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“Roll a dexterity saving throw.”
Lance looks down at the pile of oddly shaped dice in front of him and looks up at Pidge.
“Which one is that.”
“Lance, it’s the D20. It’s always the D20.”
Lance nodded. “Right,” and the familiar sound of rolling dice sounded once more. His brow furrowed at the number.
“That’s an eight.”
Pidge laughed. “There’s no way that beats this, even with your modifiers,” and she scanned through the book in front of her as Hunk leaned over to check Lance’s roll.
“That’s a D12.”
Lance picked up the die, checked every side, made sure it only went up to twelve, and scoffed. “Thanks, man! I knew my main man Ferebdir would never roll that low.”
The room once again filled with dice clatter as Lance held his breath, hoping upon hope that he would roll that nat 20.
He groaned.
“Two.”
Pidge cackled and Lance looked her in the eye.
“Hurt me, daddy.”
Pidge grinned at him with a wicked glint. “Any time, boo,” and winked.
Lance flushed as she rolled damage.