While waiting for replies, and since I don’t think we’ve had an official “Tell funny stories about D&D” thread for a while, I offer the following:
I once took part in a generic, informal stock-medieval theme. I say informal because nobody in this particular game really cared about historical accuracy, and we would occasionally find poorly disguised scuba gear, jury-rigged flamethrowers, and on one occasion that was amusing for everyone but our ranger, something that looked and acted exactly like a tommy gun, save for the fact that it fired in the opposite direction somebody with a modern-day background would assume, which caused our poor projectile expert to shoot himself with a full spread the first time he tried to use it.
I should also note that this game had a slightly atypical theme: our party had entered a winner-take-all tournament in which 50-60 NPC adventurers were given a list with twenty objectives. The idea was that each objective held a fragment of a map leading to the final level, and one needed to secure five of the twenty fragments in order to re-assemble the map.
At least, you were expected to. The tournament was actually something of an exercise in loot-gathering, as all sixty-ish players were frisked before the tournament began, and everyone started with the same tournament uniform, a list of objectives, and naught else. The game was set to officially end when a team or individual located the final level (an entire town that’d been retrofitted for this purpose) and defeated the boss, a True Neutral fighter who was a willing participant: he, and all openly marked tournament assistants (which constituted about 95% of all the hostile NPCs) had been blessed by a wizard with an epic spell that kept their HP from dropping past -8, but penalties were leveled at participants who employed excessive force, and bonuses were given for clever or dexterous solutions that minimized the harm to official guards, leading the party to prefer nonlethal measures (grappling, blunted objects) over brute force. Once the Final Boss had been defeated, and the tournament officially declared over, each individual’s loot would be counted up, his coins tallied and his equipment assigned the blue book value. The total value of his equipment plus his coinage would be his final score, and the wealthiest participant would be declared the winner. (All participants were made aware of the somewhat substantial storehouse of loot held in the Final Boss’s chambers, which was valuable enough to give the team that actually finished off the boss a decided material advantage.)
Anyway, our party had two rogues, who we began to respectively refer to as the Good Rogue and Funny Rogue, owing to the former’s effectiveness in combat, and the latter’s penchance for making spectacularly bad rolls that he frequently dressed up with funny quirks. He also had a penchance for frequently passing small notes to the DM, something that we tended to ignore in the beginning. However, as the game progressed his notes got larger and larger with alarming speed, until it got to the point that he and the DM simply brought a thick black binder that they frequently passed back and forth, much to the rest of the group’s increasing suspicion and, as the game continued without an explanation for the device, moderate alarm. The Funny Rogue, it should be mentioned, had been serving principally as our Faceman. This was partly due to the fact that the Good Rogue had been min/maxed into a trap-destroying, lock-picking, pocket-picking, dungeon-crawling machine, honed to a fine edge for one purpose and one alone, and partly because the Funny one had much better success with his skill rolls than he did with his trap rolls. Frankly, looking back on it, this should have been a blaring warning that something was wrong, as the Funny one was an experienced player who wouldn’t have normally made someone so completely unsuitable for his roll by mistake, and who wouldn’t have made a comically incompetent character without making sure that the party didn’t mind.
I should also note that the players had no obligation to show their character sheets to each other, meaning that nobody at the table other than the DM was capable of figuring out the reason for the Funny one’s terrible luck. Most everyone simply assumed that he was trying to sabotage the party’s progress and minimize the wealth that we assembled, but since the rest of the team had secretly agreed to decrease his share in retribution for his terrible performance, nobody seemed to mind.
Previewing my post it seems as if this story has gone on much longer than I had anticipated, so I’ll cut to the chase: our party assembled the map, snuck into the last town, confronted the boss, defeated him, and scooped up his loot, at which point a tournament official appeared, announced the competition officially over, and teleported all of the characters to a giant accounting substation where several gnomes began to tally each character’s individual loot. (We did shaft the Funny one, and he accepted the penalty with a mysterious smile and an amiable “That seems fair”, which instantly set alarms off with almost everyone else at the table.)
Anyway, we added up the tallies of all seven characters and, surprise surprise, the Good Rogue came out on top, having mercilessly picked the pockets of the other PCs just before the last big confrontation. It was as his player celebrated, however, that the Funny Rogue produced the (by now, quite gigantic) binder, dropped it on the table, and said "Oh yes, I tap the head accountant on the shoulder, show him my portfolio, and ask ‘Does this count?’ ".
As it turns out, after a somewhat hasty talk with the DM on the first day of the campaign, he and the Funny rogue had sketched out a rudimentary stock exchange and agreed on some rules to govern it. The funny one had made his character with this in mind, and as such his rogue had emphasized Intelligence and Charisma, which he and the DM agreed would be the primary stats to give him bonuses when making stock buys. After our first big objective had been completed, our rogue took practically everything the dungeon earned him, liquidated it, and used it to short stock owned by companies (primarily merchants) based in towns that we planned to pass through en route to the next objective. Many of his character’s quirks had been oriented towards doing as much damage as possible to the facilities we passed through (crude explosives were, for instance, his favorite weapon), and so he had covertly spent the entire game playing an increasingly complex scheme based around shorting stock of companies that he planned on blowing up.
Unsurprisingly, by the end of the game he actually had so much money that his first act upon being declared the winner was to buy the tournament itself. ![:smiley: :smiley:](https://emoji.discourse-cdn.com/twitter/smiley.png?v=10)