Cerise Magazine

By Samara Hayley Steele

Claws and Evil Magic

Character Creationism vs. Social Darwinism

It is the day of my first Live Action Role-Play game and evening has descended over the Boy Scout Summer Camp. The first stars of the night glitter above me and I stand in the doorway of my cabin, looking out into a dark forest of evergreens. Suddenly I notice a shadowed figure slinking into the trees. Who…or what is that? I grip my sword tightly into my paw. I guess I’m going to find out. I follow it into the darkness.

The game has begun. Time to get into character.

I had designed my character a week prior, using the LARP organization’s official manual. Technically, she was a Level 1 Rogue Healer, with 6 Body Points and skills in Sword Fighting, Life Magic, etc. But none of that mattered to me. The only things I cared about were the opportunity to design a new personality, to pretend to be someone else, and to do so for three straight days.

My character was a Fehu, or Feline-Humanoid. This meant I had to paint my face with cat stripes, allowing me to have a level of physical distinction between myself and my character—a mask. I had also crafted fake cat ears using latex and fur, and purposely ripped the ‘flesh’ of the left one, making it look like she had survived many fights.

As for her personality, I wanted her to be tough and independent, to speak in a gruff voice and swagger. My plan was for her to become a village barmaid, someone who banters with the patrons and doesn’t take shit from anyone. I had imagined myself strolling into the tavern, edging up to the bar, swigging a root beer, and demanding a job.

Playing this character would be a challenge, but as I follow the figure into the woods, it is a challenge I think I am ready for.

The figure leads me down a narrow path blanketed with soft pine needles. The ground is dappled in moonlight and the air is crisp and alive with the fragrance of the forest—the perfume of hemlock and cedar, the musk of wetland cattails, and the tang of under-ripe blackberries. It feels unreal, as though I truly have entered a magical world.

Suddenly a twig snaps beneath my boot.

The figure freezes. “Who’s there?” it growls. A male voice.

Suddenly my heart is pounding. Why am I so nervous? Is it stage fright or something else?

He turns around now, sword drawn. “Show yourself or prepare to die!” he shouts. Then, without waiting for an answer, he rushes toward me.

“Don’t hurt me!” I yelp. “I’m just a traveler.”

He stops, but his long sword is still raised and pointed toward my chest. “Why are you following me?” he demands.

“I wasn’t…I mean…I’m just a bit lost,” I say meekly. Somehow it is difficult for me to act tough. Usually I am such good actor and public speaker! This should be easy: there is no script and only one person in the audience.

“Come into the light,” he says, his sword still pointed at me.

Should I run? This man probably knows the forest better than I do, and judging by his height, he is probably a faster runner. I decide to do as he says and step into a small patch of moonlight.

My heart is still pounding. I know he can see me clearly, but I can only see his shadow. I can feel him looking over me, judging silently. Finally he speaks.

“You shouldn’t be alone out here,” he says. “It’s dangerous. There are monsters everywhere.”

“I’ve got a sword,” I say, annoyed. I already got this lecture from one of my cabin-mates before the game started. Why does everyone think I need protection? I can fend for myself! Besides, I’ve got three Extra Lives. Why should I worry about losing one?

“But the monsters have claws and evil magic,” he says solemnly. “They can kill you before you have time to scream.”

In any other situation, I would have laughed at the melodrama in his words, but I can sense real fear in his voice.

“If it’s so dangerous,” I say, “then why are you out here alone?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” he replies.

“Well, maybe I want to be an idiot too.”

We walk together and I learn that his name is Ranas. He is a bit of a local historian and spends his time wandering through the area’s museums, libraries, cemeteries, and dens-of-ill-repute, gathering scraps of information for a book he is compiling. I can tell by his voice that he is just barely an adult, roughly my age. He has two satyr horns affixed to his forehead, and in the pale light they look real.

“Why are you so interested in history?” I ask.

“I believe,” he says slowly, “that the only way to save the city is to unlock the mysteries of the past.”

“The city?” I ask.

“The Crux,” he replies. “That’s where we are now.”

“Why does it need to be saved?”

“You new around here?”

“Maybe.”

“If you stay, you’ll see.”

“Now I’m intrigued.” I say. “I guess I’ll have to stay.”

He laughs.

The more we talk, the more my nervousness abates. I am starting to act tough. I am starting to swagger.

A branch snaps in the woods nearby. Ranas instantly drops to one knee, his sword braced in front of him, ready to for an attack. I duck down behind him, my sword also ready. We wait a few moments before deciding it must have been the wind or a wild animal.

“A traveler must always be on guard,” he explains. “Lately these woods have been crawling with undead.”

“Undead?”

“Walking corpses. They kill anything that is living. And they can run fast.”

“Where do they come from?”

“No one is sure. That’s something I am hoping to uncover with my research.”

We continue down the path, and it leads us into a tiny cluster of cabins. I can hear excited voices resounding from within them. Latecomers are unpacking their gear and donning their costumes.

We pass two teenaged boys carrying sleeping bags and suitcases toward the buildings. One of them looks at me and elbows the other. They stop in the middle of the trail, as though they are hoping I will also stop and talk to them. They are wearing white headbands, meaning they are Out-of-Game (OOG), and I am supposed to pretend I don’t see them. Ranas seems annoyed by this clear breach of game etiquette. I step around them and the path leads us back into the trees.

“Where you headed?” Ranas asks.

“The nearest tavern,” I say. “Is there one close?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “We’re almost there.”

We turn down a side path and step onto a narrow wooden footbridge. As we walk, I can hear a steam trickling below us.

“How long until you finish your book?” I ask.

“My book?” he seems surprised by my continued interest. “I’m actually getting pretty close now. I might even finish during the next couple days.”

“That’s great! Can I read it when it’s done?”

Ranas pauses. “Really, you want to?”

“Yes,” I say. “I would like that very much.”

In the dim light, I can see that he is beaming. “I’ll find you when it’s done,” he says.

“Thank you,” I reply.

The footbridge ends and we step out onto a field of neatly mowed grass. An evening mist has settled across the ground and it swirls in little tendrils around our feet, like creeping vines or lapping tongues. In the haze at the far end of the field, I can see the golden light of many windows. A huge building. It must be the summer camp mess hall.

“The tavern,” Ranas motions toward the light. “This is as far as I go.”

“You aren’t coming too?”

“No,” Ranas says. “I’ve got business elsewhere.”

“Well then,” I say. “Thank you for guiding me.”

“It was no trouble,” he replies. “You’re good company.”

“Likewise.”

“Good luck in there.”

He turns back onto the bridge and disappears into the shadows. I can hear his footsteps growing more and more distant as he goes. Ranas. My first friend in this strange new place.

The next day Ranas would be found dead, his body strewn across a sunlit field, ripped to shreds by claws and swords. At the funeral, people would speculate in hushed voices. “Was it monsters? Maybe Bandits.” None of them would be sure, but there would be one thing everyone agreed about:

“Ranas was a good man, but it was only a matter of time…”

Social Roles in LARP

Survival of the Conformist

A LARPer who plays alone dies alone. It is a simple fact. It may seem unfair, but it is nothing new in terms of human history.

We are hairless omnivores with overdeveloped brains and underdeveloped bodies, and we don’t stand a chance against most carnivores, or even against the natural elements. Our survival depends on our ability to ‘play well with others’, and if a person can’t do that, nature votes them out of the gene pool.

Civilization is a wonderful new invention that allows people to deceive themselves into believing they are independent. Within the safe walls of a city, a person is able to be ‘a loner’ and to reject society. Yet the society still feeds, protects, and supports the person. Without it, they would die.

As delineated in my last article, the main purpose of LARP is to create a physical representation of a fantasy world, allowing individuals to bridge the mind/body gap created by passive consumption of fantasy media. While LARP is able to accomplish this goal, LARP is unable to accomplish its secondary purpose: to give players complete freedom to design an alter ego.

A standard LARP contains monsters, dragons, undead armies, angry fairies, and warring wizards. There is no in-game civilization strong enough to protect the individual from these dangers, and even within the walls of a city, you are never safe. Characters must band together in order to survive, and anyone that does not assimilate will die quickly. Thus a player must create a character that fits into the limited social roles available within these groups. Therefore, by its very nature, LARP reinforces adherence to social roles, and, since the beginning of human history, social roles have always been gendered.

The male LARPer must integrate into a strict hierarchy. There is always a top fighter or group of fighters, top wizard, top merchant, etc. There is always a second in command. These hierarchies are often composed entirely of men, or at least dominated by them. The male character that rejects this situation quickly becomes an outcast, and it is only a matter of time before he is killed.

I would later find out that Ranas survived on his own for nearly two years. This took an incredible amount of skill. Many loners don’t make it past their first game. Yet even as skilled as Ranas was, death found him in the end.

As for the female LARPer, she must play a very different role.

Of course I am not aware of this as I walk across the grassy field in the moonlight, the mist lapping at my feet. I am confident now in my new character, in my new alter-ego, and I think that nothing will be able to take her away from me.

As I approach the tavern, I can hear male voices growing louder and louder from within, and soon the giant double doors loom before me. This is it. No turning back. I grip the brass handle and push my way in.

Look for “Into the Tavern: An Examination of What Happened Next and Who I Would Become,” the continuation of Samara’s series, in next month’s issue of Cerise!

Article © September 2007 by Samara Hayley Steele.