Death in D&D is a pivotal topic that has inspired many discussions and articles. From fumbling dice to the way it’s handled, this critical moment has sent some Dungeon Masters in search of rule modifications, all for the glory of the ultimate story—one we’ll remember for ages.
And I think I found a golden one: an alternative rule that opens up hidden possibilities so much that it changed the course of our entire campaign.
Problems with Death in D&D
I’ve observed three main issues regarding the final moments of a fellow adventurer:
- Death can be boring and anticlimactic.
- Death can take away invested time and “ruin” the story.
- Death takes away player agency.
We can present many arguments for each, depending on our preferences and how we take coffee in the morning.
Yes, death can be a letdown if a seventh-level character is killed by a bunch of kobolds, particularly right after a “down” story beat.
However, it can also be comical and memorable—evidence that not all heroes perish honorably in a dragon’s grasp. We can make a light-hearted memorial of a wizard who sought to save the world but couldn’t save himself. This detail will add realism to death and compels us to truly appreciate the safety of a bed in a tavern.
We can also go into a five-article debate about what “ruins” the story. Should we treat our characters as plot-armored protagonists or the cast of Game of Thrones? Do dice tell the stories, or do we use the dice to tell them? Do we make a year-long journey to revive a fellow artificer, or can we bring him back next session? How impactful and inconvenient does death need to be?
Bring the slider too low, and it becomes a nuisance. Too high, and the players won’t attach to their characters because one lucky, lunatic kobold can end their grand tale. The first two problems, I conclude, are highly subjective and not the topic of this article.
Today we are dissecting what to do when a player character is killed on the road to the final battle, with no character replacement and three more hours of play. What if a two-year campaign is ending and, in the last push against the villain, a PC is dropped out of the game? Although realistic, some players might feel robbed of fun. Of game time. Of contribution.
“And then I cast Fireball”, the party relives the battle years later, “and she smashed his chains, and you…”
“I died.”
“Yeah, but you cast Bless-“
“Noup, the Lich vaporized me before my first turn.”
Even if we play bad guys true to their character, even if we only narrate the consequences of the player’s actions, even if we try to balance between tossing a lifeline and tightening the rope—when the gavel falls, the player is out. They can watch, maybe hop in with an NPC, grab snacks, or play the monsters. Roll a new hero next session.
But Xerox the Paladin will get stiffed for the final showdown that we often see in the media. The dramatic moment when everything is at stake. I want the paladin to avenge his father and the dice to tell the story, but I also want my player to be fulfilled and have an epic tale directed by Peter Jackson.
The porthole to powerful stories lies within the players and their ability to affect the game, up to their character’s last breath and beyond. I don’t want a player watching us fight Strahd because of her unlucky rolls while going to his chamber. I want her to fall during the battle, turn into a vampire right there on the spot, bound to the villain, and fight to break free. I want her to know that if she succeeds, she’ll be able to help her friends, but in return, she’ll lose something: her soul, her body, or her memories. Because to defy Strahd—to have another chance of defying him—you need exceptional strength of mind and heart, and that’s costly.
And the beauty of this rule is that it’s the players themselves who set the price.
The Agency of Death
Sol’s Agency of Death gives narration power back to the players in the most dire times when their voices are dwindling. Instead of feeling helpless after rolling a natural one and falling into lava, the Agency of Death allows you to affect the game in your final moments. When a character reaches zero hit points, the DM will allow the adventurer to persevere in battle under one condition: the player needs to answer what their character loses in return.
An artifact? Class’s cool feature? A Limb?
In Sol’s words:
“Defeat carries a cost, and I trust my players to tell me what they lose. They know what they are willing to give up and what story they want to tell. So, I let them tell me!”
And I find this immensely beautiful.
It is one thing to be a judge and disintegrate a player’s valuable item. When they give it freely to stay alive and improve the tale, it adds a new layer of emotion. Plus, five heads are better than one, and they’ll think of just the right story beat.
“I’ll give up my sword, and hope to stay alive to help my party,” the downed player says.
“No wait! Why don’t you give up your battle scars—your ranking and honor within your tribe—and then spend the campaign earning them back?” someone adds.
Suddenly, a chapter opens. With a question and an answer, the characters are deepened, and the story is enriched. It is not about exploring the world anymore. Now it’s to find Chloe’s parents because the memories of them she has given. It’s not only about the dungeons anymore, but a specific dungeon where the PC’s soul has been trapped. The rule affects the first two mentioned problems by polymorphing a “meaningless” death into a character arc.
Consider if your party’s wizard gives up their spellbook to escape death’s grip. What if they perish permanently a week later? Rather than feeling like you’ve squandered an epic item and a three-year character investment, you reframe the narrative. This now becomes a prelude, a backstory to your backstory. The new wizard embarks on a mission to recover the lost spellbook and unveil the fate of the first one. An inconvenient death evolves into an epic quest.
Imagine the powerful stories that can be created just by relinquishing the confines of the written rules. Here comes the legend of Xerox the Nine-Lives Paladin, who has given it all to play a bit longer. Imagine the hilarious moment when that player has nothing more to offer.
“So?” asks the DM.
“Oh my god, I have nothing to give.”
“What do you mean? You have the flaming sword that you found-“
“I gave that for my third life.”
“Boots of Flying?”
“Fifth.”
“The Ring of Healing?”
“Seventh.”
“The memory of your spoiled wife?”
“That went out first.”
Try it, play with it, and see what stories you can uncover. And if you are still not convinced, let me tell you how it turned our campaign upside down for the better.
Rule in Play
“What do you lose?” I asked him. And then, afraid he’d go with something comical like a wisdom tooth, I added in a foreboding voice:
“Beware of what you offer, because if the Goddess of Death finds it poor, she may not grant you the chance and take the gift anyway.”
Context
There are two things you need to know about Nephmamir to understand this short campaign story: he was a warlock, and he had a sweet tooth for cool things and questionable patrons.
Long ago, a raven saved Neph from an ice pond, and to repay the kindness, he started serving the Raven Queen, the Goddess of Death. For 18 years, he was a blacksmith and warlock apprentice until adventure knocked on his tattered door. One mission after another and the party was well off with alliances, gold, items, and cruel enemies. One of the baddies was a black dragon who killed the party’s sorcerer, who was also a dragon. She had previously made a deal with the devil, so when she died, she lost her soul.
It’s complicated.
Long story short, the sorcerer fell, and to revive her, the party needed her blessed soul. Before they could even devise a plan, Neph contacted Zariel, the Archdevil of Avernus, and asked for it. Politely, I might add.
Zariel agreed, but only if Neph came into her service. In an epic moment where Zariel tore Neph’s raven armor, he found himself bound to this new, vicious patron that would squeeze every ounce of his vigor. But it was worth it, he explained to the sorcerer later, because she was alive and well.
And thus began a strenuous journey of Neph’s faith. He despised Zariel but needed the magic she gave him. He feared her but also defied her when he could. He was pushing his agenda, but she would suck him back in—there was no escape. The Path to the Raven Queen was buried; other fallen gods didn’t want the drama, so the only way was toward the light. But what high god would take a tainted soul like his? How can he reach them, shrouded in darkness?
The Fall of Nephmamir
Fast forward to a session on the road to a not-so-final battle. Over the last few months, the party has had it rough. They’ve been recovering from two character’s death, a couple of NPC departures, a change of patrons, and general world chaos. We desperately needed a chill tavern session, which we “scheduled” after the current story arc.
The dice, however, decided there wasn’t enough drama, and my warlock player chose to investigate a strange-looking eye beneath the icy road. These two, combined with low resources and bad dice, produced an ice titan who flung Neph into the air and then landed a critical hit, instantly killing him.
Bang. Splat. Done.
No time to heal.
It was unfortunate, unwanted, and heavy on my friend’s shoulders. It was an offset to the story’s rhythm and a postponement of needed downtime, and frankly, it left my player incomplete. Somehow, he had endured the sacrifice and pain of Zariel by dreaming of a safe tavern bed, only to be smeared across the ice before the battle even started. I saw his shoulders slump, and I remembered Sol, so I asked:
“What do you lose?”
His expression immediately changed. His eyes sparked, mind racing, a careful measurement on the scales. What can he depart with that is of the lowest value to Nephmamir but good enough for the goddess? The table was silent, the tension engulfing, and we loved every second of it.
We locked eyes, him and I. He later told me he was trying to figure out what I deemed good enough. But that was never the point. The point was to grab the emotion and ride it like a gigantic wave. Nevertheless, he was ecstatic, in control, the main director of Neph’s tale.
After a long silence, he smiled and confidently stated, “I lose my debt to Zariel.”
Like a tennis match, the attention shifted to me, my friends covered their mouths.
Will I allow this shortcut? Will I finally release him from Zariel’s claws?
It was a truly brilliant move, and it left me speechless for a moment. Then I took the ball and smashed it into the ground. Together, we cracked the earth open and chased the glory of the ultimate story. We uncovered the hidden gem that made everything better.
“As the titan’s fist collapses on you, Neph, you are punched into the ice, and your soul detaches from your body. Such is the magnitude of this deal. It goes into free fall through the crust of the earth, descending into darkness. The ground has been swooshing by you for a long, long time. It seemed like years, but perhaps it was minutes. Finally, the air heats up and becomes sulfurous. The fires of Avernus sear your eyes as you land in a citadel.
Her citadel.
Bold and ashen-skinned, Zariel pulls the chain of your collar as you stand there, the translucent energy of the life that has ended.
“You want to be free?” she asks.
“Is this how you influence our bargain? By having the raven thing meddle in our relationship? Begging Her to revive you for the price of insulting me?” She eyes you like a mother would a naughty child.
“If she commands, it will be done”, Zariel mutters, breaking your collar. With her clawed hand, she grabs you.
“But I’ll take what is rightfully mine. I am owed a soul.”
A New Arc
Soulless Neph did get drunk in the tavern and got a safe bed on the third floor. He didn’t feel much of it—such is the life of the soulless—but it kept his mind occupied. He said it helped him with scars and inner wounds. Once he was done with ale and city shenanigans, he processed his emotions, or better, the lack of them. He felt them waning; the world was slowly losing color. The party was happy because they were alive and famous. He was…flat. There was no anger, no regret, and no vigor. But this time it wasn’t Zariel’s claws that squeezed it from him—it was just missing.
The emotional vacuum gradually filled with confusion.
So he studied the gods, the patrons, and the hollow people. He helped in temples, prayed to Pelor, the God of Sun and Light, and visited forgotten libraries. He talked to merchants, arcanists, and his father. As the party packed for the road north, he was rummaging through his mind and the world’s knowledge—a drowning man searching for an answer, for a lifeline to the life he had before. But that arc was gone, transformed into something better by my willingness to ask and his courage to answer.
“What do you lose?”
“Not my debt, but everything”, Neph realized while he poured over a book. Next to him lay scrolls and notes, an untouched dinner, and a bloodied handkerchief. The candle cast his shadow on the wall, thin and frail—such is the shadow of a dying man. Of a soulless body.
When the morning of the departure came, the party did a check-up, and he said everything was alright. He tossed his bag over his shoulders, picked up his sword, and ventured into the freezing winter, leading the way.
He will reach the light. He will climb Mount Celestia, knock on heavenly doors, and become the champion of Pelor. And the Sun Lord will grant him his soul back, or so Neph believed.
But the critical questions here—ones that unified, deepened, and elevated our story—were:
Will he succeed in time?
Will his body endure?
Can he toss aside his gloomy past and embrace the pureness of light?
Why did the Matron give him another chance, after he had abandoned her?
Tick-tock, tick-tock, about death reminded him the mortal clock.
Tell me, friends, what do you lose to awaken the power of the hidden stories?
