Leaving Mundania (14 page)

GET EDGE! LISTEN BLADE! FOR DECEMBER 1209

Weather cold. It snow. Still Cold. Next Feast, me think still cold. Me see you no gloves, you no smart! Me see you no thick clothes, you no smart. Get smart, listen Blade, wear clothes.

ME KNOW

Dear Blade,

Are women good for anything else than being barefoot in the kitchen?

Chauvinist in Green Dell

Green Dell,

Woman good at barefoot many places! Shoes in snow good or you lose woman to snow. Woman good for protect young, smash bad bear who want eat young. Woman good for mother.
You want good woman, you get goblinoid woman! She cook, she clean, she strike down enemies good! Me meet some nice other woman too. Maybe you like barefoot woman, you like hobbit girl. Hobbit girl also like cook in kitchen. Me think you like hobbit. Me like kitchen too, but you think outside of kitchen and woman good more!

Blade

Dear Blade,

Why does my father try to ruin my life through booze and dreams? Why does he run off on crazy quests only he can see and leave our family home for days at a time?

Signed,

Worried Son in Kaladonia

Worried Son,

No easy being no father in life. Blade knows. Fathers leave, many reasons, some good, some no good. You grow up good. You learn make family. You learn stay, even if he go. You not father. No let father run life, you run life. Father maybe crazy, Father maybe secret stuff. No matter you! If Father love when here, let Father love. If Father no love, let Father go. You make own life. Booze a sometimes fun. Dreams good if you make true. Tell Father you love Father, tell Father you want him stay, but in end, Father do as Father do and it not about you.

Blade

You buy Father cigar maybe he like cigar, then tell him you buy from Blade, then maybe Father buy cigar.

Aside from the pure joy of reading Blade's columns, the paper had other benefits; it enmeshed me in Travance politics. I joined the land of Drega'Mire, one of the four main regions of Travance, ruled over by in-game lords, and became its minister of information shortly after. One fine spring day, right after I published a piece about the gypsy Tobar's recent arrest for besmirching the nobles, I walked, arm in arm, with the sassy Aerin Feist, Drega'Mire's minister of trade. As
we passed the count's manor and the forge on our way to the inn, I saw Dame Evadne, a knight of Drega'Mire and high inquisitor of the barony, running down the graveled path, unmistakably headed for me. “I've got to talk to you right now,” she said, putting an arm about my shoulders and steering Aerin and me away from the crowds that always milled close to the Dragon's Claw. Evadne said I was going to be brought up on charges of besmirching the nobles. One of the baron's inquisitors was going to question me about my recent article and its use of anonymous sources, who had suggested that Tobar had a powerful and shady benefactor. I thought the sources had been talking about the Fence, the head of the Thieves' Guild, but the nobles thought the sources had implied that one of them had shown shady favoritism to Tobar.

To be wanted for besmirchment was exciting—and annoying. On the one hand, the paper was making an impact. James liked it as a role-play tool and printed out copies on fake parchment that were distributed around town. New players knew who I was after reading the electronic version of the paper printed on the Dragon's Claw Inn “bulletin board.” On the other hand, because I was a writer in real life, any slight toward the paper, be it besmirchment charges or allegations of inaccuracy, cut my real soul like a +20 knife of slicing. If a character wouldn't talk to me in-game, I felt genuinely angry and upset—and foolish for feeling this way over what was, after all, a game that was supposed to be fun. It took me some time to separate what happened in-game from my real life emotions, and eventually I learned to enjoy the secretive characters—I thought of them as Portia's nemeses.

Besmirchment charges against the
Travance Chronicle
were never formally filed, although I received a stern talking-to from the inquisitor. The kerfuffle over anonymous sourcing was only one of the journalistic controversies my in-game paper generated. I reported, wrote, and nearly published an expose on the destruction of the old Druid's grove—it would have been Portia's Pentagon Papers—but the twin arguments that to publish such a piece would jeopardize the grove's security and hinder my ability to get more information out of a select set of nobles persuaded me to stay my hand. I held the story as a
cudgel, promising to publish it if more information on Travance's secret war was not forthcoming.

Despite the
Chronicle
's ability to engage me in the game, I ended up feeling mixed about it. While I loved the reaction that it got from the locals, it was hard work to write and report, and sometimes it felt like a chore. I wasn't escaping my reality in-game, I was simply recreating it. I viewed the paper both as service to the game and a way of being upfront about my out-of-game purposes. Since I couldn't put in the time to really fact-check stuff for a fake paper, I worried that Portia's semi-accurate writing would affect the way players viewed me as a journalist. When I posted to the forums about my book contract, I made a point of noting the fact-check-ing differences between the fake and real me. Sometimes I think that playing at my real-life profession inhibited my ability to really create a character, that I identified with Portia too strongly, which hindered my ability to become her because it raised the personal stakes for me. If Portia screwed up, that meant that I had also screwed up.

While I found the weekend plots somewhat predictable, focusing around rituals or finding monsters and killing them, I became deeply fascinated with slow-burning plots that couldn't be solved in two days, like the mystery of who was overloading Travance's healing focus with energy and what the result of that would be. I also enjoyed plots that centered around particular players who were trying to accomplish specific goals, such as Dame Mixolydia's desire to cure a deeply corrupted sorcerer. These plots, which advanced unpredictably and by inches, held my interest because I could not predict the possible outcomes. Apparently, I liked to investigate mysteries.

To me, larp feels more real in the dark. Out in the hills of Pennsylvania or New Jersey, the darkness is tarry, black, and deep, more intense than anything a city-dweller normally experiences. To walk down a path lit only by the moon and hear the trees rustling in the wind, your ears alert for any sound of a hiding enemy, to know that you could be ambushed, ganked (killed, particularly by another player character), or tortured at any moment is the essence of adventure. Boffers suddenly seem a reasonable defense against enemies, invisible spider webs, and quite possibly larper-eating bears.
Shadows from flickering candles indoors play across faces, making them seem more dramatic and meaningful than they would in full light. I prefer to larp after dark, ideally in the hookah tent. Zahir ibn Hatim al Nawar, a Bedouin smith, runs the hookah tent, and when the weather is nice he brings a portable outdoor gazebo with mesh sides to events and decorates its walls with blankets. He jokes that it's one of the safest places in Travance, because its magical door has something called a “zipper” on it, a strange device that requires opposable thumbs in order to open and is therefore impregnable to were-cats, dire wolves, and other malicious woodland creatures. The tent floor is covered with rugs and cushions, which direct a newcomer's focus to the tent's centerpiece, a large hookah water pipe made for smoking flavored tobacco. For the price of a few gold (and provided you are of legal smoking age in the state of New Jersey or Pennsylvania) Zahir will give you a mouthpiece tip to use when the hookah hose comes your way. The real reason to come, though, is for the conversation.

My most cherished memories from Knight Realms derive from times spent gathered around this hookah with Zahir, played by a union organizer named Chris Ayala who was in his mid-thirties, and with the ambitious but retired mage Marcus, played by new player officer Brendan. Over a good hookah, the three of us talked philosophy together, mulling over the nature of truth itself. Zahir was a priest of Brazen, the god of craftsmen and, like Chronicler, a member of the neutral pantheon. Marcus played the skeptic or devil's advocate, pushing Zahir's and Portia's positions through careful questioning. As a Chroniclerite, Portia thought truth was knowable only through the experiences of others and that obtaining the maximum number of experiences brought one closer to it. Zahir, as a craftsman and Brazenite, believed that true knowledge came through practicum, in the doing. If Portia viewed knowledge as the world's chief good, then for Zahir, it was quality craftsmanship and performing to one's highest ability. That got us onto the nature of goodness. What about an evil artifact? Marcus asked. Would Zahir seek to preserve such a thing? Yes, he said. If an object was made with true craftsmanship, it was worth preserving for study, no matter if its use was for the sake of
evil. From there, prompted by the snow falling around us, we talked about water and its importance to each of our lives.

I was surprised at the philosophical turn that the conversation among the three of us had taken, but what surprised me more was that our talk captured all my attention. In college I had been a philosophy major, and I used to love arguing to no end about truth and goodness and whether women had essential qualities with nearly anyone who would listen. After I completed my education, my desire to debate ended abruptly, much to the disappointment of my debate-loving boyfriend (now husband). It was as if, at the age of twenty-one and after those philosophy classes, I had finally uncovered the philosophical positions that made the most sense to me, and, having done so, having figured out my personal philosophy, I had no more use for debate. Instead of the joyous exercises they had once been, philosophical arguments became dreary and unsolvable to me. At the beginning of a debate, I felt I could foresee the final, petty underpinning assumptions we would end up squabbling over before agreeing to disagree.

Knight Realms reignited my joy in philosophy. My personal opinions about free will weren't on trial. Rather, the beliefs of Portia, who felt the direct influence of a knowable god on her life, were under discussion. I had to rethink myself through philosophical hoops I'd jumped through as a real person years before. The context of the game made that rethinking fun, and as I sussed out Portia's philosophical positions, she grew as a character to resemble something closer to a complete person.

Time in the hookah tent wasn't always serious—on the contrary, we spent most of our time laughing. Periodically invading goblins and woodland creatures provided amusing interludes, particularly since most of them lacked the opposable thumbs or intelligence necessary to figure out the befuddling “zipping” mechanism. When he was in town the ridiculous Malyc Weavewarden, one frizzy-haired Jeramy Merritt, would lounge in the hookah tent—he and Brendan and Chris were all friends out-of-game—and make foppish comments in his British accent. One evening, very late, around stupid o'clock, he hovered his gloved hand just out of sight behind one of my ears and
said in a low, creepy whisper, “It's the tickle monster, Portia. It's got five limbs, and they're all hungry.” I turned to see what he was referring to, and the closeness of his hand to my head surprised the heck out of me. We all laughed for some time.

Little by little, as I got to know people in-game, I began to know them out-of-game as well. At the beginning and end of events, it became difficult to walk too far without running into someone, a fellow actor, someone I'd shared a scene with, who wanted a hug, to exchange a quip, or to say hello. At events, before lay-on, I began to have a queer feeling that reminded me of attending church with my mother as a little girl. Everyone knew one another, and most everyone was friendly, even to people who dressed or seemed odd at first. They tried to help one another out. When one player lost almost everything she owned in a house fire, there was a drive on Facebook to get her garb and gear so that she could come to the game and unwind after all that stress. This game was a community, one that prided itself on being welcoming and fair. People I knew only slightly called me by name—well, my game name at least. When I returned to Knight Realms after a brief hiatus, I walked into the inn right before lay-on to cries of “It's Portia!” That simple reception, the recognition of who I was, warmed me, especially since as a telecommuting writer, I didn't get out all that much—my idea of a social exchange with officemates was buying a cup of coffee from the taciturn cashier at my local shop.

It wasn't easy to pry myself away from the community. For one thing, my character never died. I tried to die—I wanted to know how it would feel. At Knight Realms, of course, there's a mechanic for death. Once your hit points drop below zero, you fall to the ground. It's advisable to fall loudly, to let out a gasp or a cry—that way someone is sure to notice you—and on the ground, you begin your death count. There are two rounds to the death count, each of which lasts five minutes, counted off silently. During the first round, called negatives, any simple healing spell or prayer can bring you out of unconsciousness. During the second round, one of four higher-level spells must be used, and you can only benefit from each of those spells once during the weekend. After ten minutes have passed, you rise and tie
a blue headband around your head to signify that you're now a spirit. From that point, you have three hours to find a physician to reanimate you or a priest or healer to bring you back through the healing focus, which, depending on the healer and how many people she—for it is usually a she—is raising at one time, you either get a scene of phenomenally powerful role-play or something quick. During these processes, it is possible to get an insanity, which you must role-play for a certain amount of time at every subsequent event.