Once a year, I join a long-time group of forty (forty including me) men and women for a night time live-gaming adventure. If you’ve never done one of these before, let me tell you, they're worth it. This particular group was formed in the late ’90s and banded together to buy a twenty acre parcel of utterly undevelopable land on the Olympic Peninsula (Washington State). We have a newsgroup that isn’t very active and a couple of us have unrelated blogs. Over the years a few (less than five) members have left the group and been replaced. All members equally pay the annual property taxes (less than $100 each) and pay into an annual “treasure trove” of $5000.
That’s the technical part. Here’s the kick-butt part:
Once a year, usually on Halloween, forty twentysomethings and thirtysomethings, leave the real world behind and come together in the pitch black icy night to achieve a goal. Players are fully in character from underwear to crossbows, and profiles (500 to 5000 words) of each character have been sent ahead of time through the newsgroup. Characters cross time and space. There are dwarfs, elves, World War I soldiers. There are werewolves, spies, aliens and even a dragon. Characters can change year to year but most of them remain the same. There are four entry points to the property and everyone is randomly assigned to one.
This year, at a spit before 10 PM on Halloween night, a Terrapyre roared up the badly overgrown dirt trail to the West entry point.
She killed her bike among a few others (beside a Soccer-mom type minivan and a few sedans). She climbed off her Kawasaki and lifted off her helmet, shaking long dark brown hair out over the shoulders of her black leather biker jacket with the bright white cross painted on the back. By the light of twenty or thirty oil-fueled torches, she knows she’s being watched. But the other adventurers starting at the West entry point aren’t necessarily her traveling campaigns. Some will be her enemies tonight.
Her black leather hightops replace her usual engineer boots. The Nikes are better for running and climbing as well as front kicks to the chest and leg sweeps. Black leather chaps over blue Levi jeans. Black leather gloves, fingerless, padded across the knuckles. With tangible excitement in her belly and her chest, she lifts her sheathed Roman-style 21 inch short sword (steel hilt, blade of fine black hardwood lacquered a million times) and slings it over her shoulder to hang at her waist, positioned for quick draw. Buckled to each thigh: four heavy rubber throwing knifes (steel core). Her skills as a kick boxer give her the advantage she needs against the plethora of board swords (34 to 42 inches) that will be wielded tonight.
She tries hard but can’t wipe away her smile.
The goal is clear. Find the Holy Grail (which happens to be in a hidden chest filled with five thousand golden Sacagaweas). The Holy Grail isn't the usual goal but a special one congratulating a long-time member of the troop. As she takes in the other West entry adventurers she sees some familiar elves and a spy, but mostly she sees Terrapyres. Punk. Goth. Rockers. Spiked hair. Lots of piercings. Way more attitude than should be legal.
“You ready, Baby?” asks one Terrapyre woman, dark brown skin, black hair in dreads. Perfect cleavage (brr!) cradling a gorgeous diamond cross. Her tell-tale blue eye liner gives away her namesake, Faith.
Hands are grasped. “You know it, Darling.” They’ve fought together before but never in these incarnations. They see each other only once a year but consider themselves best of friends.
Then, minutes before the 10 PM start time (tracked by the single pocket watch dangling from the West-most torch) an old, black, beat up SUV tears in. Everyone expects Terrapyres to pile out with hoorahs and high-fives. No deal. After a pregnant pause, five coifed Celestials waft out of the vehicle. They are ethereal. Their automatic Eclipse and Tippman paintball guns look like they’ll hurt.
A few of the gathered Terrapyres guffaw.
Mistake.
The smallest Celestial (maybe 5 foot, slender, dressed in deep purple, billowy pants, a long-sleeved indigo shirt, and a black mask slashed with red and gold held on by straps hidden by a real-life mass of fiery auburn hair) stares at the laughing Terrapyres. Then she/he lifts one hand and points at them, two fingers outstretched. Silently. The other Celestials turn and look. They nod.
It is ten o’clock. The game is on.
To be continued...
E.J.
