In a dimly lit backroom, inside a highstreet bank, a smartly dressed thirty year old, stared blankly at the beige monitor in front of her. The screen blinked with the same polite menace it always had: "Call in queue: 1".
Introducing Mira Wrenlow, the kind of woman people underestimated in queues—tall enough to reach the top shelf but soft-spoken enough that shop assistants routinely asked if she needed help. At thirty, she wore her years with practical elegance: shoulder-length ginger hair always half-tamed in a clip, a fringe that never cooperated, and dark brows that arched with biting wit. Her eyes, a clever grey-blue, had the look of someone who noticed everything and filed it away for future comment—often sarcastic, occasionally poetic.
In her life as a bank customer service rep, Mira had cultivated an expert's patience, a quick tongue, and an impressive ability to manage chaos. She had the kind of build best described as "sturdy": not thin, not fragile, but grounded, like someone you could depend on to hold the door or shoulder a responsibility, literal or otherwise.
"Thank you for calling Daleshire Mutual Bank. You're through to Mira . How may I assist you today?" she said, sweetly enough to coat arsenic. "Yeah, I've been charged a £3 fee for checking my own balance," grumbled the voice on the other end. "Is this some sort of scam?"
Mira suppressed the urge to say 'Yes, sir. We've gone full Bond villain. We charge you to look at your own money while stroking a white cat.' Instead, she said, "I completely understand your frustration. Let's take a look, shall we?"
As the customer ranted about 'principles' and how things used to be better 'before online banking', Mira clicked through tabs with the practiced apathy of a veteran. Around her, the office hummed with the fluorescent sigh of artificial lighting and the occasional passive-aggressive cough.
Across the desk divider, Tania was eating yogurt with the desperation of someone whose life had not gone as planned. Darren was playing footsie with the bin under his desk. And someone in HR had once again sent a "Motivational Monday!" email, featuring a stock photo of a kitten dangling from a branch with the words Hang in there!
She hung up with the customer ten minutes later, having waived the fee, soothed his ego, and—most importantly—avoided screaming into her keyboard.
She stared down at the plastic d20 keychain clipped to her lanyard. A tiny icosahedron, red and glittery, showing a worn-down "20" where her thumb always rubbed it. Her fingers itched. Just one good roll could turn the day around.
"Critical hit," she whispered, like a prayer.
The Evening Escape
At 5:01 PM, Mira clocked out with all the grace of a rogue escaping a dungeon. Outside, the sky was gray with a slight drizzle—classic London. She pulled her coat tighter and walked to the nearest station to get home.
Eli, her husband of six years, was already home and chopping onions. Glasses steamed up, he looked like a sexy librarian trying not to cry. Eli was a kind-eyed man in his early thirties with a quiet strength, his dark, close-cropped hair always slightly tousled, and a smile that crinkled at the corners as if he'd spent a lifetime laughing through uncertainty. He carried the calm of someone who made the world gentler just by standing still, dressed simply, often in rolled-up sleeves and worn boots, as if always ready to lend a hand or steady a storm.
"Had fun storming the financial castle?" he asked.
"I managed to refund a man's three-pound fee and his faith in humanity. So yes, I'm basically a cleric now."
He grinned and kissed her on the cheek. "Game night?"
"Absolutely. I need to kill goblins or die trying."
Their friends began arriving just after seven. Dan the Dungeon Master brought the snacks (strictly Aldi-brand "adventurer's provisions"). Mei showed up in a hoodie emblazoned with I'd rather be looting. Callum, the rules lawyer, had already printed out laminated character sheets. Mira slid into her spot and pulled out her character sheet: Aeloria Windrider, chaotic good half-elf bard with a knack for persuasion and a tendency to seduce the wrong people.
Tonight, her Die felt different. The regular set—purple and gold—sat in their little velvet pouch. But nestled beside them was a pair she hadn't seen before. Smooth. Cold. Silver.
"Did one of you leave these?" she asked, holding them up.
Eli peered over. "Nope. New set?"
"No idea where they came from."
Dan raised an eyebrow. "Could be cursed. Only one way to find out."
Mira smirked. "You're just saying that because I flirted with a minotaur last week."
"Look," Dan said. "He was lonely and open-minded. It was good roleplay."
The table laughed, Die clattered, and the game began.
The Roll That Changed Everything
They were deep in the forest of Tanglebarrow. The party had just discovered a mysterious ruin. Mira 's bard crept toward a sealed archway covered in glowing runes.
"You see a puzzle inscribed in ancient Elvish," said Dan. "It seems to be a riddle. Solve it to open the portal."
"Alright," Mira said. "I use Comprehend Languages and try to solve it."
"Roll Intelligence."
She reached for her usual Die... then hesitated. The silver pair shimmered faintly under the low kitchen light. Something about them felt heavier, more present.
She picked them up and rolled.
Clink. Clatter. Spin.
"Natural twenty!" she grinned.
And then the world exploded.
Not in London Anymore
She was falling.
Light and wind and color twisted around her like some mad tie-dye tunnel. Her skin tingled. Her breath caught in her throat.
Then she landed—hard—on damp earth.
She gasped. Forest. Real forest. Trees so tall they blotted out the sky. The scent of moss and soil. Birds—not cars—chirping.
Mira scrambled upright. Her work shoes were caked in mud. Her floral print blouse was stained green from moss. And her handbag was hanging awkwardly from a tree branch.
"This... is a dream," she whispered.
Then something rustled.
Out of the brush came a goblin. Green, wiry, with a dagger the size of a butter knife.
It screeched.
Mira screamed.
Time... froze.
Everything around her halted mid-movement—leaves in mid-fall, wind in mid-rustle. Even the goblin hung in place like a paused movie.
Before her, floating in the air, hovered the silver Die.
They shimmered once. Then dropped into her hand.
"…Seriously?"
A glowing message appeared in the air above them:
"Skill Check: Survival. Roll to determine outcome."
She blinked. "Are you kidding me?"
Another message pulsed:
"Failure may result in injury, death, or embarrassment."
"Great," she muttered. "Just like real life."
She rolled.
16
Time resumed. The goblin lunged—then tripped over a root, slicing itself with its own blade before hitting the ground motionless.
Mira stared. "Okay... What the hell?"
Over the next two hours, Mira tried very hard not to have a breakdown.
Despite finding herself swept into a world of monsters, magic, and mystical fate, she remained gloriously herself—slightly skeptical, occasionally furious, and always wielding dry humour as both shield and sword. She wore her cardigan like armor, her trainers like trusted steeds, and though she'd never trained for battle, Mira Wrenlow could stare down a demon with the same steely expression she once reserved for customers who wanted to speak to the manager.
She wandered the forest, discovering that:
Her handbag now functioned like a magical inventory (infinite snacks, one high heel, two pens, and a cursed stapler).
She had stats. Actual visible stats—hovering in the air like a holographic character sheet.
The silver Die only appeared when things got weird. Which was... often.
By sunset, she found a worn road and a broken sign pointing toward "Willowdown Vale." Her feet ached, and she was 80% sure she was being followed by a squirrel with trust issues.
But somewhere deep inside, a thrill sparked.
This wasn't just a dream.
This was a campaign.
And for once, she was the main character.
The Pause Before the Peril
Mira was beginning to suspect her handbag was sentient.
It now contained, inexplicably:
A glowing stone labeled "Friendship Token (One Use Only)"
A bottle of "Elixir of Smug Satisfaction"
A half-eaten Twix that never ran out
And at least three mystery scrolls written in a language she could only describe as "drunken Latin"
She'd stopped questioning it after the second scroll insulted her intelligence.
The forest around her had a storybook quality—lush trees, shafts of sunlight piercing through moss-covered branches, distant birds calling in languages they might have made up that morning. It was beautiful, but also deeply unnerving. For one, there were no trails of discarded crisp packets, no Wi-Fi bars, and no drunk guy yelling at a Greggs window.
Mira was most definitely not in London anymore.
And then the Die appeared again. Mid-step, everything froze. Leaves stopped fluttering. Birds halted mid-swoop. Even the very breeze paused.
The silver Die spun lazily in the air before her. A new message shimmered beside them in glowing script:
"Perception Check: Something is watching."
"Brilliant," she muttered. "Is it behind me? It's behind me, isn't it?"
She rolled.
Clatter. Bounce. A slow, suspenseful spin.
12.
The world resumed. She whipped around. A squirrel, A very judgmental squirrel. It made eye contact. She could swear it squinted at her disapprovingly, then scampered off like it had a better campaign to be in.
She sighed and kept walking.
An hour later, Mira reached the top of a small hill and gasped.
Below, nestled between two streams and ringed by dense woods, was a cluster of mushroom-shaped houses, hay-thatched roofs, and little curling chimneys. Gardens overflowed with oversized vegetables. Chickens roamed freely, suspiciously organized, possibly unionized.
A village, And standing at the crooked gate of that village, staring directly at her, was a group of Halflings.
Mira blinked. "Are those… Halflings?", the people were short, fuzzy-footed folk with bright clothes, round faces, and deep suspicions of things taller than five foot six.
One of them—barely up to her chest, with wild ginger curls and a suspiciously modern-looking messenger bag—stepped forward. "By the smell of your boots and the confused way you're holding your satchel, I'd say you're not from around here." Mira hesitated. "Um. London?"
He blinked. "Is that in the realm of Northumbria, or are you one of the Sky-Fallen?"
"...Let's go with the second one." Mira said In a slightly defeated tone
Welcome to Willowdown Vale
The Halflings were, by and large, extremely suspicious of Mira .
They offered her tea while hiding all sharp objects. She was led to a communal hut with a table shaped like a d20 and a sign that read "The Critical Inn."
There, the red-haired Halfling introduced himself as Jory Dabbledew, semi-professional cheese taster, and leader of the village council (which turned out to be three Halflings and a goat named Glynnis).
Jory was a halfling of nimble step and watchful eyes, with the air of someone who had spent most of his life slipping through shadows and slipping out of trouble. His frame was slight but quick, his every movement economical and alert. Tousled dark-blond curls framed a face that was far too expressive for stealth—every grin, every squint, every raised brow seemed exaggerated, as if his emotions forgot to stay small. He wore a patched coat several sizes too big, cinched at the waist with a length of green cord, and carried a small satchel filled with tools, twine, and things best not asked about. A dagger rested at his side—not decorative, but clearly used. Though his jokes were constant and often ill-timed, there was a steady, serious glint in his eyes that hinted at deeper instincts: loyalty, cunning, and a past that hadn't been all laughter.
"Something's wrong with the valley," Jory explained, pacing nervously. "Crops are rotting. Cows are giving suspiciously judgmental glances. People are forgetting things—like their names, or how to make toast."
Mira winced. "Forgetting toast? That's dark."
Jory nodded solemnly. "We've tried everything. Prayers. Wards. Offering up our finest baked goods to the gods."
"And…?"
"The gods sent a polite thank-you note and a fruitcake that cursed our mayor with hiccups."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "So you figured summoning a confused woman from another world would fix it?"
"No! Not on purpose! But when you appeared, and your weird floaty Die saved you from that goblin, we thought—maybe you're a Fatebinder."
"A what now?"
"Someone who can influence fate. The legends speak of silver Die, like yours. They say they only appear to those meant to shape the world."
Mira looked down at her palm. The Die hadn't reappeared, but she could still feel the cold echo of them.
"I don't even know what I'm doing," she said. "I was playing a game with friends and rolled them by accident. The next thing I know, I'm here."
"Then you're exactly who we need," Jory said firmly. "The only ones who ever save the world are the ones who didn't ask to."
"That sounds poetic and completely unfair," she muttered.
Side Quest: Garden of Undying Turnips
To prove her worth, the Halflings gave Mira a "simple task."
This was a lie.
She was led to the back of the village, where a once-beautiful garden now seethed with undead vegetables. Mostly turnips. Some of them growled.
"They've been like that since Old Man Nackle left the compost lid off," said Pipla, a young Halfling with soot on her face and a warhammer almost her own height. She stood barely four feet tall, yet there was nothing diminutive about her presence. Pipla was all muscle and momentum, her stout frame wrapped in patchwork leather armor scraped by bramble and battle alike. A thick braid of chestnut hair swung over one shoulder, bound with bits of metal and carved bone—tokens, perhaps, from victories past. Her eyes were a flinty green, sharp as the head of the warhammer slung across her back, and just as heavy with warning. Dirt smudged her cheeks, and a small scar traced the bridge of her nose like a badge earned. Despite her gruff stance, there was a glint of keen humor behind her stare, the kind that hinted she'd laugh just as heartily in a tavern brawl as in a tavern song .
Mira stared at the garden. "So... I'm supposed to fight zombie vegetables?"
"Technically they're necromantically animated root constructs," said Callum inside her head like a memory
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah. That's not better."
Time froze.
Die appeared.
"Skill Check: Combat Initiative"
She rolled.
17.
Time resumed.
And the turnips charged.
What followed was thirty seconds of chaotic flailing, magical mishaps, and one surprisingly effective handbag swing.
Mira discovered that:
• She had basic combat proficiency, apparently.
• Yelling "I cast Punch!" wasn't a real spell.
• A well-timed roll could turn a handbag into a wrecking ball.
By the time she was done, the undead turnips were re-dead and the garden was safe.
The Halflings cheered.
Mira stood, panting, dirt-streaked, triumphant.
Something Is Coming...
That night, Jory invited her to a "feast of minor thankfulness." It included pumpkin pie, fermented snail cider, and a round of songs sung by a local bard titled "Ballad of the Bag-Swinger."
Mira took it in stride.
As the Halflings danced around a fire, she sat at the edge of the gathering and stared at the sky. Stars she didn't recognize. Moons—plural. One of them winked at her. Possibly.
Her Die hadn't shown up again.
She reached for her handbag and pulled out a scroll.
This one read:
"To the Siren of Silver Die—beware the rolls that cost more than numbers."
No signature.
Just a small stain in the corner. Jam? Blood? Ink?
She folded it carefully.
And for the first time since waking in this world, Mira realized something bone-deep:
This wasn't just a strange trip. It wasn't a vivid dream or a really immersive LARP.
This was real.
And whatever the Die were, whatever she was becoming… it was only just beginning