Time stops and you fall unconscious. Your mind leaves the mortal realm and transcends to a new reality. You wake up at an unfamiliar table, in an unfamiliar body. You are looking down at a piece of paper. At the top is scratched in barely legible script your own name, age, profession. Below it are intrusive and excessive personal details. The document is in a language you quickly become familiar with, at the top is: character sheet. Your eyes dart around the room. It is foreign, well furnished, warm, and populated by unknown faces. You begin to feel uneasy; your heart races and your uncomfortably oily flesh begins to perspirate. A person behind a small divide at the end of the table catches your attention, "Does it hit?" they say. The partition between you and this diminutive commander displays a myriad of strange words alluding to some draconic cult; it denotes this person as the "Dungeon Master." You stumble over your words as you attempt a query; this isn't your mouth. "Does a 24 hit?" the Dungeon Master says, "Your Armor Class is there." They gesture to the arcane document before you. You gawk at the paper. You sweat. It pools at your nose, "Does that hit?" the Dungeon master urges. One drop of your fear crashes into the poorly scribed "12" in the Armor Class box. It congeals in an abstract swirl of graphite dust and hand oils. You look up from the document, the memories flooding your mind, the answers like a foundation to your conscience: you heard this voice before. You slowly enunciate, stretching your new tongue and lips with an uncanny exercise, "No!" you say with spittle leaking from the crooked corners of your newfound grin. The Dungeon master leers at you for a beat, "Are you sure, you're only level 3." They scramble behind their wall, through papers and ornaments. You present your character sheet, the mangled pencil scrawling and sweat morph into an anomalous void; it captures the eyes of all at the table and consumes their hope, their desire, their individuality. The Dungeon Master, mouth swinging agape, says, "I miss." You look at your master, the demonic entity that toys with your life as if it were Dragon Chess. You scream triumphantly at the tormenter, "You have no power, monster!"
When a creature sees or targets you and attempts to: take an action; talk to you; cast a spell; attack; or otherwise acknowledge you, it must first roll to hit with a d4 with a success is only possible by rolling a natural 20.
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