A Real Campaign
[1]
It was snowing outside, and thunder shook the
windowpanes as David finished typing the last few words of the draft for the
statement of claim. Just looking outside made him shudder, an icy feeling on
his skin. It did not take much effort to decide that he might as well spend
another hour or two working. For lawyers there was always more work, and much
of it fell upon the shoulder of the junior attornies. Fortunately, most of it
was rather interesting, or he would have found another line of work by now,
David smiled to himself. The time passed fairly quickly in the empty, spacious
office, for it was a Christian holiday of some sort. Though raised as a nominal
jew, David had never much cared for religion, preferring the crisper, seductive
logic of atheism. Faith to him was a crutch for those who did not have
confidence in their own selves... and working through the holidays had certain
financial benefits, too, he smiled softly. Bored with work for the moment, he
looked outside, deciding that he had little interest in traveling through the
eighth layer of hell, the abode of frozen souls, to get home. Might as well
park here, on the couch. The only problem was, he was not in the least bit tired,
nervous energy coursing through his thin frame. He’d never manage to fall
asleep like this, and he’d decided, very deliberately, not to bring any book or
dvd to work. Might as well check his personal e-mail, to see if there was a new
turn in any of the play-by-email games he enjoyed. A minute’s fiddling on his
laptop, and the disappointing ‘no new messages’ greeted him. On the verge of
closing the mail program, he paused, opening up the new pbem webpage from his
favorites folder with a pair of clicks.
“Hmmmph,” he raised a brow in surprise as he read
the newest ad for players. “The one you’ve always been waiting for, the
campaign of a lifetime,” it read. “Send your dream character to [email protected]
and you shall be astonished by the quality, imagination and danger. Full
character sheet for a high level campaign, no background required. Time limit
of eight hours from posting minute,” was the part that surprised him. “Eight
hours?” he muttered. That was ridiculous. Still... he didn’t really have anything
better to do. And what did high level mean? What rpg system, for that matter?
There was no website mentioned, just an e-mail address. What the hell. He’d
just send one of his favorite characters, after spending an hour or so buffing
up the stats. It was difficult to find a truly fun pbem, with congenial and
witty e-partners, but creating a character was always fun. So much fun that the
slow pace of most games was frustrating. Ah, but which character? Frowning as
he looked at the filenames, he tried to match them to ‘dream character’.
Dwarven war cleric? Nah, he smiled broadly, not exactly my idea of a dream.
Same for that sneaky halfling backstabber, Stevie Nicklepate, or the gnomish
professor and loremaster, Ereken Bearpolisher. Playing a great warrior would be
fun, mowing through foes was always good, but this gm was looking for a dream
character. That definitely meant a female. A beautiful female. An enchantress.
Ahem, he rubbed his neat beard, there’s nothing lovelier than an angel, and no
more magical a class than the high sorcerer. Can’t even open a door without
resorting to telekinesis. So, an angelic type, crossed with human, and his
fingers were typing with practiced efficiency and speed, filling the excel
sheet with numbers and words. “So be it, dream lady. Now how shall we call you?
So many choices. Let’s use that randomizer I picked off that site... Leia? No
thank you, I’ll save that for Star Wars. Another L, I think. Lyralis?”, he
rolled the name on his tongue a few times, grinning. “Lyralis it is, dream
lady, living enchantment.”
A minute more, and the file was whisked away,
fluttering across servers and fiber-optic lines to its destination. A news
junky, he wanted to look at the CNN site, but an increasing (and up till now,
ignored) pressure upon his bladder sent him running to the bathroom. Upon his
return, a message was waiting, the header reading ‘Accepted’. David blinked and
opened it, wanting a look at the attachment. Wonder what, he had time to muse,
and the screen went black, the world blacker, cutting him away in mid-thought.
<>
Kim was elated, floating through cloud nine.
Whatever that meant. Her application to Inha university in South Korea been
accepted, and so quickly! Actually, she wan’t levitating, she was running.
Running full out, pushing herself to the utmost, pumping endorphins into her
bloodstream, the ground truly seeming to float somewhere beneath her short
legs. When she reached home, she was huffing and puffing enough to blow up a
hurricane, for she’d not bothered to pace herself. A gymnast, martial artist
and something of an acrobat, she was in great shape, but the heat within and
the heavy clothes she wore combined with her exertions left her gasping.
She tumbled into the shower, taking a quick cool
one rather than the usual long, hot shower she preferred, for she wanted her
head and heart to cool down. Enthusiasm was all very fine, but it was time to
determine her future, and she took that very seriously indeed. Booting up her
computer, she quickly connected and began looking up the courses, what
electives she had best take, and the requirements for a faster way to doctoral
thesis. It was a matter of family honour, in a way. She’d read that, Hollywood
movies and lotteries aside, it usually took a family five generations to rise
on the socio-economic scale, and there was some sense to that. Finding out the
exact average would a fascinating subject for a doctoral thesis, in fact, she
grinned, were it not for the fact that she was interested in marine biology.
Such is life, for we are all at sea, she giggled at her own pun. Here she was,
the first of her family to enter a university, ever! And for that matter, on
scholarship. It sent a tingle of accomplishment through her, before she
returned to the material at hand, so to speak. With breaks for a meal and
necessities, it took her a full four hours to look at everything she wanted,
saving the data. A hesitant hand on the mouse finally turned to her favorites
folder. I’ll have some time for games now, with the finals over, she argued
with herself. It was a losing proposition, naturally. She always lost those
arguments.
“Eight hours limit?!? No real details?”, she
frowned at the screen and the pbem page. Might as well try it, she shrugged,
and picking my dream character is simple, at least, she smiled. She’d always
felt a strong affinity for the martial artist, so the monk was ideal. But an
ordinary monk... perhaps not. Searching through the folder where she kept her
role playing ‘stuff’, she looked for a template or variant she might want to
include. Toward the end, ‘The Vampire Lord’ verily leaped from the list. A
wicked grin crossed her lips, exposing pearly teeth in a vaguely threatening
manner. Powerful, naughty, deadly and well nigh indestructible. It would
certainly do.
Typing up the character sheet took quite a bit
longer than she’d expected, but there were three more hours before the deadline
expired. Wonder how serious he or she are about that time limit, she mused, as
she looked at her bookshelf. Maia. One of the thickest books, by the author of
Watership Down, one of her favorite books when she first learned English. Maia
it is, she decided, but what will she look like? Like Maia? White-blond hair
and all those charms? She looked at herself in the mirror, a small, pretty
eurasian girl, pale and dark haired. Why not, she shrugged at herself.
White-blond hair, but not all the charms. She had no particular interest in
breasts that drooped, jiggled or otherwise restricted movement, however much
the boys drooled over such things. With a flourish, she completed the character
description and sent the file, before she left to take care of the small garden
at the back of the house.
She returned to the computer, interested in
spending the couple of hours before her parents returned from work on Ragnarok
Online, when she noted that there was new mail for her. ‘Accepted’, it read,
with an attachment. She scanned the sender address to ensure that it really was
the gm, and not another annoying virus, and pressed enter. A hammer hit her,
and the world went away.
<>
Bill was bored. All his friends were busy, and the
damnable storm kept him pent up. It was raining cats and dogs, though it
sometime sounded as though the skies were vomiting the occasional elephant. The
rp get-together was cancelled, as three of the guys were miserable sacks of
snot and sneeze. No baseball, soccer meet, basketball or anything else
worthwhile with such dreadful
weather. No good, but maybe there’d be something new on the net, the
great book of relics was supposed to come out soon, or already had. Turning on
the computer, he groaned as the ‘error reading drive C’ message appeared. Only
just restraining himself from kicking the recalcitrant machine, for fear that
he might damage his foot, he rebooted. “Come on, you damned piece of junk, you
can do it!”, he stared at the blank screen in suspense. Great, the stupid thing
was loading Windows. It took so much time that he stepped out for a coke,
returning to find a very unwelcome message from his antivirus - the system was
definitely tainted, bugged, viralled, junked. Seeing as it didn’t work all that
well normally, he wasn’t especially discomfitted. There was obviously some sort
of curse on him and his family line, probably because of that witch,
grandfather’s sister. The ugliest creature in creation, her cruelly hooked
fingernails left your cheek bleeding for a week or three. The curse was upon
the whole family, as his brother and parents didn’t seem to have much luck with
computers, either. Connecting, he immediately began to download the appropriate
virus cleanser, having carefully written down the name of the bug, hoping
there’d be some improvement after a deviralment. Or whatever you called it.
While the program crept from two to three percent downloaded, he opened a new
window, checking to see if there was anything interesting on the pbem page.
Eight hours, his bushy black eyebrows rose in an inadvertent salute, what the
fuck? Well, he had twenty more minutes, so he’d have to use a prepared
character. The only suitable one was that neat albino drow elf he’d written up
last month, Evanthe. A real nasty bitch of a killer, absolutely lethal, and a
pity that dm thought she was somewhat too powerful... even if he was right,
Bill grimaced. He’d really liked writing that background, amusing that it
wasn’t even needed here. Send, he pressed, and belched loudly. He went
downstairs, heating up some leftover pizza, and the antivirus was at only 80%.
On the other hand, he smiled, there was a mail titled ‘Accepted’, from the game
master. Lovely! He opened the message so he could see the attachment, and
darkness descended.
<>
Mellanie sighed, staring at the grey, slushy street
outside. It sometimes seemed as though winter in London was all rain and dreary
greyness. Sunday morning and nothing to do, not even homework. Please god don’t
let mother start about diet, or father about exercise. Jumping to conclusions
was more than enough strain for her. It was obvious - life was horrid and god
hated her, or she wouldn’t be so fat. Not to mention lonely. Thank heavens for
computers! Without them, she’d have to read books for entertainment, and the
books her parents considered proper for a teenager were beyond dull. They made
Milton’s Paradise Lost resemble the bible of the bored. Gaaah! She pulled on
her dirty-blond hair, and sighed tragically again. It just wasn’t fair. Well,
no use crying about stuff. Should try to find Something to fill the Void of
Nothingness of which her world consisted. Might as well gab a bit on the net
and check her usual sites. Connection was quickly established, and two hours of
mostly mindless ‘conversation’ passed in a flash. The newest post on the pbem
page caught her attention, and she pursed her lips, narrowing her gray eyes in
an attempt to understand what exactly she was supposed to send. Finally she
shrugged, and sent along the most powerful version of her favorite character,
the fire haired sun priestess Kylavria Turvar, cartoonish drawing attached. The
reply knocked her out.
<>
James was running, pausing every now and then to
sneeze and shake the water off his dripping form. He really should have
remembered his once-earnest and frequently uttered vow, never trust a
weatherman, and brought an umbrella along. Or bothered to wear a coat, or
sweater, or something more than a thin t-shirt with the superman logo. The bus
station was nearly a mile from home, but he was in excellent shape, the heat
from his exertions warding off the chill. Only just managing to dodge a fat
woman carrying grocery bags, he crossed the street and fumbled for the keys. A
string of curses was left unvoiced, because speaking was somewhat impaired when
your breathing was ragged from exertion. Too many bloody keys. Slamming the
door behind him, he took off his shirt with a single pull and shivered. Tossing
it on the tiles, he shook off shoes and socks, and ran barefoot to his room.
The heater was something of an antique, and quite a monstrosity to boot, but no
one could argue that those ancient designers knew what they were about.
The wall to wall carpet in his room was soft and
luxurious, and he quickly used the t-shirt he’d worn yesterday to dry himself.
“Woof!” he breathed harshly, and shook his head. Satisfied that the water
droplets hazard had been dealt with, he looked at the book his father had
bought him yesterday, Peter Hamilton’s “Pandora’s Star”. First then, to see if
it was worth a look. A couple of minutes of browsing at Amazon.com were enough
to conclude that he was going to read the book, if not right now.
Then the news, sports news, homework, downloading a
couple of new tunes, a networked half life 2 game (which his team lost),
replying to a few emails, all while chatting intermittently with friends.
Though he didn’t really have time to spare, he decided to check the pbem page,
and his brows rose at the latest post. “Might as well give it a shot,” he
shrugged. Taran Hightower, a lordly warrior and master of weapons he’d first
used when he was twelve, was still his favorite character. An hour later, a
mere 15 minutes before the deadline presumably expired, he sent it off. Making
a cheese sandwich, consuming it, and going to the bathroom didn’t take very
long, so he was quite surprised to have already received a reply of ‘Accepted’.
Clicking to open the attachment was the last thing he recalled.
<>
“Shit!” Tom slammed his fist into the wall, “and
double shit!”
Grounded for a fucking month! Suspended for a week…
actually, that part wasn’t too awful.
How the hell was he supposed to know that bitch had
a senior for a brother, and what the fuck had he been supposed to do when that
asshole brought a couple of friends along? Play chicken? So two of them were in
the hospital. Big deal, he chuckled wryly. As the stupid English teacher was
always saying, he bit his lip, enjoy at haste, repent at leisure. Or something
of the sort. Shit. If the slut hadn’t wanted her tits groped, she might have
thought to bother and cover them. Damn well asking for it.
“What the hell am I gonna do for a bloody entire
month anyway?” he looked at his room, and focused on the window. If it weren’t
for the damned bars, he’d simply be gone. But the idiot parentals had gone all
security conscious, and there was just no way. Not without a pneumatic hammer
or drill, anyway.
Bloody hell, he was going to have to survive on the
computer or go berserk, like a damned geek. If only he had the connection
speed, he could really have some fun, but the neanderthals wouldn’t leave their
precious dialup behind and pay for something worthwhile.
He tried reading for a while, but it just didn’t
work out. Harry Potter may have sold millions of copies, but it was the
absolute pits. Magic, magic, magic. Hmm, that reminded him of years gone by,
when he’d played rpgs. Was there something like that on the net? Something that
catered to the low bandwidth crowd? MUDs were the first thing he found, and it
kept his mind occupied for a couple of days. Until, naturally, he lost his
character.
Rooting around his older brother’s room, a fat
moron who was thankfully studying a ways away, looking for porn anything, he
found a thick stack of fairly new rpg books. Interesting enough, but the whole
point was playing with other people. Solitaire, hearts and minsweeper, the
secretaries’ addictions, were starting to look attractive, when he thought of
checking to see if there was a way to play on the net. Naturally, there was.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t find any chat based games that both had room for a
newbie and attracted his interest, so as a last resort, he looked at pbems.
“Eight hours? Hmmm, might as well restart at the
high end,” he smiled rather viciously at the thought of what a powerful
character could do. There were six hours or so left, which was plenty enough.
Tom finally settled on a heavily powered up barbarian type character, so he could
act properly uncivilized, with the shadowlord template. Selling your soul for
immortality and the power of darkness sounded like fun. Slurping up the last of
the beer, he sent the sheet and went off to take a piss.
When he returned, the ‘Accepted’ message was
waiting in his mail queue. “Nice!” he smiled widely, “got in on my first try.
Whoda figured. Well, let’s see what the fucker wants to say,” he pressed on the
attachment, and the world spun away.
<>
Ask me for anything but time, Gordon’s lips twisted
in irony. He couldn’t quite recall the source of the words, for his memory had
been playing tricks on him lately. Gordon wasn’t sure just how much time he had
left, but he doubted it was more than a year or two. He’d found that doctors
were almost as mealymouthed as lawyers when you asked them for a specific
number, and the estimates differed quite wildly.
When he’d been diagnosed with cancer, three years
ago, he’d been hopeful. They’d found it early, the doctor said, so there was a
real chance. But the operation had missed, and chemotherapy wasn’t going too
well either. His wife had turned colder years ago, and at least he’d had the
satisfaction of a clean divorce when she’d distanced herself. The bitch had
gotten almost nothing, for even her smooth talking lawyer hadn’t been able to
obfuscate the word Cancer. No matter how hard he’d tried. He’d willed
everything to his one son, who was now working in India, of all places. A
software engineer, he’d introduced Gordon to computers, and he’d taken to them
with a vengeance.
The quote was Napoleon Bonaparte’s, a search on
Google informed him. He sniffed in suppressed laughter. “Appropriate enough
words for a general, I suppose,” he leaned back in his exceedingly comfortable
chair, relaxing. His growing physical debility forced him to rely on a maid,
and his friends and former coworkers were very uncomfortable seeing him like
this. The few exceptions had little time to spare, and it would have been
churlish of him to demand more.
That left him with the mindlessness of television,
movies and the internet. He lacked the manual dexterity and quickness required
for most netgames and the current fad of shoot-‘em-up computer games, so he
occupied his time with strategy, card games and pbems. Gordon avoided chats,
for he was innately truthful and had little interest in pity or ‘meeting’ new
people.
He spent the next hour looking up movies,
especially the upcoming titles, and answering mail. Tired, he forced himself to
eat something. His appetite had suffered a severe decline, and he’d lost 5
kilos before deciding that he simply had to set himself a feeding schedule.
Returning to the computer, he checked for any new pbems that might prove
worthwhile. Fantasy was invariably the last category he looked at, but he always
looked at all of them.
“The one I’ve been waiting for, ha? Well, don’t
have that much lifetime left, so why not,” he shrugged. A Tolkien fan, most of
Gordon’s characters were elves, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. He spent a
few moments looking through his ready sheets, and picked Valarien Firstar, a
young elven warmage of exceptional skill. Though he was more interesting in
roleplaying than mowing through endless numbers of lemmings, high level and no
background meant lots of conflict, most likely of an extreme nature. “Can’t
have him die on me too quickly,” he frowned, and began powering up. He nearly
lost track of the time, but managed to send the sheet with a few minutes to
spare. There was little time to relax and stare at the ceiling, before the
‘Accepted’ reply appeared in his incoming tray. He deleted the three offers for
Viagra, Credit and Sex-something, downloaded the message and clicked on the
attachment, and then there was no time left at all.
<>
The hum of the electric motor was barely noticable,
but in the silence, a brief respite from the howl of the winds outside, it was
all that Herb could hear. Insomnia was becoming more and more of a problem, the
nightmares leaving so very little incentive to attempt the death of sleep. An
inglorious traffic accident had ended what were to be his golden years,
retirement with his beloved wife, after more than two decades of hard work and
astonishing success in business. Now, withdrawn from the world, with the
occasional help of a private nurse whose Spanish was much better than her
English, he occupied his time with the written
word, with all the movies of the world, music and art and more. A state of the
art retirment for a useless cripple. He smiled, remembering the first science
fiction novel he’d read, after an enthusiastic review from an old friend who
worked in the computer industry, Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash. Apart from the
verbose sumerian crap, it was a gem of a novel, and had started him on reading
speculative fiction, which he had once considered arrant nonsense. He couldn’t
quite forget the concept of Ng’s idea of a wheelchair, a mobile fortress that
housed a major security business and a pack of rat-things. But Herbert, though
more than merely bright, just didn’t have that much of a technological bent,
and he’d lost his sense of purpose.
He shook his head, clearing away the introspection,
and turned his head away from the glass wall that stood dark gray before him,
with dusk soon to fall. The future seemed as gray and dreary.
His wife’s best friend, Maria, had been supposed to
pick him for a concert this evening, but she’d had to cancel. Some sort of
better left unmentioned emergency with her daughter in college. Thus, he’d made
no real plans for the evening, and unplanned time was something he tried to
avoid these days. It left him too much time to think.
Going over his investments and making a few minor
changes to reflect the current currency outlook took a couple of hours of
strict concentration, and from there he went straight to the pbem page. He’d
picked up on rpgs in college, and had been startled to realize just how much
more there was to it these days. Nonetheless, picking things up again, though
not quite where he’d left them twenty years ago, had been easy enough.
Looking at the top game advertisement, his brows
rose in surprise. Tall claims were common enough, but this one required
relatively little effort. Herb was always accused of being overly cerebral, and
he’d reacted by playing – or rather, dramatically overplaying – the studious
wizard. When he returned to rping, he found that he quite enjoyed playing the
smartest guy around, and in truth, he usually was. Enar was the archmage of his
choice for high powered games, and he did hope no numbskulls would ask if it
was ‘the gray’ or ‘the white’. Nonpolychromatic had become the standard reply
by default.
Sending off the sheet was the work of a few
seconds, and he settled back to watch a historical documentary. The alarm he’d
set buzzed when the eight hour deadline was up, and he found a message titled
‘Accepted’ from the appropriate source. He clicked on it, and everything turned
white.