"Don't associate me with this maniac."

"No, absolutely do, it's very flattering to be compared with him like that."

"It was not meant as a compliment."

"I'll take it as one anyway."

"...but I confess it did work," Eric concedes. "The breaking the ice thing, I mean. I don't even feel like you're a bizarre alien who mind controlled young Mr. Pevensie anymore."

"Excellent! So since the ice is broken do you want to tell me about" your tragic backstory "yourself?"

"I have never had any idea how to answer such vague prompts and this did not change over the past five minutes."

Edmund chews a bite of pudding meditatively, then swallows.

"When you were... I want to say twelve? No, thirteen. You got that Dungeons and Dragons box set from your uncle. And you read the whole thing in - I don't actually know how long it took you, but it wasn't a week after your birthday that you got us all together and handed us character sheets. Peter made a paladin, that's easy to remember. A half-orc, with a grand tragic past and everything. Susan was a priest of the magic god, because she really wanted to be a wizard but she thought we'd really need a healer. Lucy... a bard, right, that was it. You told her all about how she could sing and make magic happen, and she told you to stop patronizing her but she didn't have the patience to make her own sheet. And you had this little hobbit thief all rolled up for me, just like Bilbo you said, but I decided that was stupid, and I made a warlock. An evil warlock. Very dark, very twisted."

"Sorry, was this meant to be a story about me or about the Pevensie children...?" he says, dryly.

...or he would've, in another time and life. He thinks about saying that then immediately discards it as an insane thing to say about/to one of the heirs of the family on whose goodwill he depends to live but—

-fortuitously, that moment of hesitation is all Edmund needs.

"Damn it, I'm Pevensing again. Eric, you tell the damn story, I'd apparently just make it about my dark twisted warlock and we're trying to introduce you two properly."

He takes a forkful of his (fucking delicious, damnit) pudding and doesn't quite conceal his smile. "I don't know why you picked that story in particular, it wasn't that interesting. I didn't think I had the chops to create a whole new campaign myself so it was a pretty standard premade scenario no matter how much you and Lucy tried to derail it—"

"Excuse me! We derailed it very successfully, as I recall! I really doubt that there was anything in your box about what to do if half the party decide to kidnap the Lord Mayor and the others have to rescue him!"

"I improvised. You didn't not play the campaign."

"You improvised brilliantly. And, yes, we eventually curtailed the goblin menace, tarantara."

"...brilliantly, I see. A picture begins to form, I have this mental image of—can we give the audience a flashback scene?"

"...what?"

"Alright, so you two have successfully kidnapped the Lord Mayor," he says, easily, looking completely unperturbed. "He is now in your power. What do you do next?"

Lucy turns to Edmund. "This was your idea."

Edmund has never been so engaged with a group activity in his life.

"Um - we should bring him to the goblins, right? They're trying to besiege the town, they'll want as much leverage as they can get. Or to sacrifice him to Magubliyet. Either way, they'll be happy to see us."

Peter has rarely been more engaged with a group activity, but he's also rarely been so annoyed. "That's not how you're supposed to play it, Ed."

"Sure it is. This is a tabletop RPG, they can do whatever they want." To Ed and Lucy: "So, you're in your hideout, and the goblins are besieging. If you want to take him to them, you will need to..." He turns back to Peter and Susan. "You two. Looks like you're in a bit of a bind between the goblins and your erstwhile comrades. Sit over there," he says, pointing to a different table—why is the Pevensie manor so big—"and discuss what you'll do about this away from Ed and Lucy. I'll join you in a minute."

Peter grumpily obliges.

Susan obliges, much less grumpily.

("It isn't how you're supposed to play," he mutters, at the other table. "It's a collaborative game.")