thinking about starting over.
I remember the desktop snapping back into place. The computer still humming. The faint afterimage of the animation already gone.
I don't remember the game fully closing.
I remember assuming it had.
—
"He-ya! It's me, Imoen!"