A murder mystery party among friends and conspirators.

The room was dimly lit by candles. In my doublet, I paced back and forth rehearsing my part. Theo Messerdell didn’t make mistakes. The mood was anticipatory and anxious, to a point. The door knocked, and the night began.

A few months ago, my wife and I hosted a medieval murder mystery party with the help of our friends Mike and Kristin. The occasion in real life was Darlene and Kristin’s birthdays. The occasion in the game was a medieval harvest festival. All month we had been preparing. I wrote characters, Darlene designed practical effects, Kristin catered the feast and Mike prepared their home as the set. The plan was straightforward but involved several moving pieces: First, get a group of about a dozen friends to attend in costume for the night. Give them back stories and motives to want to murder their host – me. Then host the harvest festival feast, and after I am inevitably murdered, allow the players to scour the area for clues – and interrogate one another for information. By the end of the night, if they had solid evidence, they could accuse another player of being the culprit!

And so the doorbell rang. First to arrive was for Callum of Ornburg, a retired knight of great fame. He was joined by Rylie Tumblestrum, the headline performer for the harvestide festival, her many bangles jingling as she walked. They were soon followed by my lovely sister, Justine, Messerdell, and her close friend Renton Gladstone, Cresswood’s silversmith. No sooner had we embraced then a veritable flood of guests began to arrive. Elise Burchette, head of the merchant guild, Bryce Tarriston, the farmer who supplied all of the festival’s food. There was my spymasters, Stelaea Rathmore and the constable Gordon Alphonse. Then of course my dear cousin Fenix and his wife Grace acting so cordially. Finally, Lady Cassandra Leval, the recent widow with my uncle’s court wizard Magister Galwen. And of course, my fool Pindlefox. His humor always cheers me up in these anxious moments.

With the guests assembled, I took a moment to address the group, and explain how the night would go. With some helpful input from Miss Trinkets and Miss Haversham (Darlene and Kristin) the players knew what to expect and off we went, with good drinks and good conversations throughout. For the better part of an hour, I schmoozed with the guests, helping them suss out one another and get caught up on the details of Cresswood’s many converging subplots. I got an earful from a few of them, including my sister who refused to stop dating the silversmith (not my fault he’s a commoner) and the farmer too, Mr. Tarriston, who was incensed that I was seizing his farmland for my estate (most probably my fault).

And so quickly past the hour, and soon the word from Miss Haversham was at the feast was ready to be served. We seated the guest (Miss Trinkets had prepared place settings) and out came the food. Great loaves of bread and hardy beef stew, biscuits and vegetables, mashed potatoes and roast chicken. There was wine and mead, ale and whiskey, all was good and delicious. As the conversations wore on I went to the kitchen for another drink and returned to the table only to stumble dramatically before reaching my seat. I set down my glass of blueberry mead and fell backward, collapsing in the kitchen in a heap.

The crowd erupted into shouts and gasps as I fell to the floor. Almost immediately, Miss Trinkets barred the way into the kitchen as partygoers rose from the dinner table to investigate what was going on. After only a moment of hesitancy, I silently popped up and scrambled to grab my shoes and sneak out the back door, out of sight of the guests. I circled the house and without so much as a word, undid my doublet, found my stashed change of clothes, and got to dressing. Soon I was pulling on my festive vest and britches, and readying my mandolin: Lorenzo, the bard was ready to make his debut. 

As I adjusted my costume, I could hear from inside the shouting and confusion still going on. “Where is the body?” someone was shouting. “I needed his blood!” came the call from Magister Galwen. I smirked as I silently re-entered the house, unseen by the rabble collected in the kitchen. Miss Trinkets spotted me and motioned me to come over. “How’s it going?” I inquired in an undertone. “They figured out the poison detection kit “she smiles. Darlene’s practical effects are a point of pride for her, and it shows in the execution. Every detail is explored and has a meaning, or else is meant to throw players off the true scent.

Soon I walked into the dining room now in character as the bard Lorenzo, and announced that I had a package meant for Lord Messerdell. As the players gathered around and revealed the contents, gasps went up. Inside was a cryptex, and soon all and sundry were searching high and low for its combination. With my final major task completed, I began doing what bards do best; playing music. As shouts for clues and calls of “invisible ink!!” filled the house, the night ran its course. The players cracked the code, revealed the killer, and there was much rejoicing. But probably the best memory of that night was stepping back and watching as my friends threw themselves wholeheartedly at this lovely mess of a story I had concocted. The farmer dogging me for his land, the wizard imploring me to save my great uncle, the spymaster convincing guests to join her cultists. What a brilliant tapestry we weave. And there’s sure to be more where that came from.