Leaving Mundania (13 page)

However, while Geoff loved Knight Realms as a creative outlet, that attraction paled in comparison to the friendships he formed within the larp community over his many years of involvement. These larpers were his people, and the bonds he'd formed with them
over the years ran so deep that the group felt more like family than like friends to him.

Aside from his costuming, Geoff was known for his service to the game. Out-of-game, he served as Knight Realms' technical officer, putting his IT knowledge to work creating and maintaining the game website. In-game, his characters always performed some service to other players—Carlos the gypsy read fortunes for people, while Gideon, as a smith, constantly fixed weapons broken during battle. When I was new, he helped me “roll up” Portia—a character-creation term derived from Dungeons & Dragons but used in many larps and other role-playing games. In Dungeons & Dragons, new players roll up their characters by rolling a set of dice to determine starting character attributes. At Knight Realms, of course, there are no dice. New players start with ten build points, which they can use to buy skills before the game starts. On Geoff's advice, I put a point in staff-fighting, so that I could wield a boffer, some points in literacy, so my character would be able to read and write in the common tongue, and gave myself a basic healing prayer and a few extra career points so I'd be able to cast it repeatedly. Earlier, Geoff had suggested I play a priest of Chronicler, the god of truth and knowledge, since Chronicler's faithful are supposed to follow people around and write things down, which would provide a convenient camouflage. He arranged for me to sleep in a cabin that had electricity, in case I should want to plug in my computer to write. He lent me a lovely latex staff and an air mattress with an electric pump, and he arranged for me to borrow Renaissance dress from Avie of Avatar fame. Before the game began, he gave me a fancy blank notebook covered in brown paper and decorated with straw so my character would have a period-looking journal to write in. In-game, his character Carlos taught me how to use my boffer to prevent attack, introduced me to a variety of players, and most importantly, let me hang out with him when I was new and frightened and didn't know anybody.

Early on in my days of Knight Realms, perhaps the oldest player in the game, Charlie Spiegel, fifty-six, a retired entrepreneur and game designer, adopted me as well. He played Father Edwin, a priest of Valos, the god of justice and head of the pantheon of good gods.
Father Edwin wore a long, crinkled white shirt, a gold-patterned vest, and numerous rings, necklaces, and bracelets. Charlie often said that since it wasn't socially acceptable for him to wear jewelry in real life, he wore it in-game. Charlie and Edwin were both bald and had puffballs of gray beards on their chins. They each exhibited a streak of wicked humor and loved to pontificate. I was a willing listener. As I listened, the bond between our characters grew, and it was from Edwin that Portia learned how to be a proper priest. One lesson in particular sticks out for me. I wanted to learn the skill “willpower,” a useful mental defense, so I sought out Edwin, who had the skill “willpower” and the skill “teach,” to be my teacher. We role-played for nearly half an hour. As Edwin pointed out, having willpower meant saying “no” to whatever one had a weakness for. For some people, it was money; for others, chocolate. He asked Portia what her weakness was, and I explained to Edwin that my drunk, murderous husband, who might be searching for me at this very minute, still held allure for me. “I suppose my weakness is dangerous men,” I said. He told me that if he was to teach me willpower, I'd have to get rid of that husband.

We debated for several minutes until I eventually agreed to divorce my husband, thus exercising willpower in the face of Portia's most compelling temptation. Edwin promised to petition the leader of the church of Valos for a divorce on my behalf. It was a poignant moment for my character, giving up that tie to the past, and after the event we corresponded as Portia and Edwin electronically through the game's forums and through e-mail. Finally, Charlie asked for my address, and a few days later I was surprised and delighted to find an envelope in my mailbox containing a handwritten piece of parchment sealed with red wax ending my “marriage.” As with any kind of pretend, having a real prop can make things seem so much cooler. Charlie had talked with James to make this happen for me; they invented the divorce language, and Charlie drew up the document and sent it. Over time, as Portia cemented her place in town, Charlie and I encountered each other in-game less and less frequently. He adopted other young characters and gave them the gold, protection, and items that I no longer needed.

For me, the perennial problem at Knight Realms was what to do during the game. Sure, action continually erupted over the course of a weekend. After the first fifty times I got jumped by NPCs while walking around the camp, that genuine fear and adrenaline-generating surprise stopped having its effect. I was uninterested in monsters and mods that ended in a brawl. I learned quite early on that I didn't really enjoy fighting with a boffer and that Portia was a social character, not a sword jockey. In fact, one of the tenets of her religion was to “avoid interfering with the course of history,” which didn't exactly jive with fighting in battles. This meant that I would have to spend most of my time actually interacting with other characters and having conversations with them, a duty that seemed dreary and difficult at first, just as it had at DEXCON when Verva Malone had made anxious cocktail chatter. I simply didn't know what to say, and I wasn't well versed enough in the in-game world to make conversation about the local nobility or the amazing Jaxurian hot chocolate being served in the inn. Plus, talking about such things seemed silly if not downright embarrassing, until I realized that, in fact, everyone else was in-character and I would seem silly or embarrass myself if I did not play along. Several developments helped me overcome this self-conscious feeling.

First, Frank, Gene, and a whole bunch of other people involved with FishDevil began attending the game. I would ride up with them and stay in a cabin with them, and we'd do a late-night NPC shift together. NPC shift was an education in itself, as one had to learn the rules around picking pockets or throwing fire balls if one was sent out as a wandering rogue or a mage. Lucky for me, the Fish-Devils absorbed the rules like a sponge absorbs water, and they explained them to me carefully. Their rotating cast of four to eight people constantly joked with one another in-game and out, taking evident pleasure in playing around with their language. Over time, from watching them, I began to figure out which topics were safe for improvisation—I could make up where Portia had been and what she'd been doing between feasts, for example, as long as it didn't have world-altering implications. I could say that I'd been traveling and had lost my luggage after a roguish mage made off with it, for example, and then that fact would be a true fact about Portia. I couldn't
say that I had saved Travance from a giant spider-demon, or at least, if I did, it would be taken as a joke. The Fish-Devils also expanded the number of people who could serve as “home base” to me. If I was feeling awkward or out of place, I could find one of them or Edwin or Gideon and hang around for a bit.

The second advance, for me, came in the form of advice from two larpers, Geoff and another Knight Realms player, Brendan O'Hara. Geoff strongly encouraged me to pick up a trade in-game. After learning that I had written my master's thesis on traditional fermented pickles, the kind preserved with salt, not vinegar, he arranged for an NPC to be sent out to teach me “Trade: picklemonger,” and I began selling homemade pickles in-game. At Market Faire I hawked sauerkraut, kim-chi, salted chilies, pickled lemons, and gingered carrots—which I made at home and then lugged to the game—for in-game money. This transaction, real pickles for fake money, gave me moments of genuine pleasure—like any cook, I enjoy watching other people eat the stuff I've made, even if they dislike it. For me, the pleasure in seeing others sample my wares worked the same way as my adrenaline-driven reaction to danger: for a moment, Portia's pleasure and mine were one and the same, and I was fully in-character. Furthermore, as a Market Faire merchant, I talked to a variety of people as they walked by my quirky booth, picking up gossip and meeting many characters I might otherwise have missed.

The second key piece of advice came from Brendan O'Hara, the new player officer, while we were chatting at DEXCON. I was complaining to him that I never knew what to do in-game and that I was particularly frustrated by my inability to use out-of-game knowledge, which severely restricted the types of small talk I could make. At the time, I was writing news summaries for
The Daily Beast,
for example, but it's hard to work knowledge of Berlusconi's most recent exploits into 1209 Travancean conversation. Brendan told me that my gripe had no merit, that players used their out-of-game knowledge constantly. I just hadn't figured out how to use it in the correct way. Technically, using out-of-game knowledge in a larp is called meta-gaming. Some meta-gaming is acceptable. For example, if two players are dating out-of-game, their characters may stay together in-game, not because
their characters are in love but because it's convenient and because couples often want to sleep together, especially in the cold mountains. However, such situations are the exception and not the rule. If Gene lists the members of Team Evil during the car ride to camp, it's not appropriate for Portia to run to the authorities, for example, to report them. But if Portia accidentally overhears one of their dread meetings, if she finds out in-game, the knowledge is considered fair game for her to act on, and any repercussions her actions have will be “canon,” part of the game world. In order to reduce unintentional meta-gaming, sometimes a player asking a question like, “Who killed Magnus?” will receive the answer, “FOIG,” which means “Find out in-game.” When Brendan told me I could use my out-of-game knowledge at Knight Realms, what he meant was that I should use my personal skills and strengths in a way that made sense for my character. A music major might play a bard and sing for everyone during feast. A fencer might play a warrior, and a witty conversationalist might make their character a diplomat. Someone who researched pickles might become a picklemonger. Brendan's comment helped me think about my strengths as a person. I'm not great at improv, I'm not agile or strong, and I'm not particularly witty, but I'm tenacious, and I'm a writer. I decided to start an in-game newspaper, a periodical called the
Travance Chronicle.

The
Travance Chronicle
changed the game for me. At every weekend event, come snow or heat, I had a purpose, and one that could be fulfilled over and over again—I had a newspaper to fill with Travance's stories. Writing a paper meant I felt entitled to ask questions of anyone, nobles included. I wrote breaking news (“Queen of the Highlands Curses Residents”), crime stories (“Shantytown Shanker Strikes Again!”), reviews, investigative pieces such as a history of Travance's magnet for evil, the Inverted Tower, court stories (“Gypsies Charged with Theft, Treason”), obits for fallen characters, and profiles. Everything I wrote in the
Travance Chronicle
I learned about in-game or by sending in-character messages to other players via the online forum. For example, during one weekend a couple of the Fish-Devils and their friends went out for an NPC shift, resulting in this
Chronicle
article.

A FORCED FASHION FAUX PAS

One of the strangest crime waves in this town's history continued in January, as a band of miscreants subdued at least ten citizens, forced them into dresses, and then magically or psionically coerced the victims to extol the gowns. Victims were forced to say, “I love my new dress,” “Oh, so pretty,” and other similar phrases.

In November, at least four members of town reported similar incidents. None of the victims were robbed or otherwise harmed, and all managed to recover their senses within an hour of the attacks. However, the so-called “Dress-up Bandits” remain at large, with victims unable to agree on what the perpetrators look like, or even how many there are.

There has been no word yet on whether the dresses were of the latest fashion, or last season's bargain holdovers.

I especially enjoyed writing profiles in a series dubbed “Better Know Your Neighbor” because Travance was filled with colorful and interesting characters, from Dr. Hix, a goblin who moonlighted as a breakfast chef at the inn, occasionally slipping magical potions into his food, to Ming Na, a tea-selling racketeer from the East who chaperoned new players and served as the town's unofficial employment office. There was Malyc Weavewarden, an effeminate sorcerer of untold power who preferred to sleep on a soft pile of women; Dame Mixolydia Hartwoode, a genteel, British-accented bard with a flair for negotiation and famous for both her fondue and her squire, one Victor Sylus, a silver-tongued Don Juan who always had a ready compliment for the ladies. Zahir ibn Hatim al Nawar, a deeply philosophical Bedouin smith, had an ongoing rivalry with Father Edwin. The talented surgeon Dr. West took too much joy in keeping her patients awake during complicated medical procedures, while the cowardly Dr. Maxwell fled from battle. And of course there was Hamish, a simple-minded Celt played by a FishDeviler, a character who had learned how to count on his fingers thusly: “One, two, many, a lot, many more, second hand one, second hand two….”

As the
Chronicle
grew, I developed a stable of advertisers and sustainers, from Rudolf von Kreutzdorf's Alkhemikal Kandies & Apothecarium to Father Edwin and the Church of Valos. Every month I published a vocabulary word, such as
perambulate
or
jejune.
Most wonderfully, I gained a columnist, Blade the Ogre, played by Michael Smith, a portly high school physics teacher who had been a larper for several decades and had an affable, easygoing manner that made him popular at any larp he went to. He had spawned the viral “doba” chant, so popular at Double Exposure conventions. At Knight Realms, his primary character, Father Osred, was also a follower of Chronicler and mentored Portia. As his secondary character Blade, Michael painted his skin yellow, sold cigars, and spoke in one-to three-word sentences, no easy feat and one made entertaining due to his endless supply of wit. Michael had a unique ability to brighten any scene with his cleverness and his commitment to role-playing. Blade wrote two columns for the
Chronicle,
one called “Get Edge,” a weather report, the other an advice column called “Me Know.” Here are his first columns.