Cerise Magazine

By Samara Hayley Steele

Or, How I Survived My First Day as a Female LARPer

Part One

I am nestled in someone else’s sleeping bag, in someone else’s cabin, on the top bunk furthest from the door. I stare at the ceiling. I wish I could sleep. But my body is still tingling with adrenaline.

There is a large rectangular hole covered in chicken wire above my head, and I reach up and run my fingers across the mesh. The wire has been stretched thin in some places. Did a Boy Scout camper once try to escape? I wonder.

The room smells like grass and heavy sweat and I can hear the noise of men sleeping below me—grunting, snoring, and shifting in their bunks. There are six of them, maybe more. Before tonight they were strangers, but now they are my sworn protectors.

Eight hours ago I strode across a misty soccer field, following the light of the summer camp messhall.

As I approached, I realized the building was huge: over sixty feet wide and large enough to accommodate a small village. The exterior walls were log-cabin-style cedar beams, and the roof was blanketed with a thick layer of forest moss. This building had been the cafeteria for Boy Scout campers for over fifty years, but now it was the village tavern for a Live Action Role-Play game.

I stepped up to the double doors and listened. I could hear loud male voices within, yelling and laughing. This is it. Time to define my character. I quickly rehearsed the scene in my mind: I would walk through the doors, swagger up to the bar, slam my fist down on the counter, and demand a job. This’ll be easy…I hope. I gripped the cold brass door handle and entered.

It was a huge room with wooden walls and intricate black chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It would have been easy to imagine this place as the common room of a medieval inn, if it weren’t for the plastic chairs and middle-school-lunchroom-style tables.

About two-dozen costumed LARPers were spread across the room, sipping rootbeer, playing chess and munching on microwave dinners. They wore tunics and leather armor, and a few of them had chainmail draped over their shoulders. I recognized many of the game’s major races: Elves, Satyrs, Dwarves, Ogres, Hobbits, Gypsies and some I wasn’t sure about. They all had boffer weapons strapped to their hips or resting on the tables in front of them—longswords, axes, polearms, daggers, maces, lances, spears and shields. Many of the weapons were sculpted to look real and painted with elaborate designs like dragons or roses.

A hushed silence fell across the room as I stepped through the door, and all heads turned toward me. A few of the people gripped their weapons and glared at me suspiciously, as if they thought I would attack at any moment.

I tried to ignore their stares and looked around, hoping to locate the bar. In the middle of the back wall, a spacious cafeteria-style kitchen was visible through a long window; the type of window that usually contained grizzled old lunch-ladies scooping mashed potatoes onto the plastic trays of hungry children. The bar should have been set up there, but the window was empty of a bartender or patrons. No bar? What do I do now?

I looked around, scanning the scowling faces, hoping to locate a tavernkeeper or barmaid, or at least some sort of employee. But everyone in the room was dressed as a warrior or a magic-caster.

They are all men! Every child, teenager, and adult in the tavern was male, except for me.

Having never LARPed before, I had visualized the game to be more like a Renaissance Festival, containing a diverse population of shopkeepers, performers, musicians, civilians, barkeepers, and, most importantly, an equal representation of both genders. Later, I would learn that the ratio of females-to-males in major LARP organizations is about 1-to-5, but can drop as low as 1-to-20.

As delineated in my last article, the in-game world of LARP does not contain a civilization strong enough to protect the characters from the evil things—trolls, goblins, zombies, liches, vampires, dragons, etc.—that exist in the game world. Thus, the individual must cling to society for survival, and because of this, LARP reinforces social roles. And social roles have always been gendered.

For a majority of human history, men have dominated almost every society of the world, and because of this, women have been pushed into marginal societal roles that are constructed to fit men’s needs. This phenomenon has occurred in the real world despite a 50-50 gender ratio. What happens however, when the ratio drops below 20-80?

My heart was beating fast. I hadn’t been prepared for this. I felt as if I had stumbled into a forbidden place, like the wrong bathroom or a football team’s locker room.

“Hey Fehu,” a man sitting at a table motioned toward me. He had addressed me by the name of my race, which was “Feline-Humanoid.”

I turned my head and looked toward him. He was a Satyr with small black horns and a leather bandana. His horns were curved sharply, like they had been part of a Devil Halloween costume.

“You want to come sit over here?” he said.

His table was surrounded by men with heavy armor and battered-looking weapons. They gazed at me offhandedly, as though they were sizing up an enemy.

“Come on, don’t be shy!” the Satyr said, and pulled out an empty chair next to him. “Take a seat!”

I nodded meekly and walked across the room. When I sat down, the rest of the LARPers sheathed their swords and turned back to their conversations and rootbeers.

The Satyr sat straddling a plastic chair, hugging the backrest like it was a lover. “The name’s Arcturus,” he said. “And you are…?”

I eyed him nervously. This man was nothing like Ranas, the soft-spoken Satyr who had guided me to the tavern. This Satyr was much older. His face was grizzled, with a light beard and permanent creases around the mouth. He wore black leather motorcycle pants and a bullet belt that was loaded with little plastic vials.

“The name is Left Ear,” I replied, trying to sound confident. But I was nervous as hell, and when I get nervous my voice becomes an octave higher.

“Left Ear?”

“But people call me L.E.” I squeaked.

He shrugged. “So what brings you here to this hellhole, Ellie?” When he spoke, his voice was sharp and fast, like he was trying to talk at the speed of his thoughts.

“I’m looking for a job,” I said, trying to sound tough, and crossed my arms.

He laughed, as though I had done something adorable. “What kind of job?”

“One here in the tavern, actually.”

“Well, I’ve got the only job this place has to offer: I wash the dishes.”

“Really? But isn’t there a tavernkeeper?”

“We don’t need one,” he said and motioned towards the kitchen. Through the window I could see a teenaged Elf making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “People bring their own food and drinks and store them in the icebox, and when they want them, they get them themselves. They don’t need anyone to serve them.”

“What a strange tavern…” I said, downcast. But I was determined to get this job, even if I had to create the position myself. “Who owns this place?” I asked.

Arcturus looked down, then out the window. “Winter,” he finally said. “Winter owns the tavern.”

“Winter? Where can I find this ‘Winter’?”

“She rarely comes here,” Arcturus replied. “But you don’t want to get mixed up with the likes of her.” He touched his left cheek and I noticed a large blue snowflake printed under the grizzle. “Once a Kami marks you, you are theirs forever.”

Kami? Isn’t that a kind of Japanese demi-god? I was beginning to realize that this game was nothing like a Ren Fair, where you just wander around a campground in costume. This game has a complex story, I’ll get to watch it unfold from the inside!

Suddenly, my stomach growled loudly.

“You hungry?” he asked.

In my haste to start the game, I had forgotten to eat dinner and had left all my food in my cabin.

“Soup?” he asked before I could respond. “You want some soup?”

“Well, you really don’t need to…”

“I’ll bring out a bowl for you,” he said, in a rather commanding tone. Before I could reply, he got up and walked off to the kitchen.

Now I was alone at a table surrounded by intimidating fighters.

This is a role-playing game, I told myself. I must interact. I looked around the table, hoping to find a good conversation partner.

Perhaps it will startle you to know that the men at that table where anything but stereotypical “gamer nerds.” They all seemed to be physically fit, relatively well groomed, and, other than the costumes and boffer-weapons, perfectly normal. I would later find out that most of them had stable careers, and some of them were married and had children.

There were several Elves and Humans. A Gypsy and a Half-Wolf sat across from me, conversing loudly about something called “Necromancy.” Then I noticed him. Near the middle of the table, like a glorious centerpiece, sat a giant black rat, leaning back in his chair and picking his teeth. Wow! What an amazing costume!

His face was painted tar-black and he wore a rubber rat-nose with a bullring dangling from the nostrils. Leather armor covered his lithe body, and from his belt hung tiny scalps, bells, and trinkets. I would later find out that he worked as a night guard at California movie sets and occasionally appeared in films as a background extra. Should I try to talk to him? I pondered. Suddenly, he turned and looked me with narrow, piercing eyes. My stomach lurched and I quickly turned away.

Next to me sat a man who seemed much less intimidating. He was a green-skinned Ogre wearing plate-mail, and something was strapped to his back that resembled a rubber skull on a duct-tape covered pike. He seemed shy, and leaned deeply into his Instant Ramen Cup as he ate.

“Hello!” I said, trying to sound friendly. Maybe too friendly. My voice was still squeaky.

He looked up at me, startled, noodles hanging from his mouth.

“My name is Left Ear,” I said. “What’s yours?”

He spat the noodles back into the Styrofoam cup and sat up straight. “Me Gleeck!” he said, pounding his chest with his fist. The clank of metal hitting metal echoed through the tavern and a few people looked up from their food and drinks.

“Good to meet you, Gleeck,” I said.

He grunted in agreement.

“So…” I searched for something to say in this unusual social situation. “How do you like being an Ogre?”

Oh shit! What a stupid question!

“Mmm…it good,” he replied. “Ogre very strong. Fight many battle! Stronger than Elf or Human!” He punched his chest again for emphasis.

We made small talk, and I discovered that he liked to hit things, hated something called “Chaos Magic,” and had constant “lady trouble.” He was just in the middle of explaining why the skull of his dead girlfriend was impaled on his pike, when Arcturus reappeared holding two bowls of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.

“Is old Gleeck boring you with war stories?” he asked, setting a steaming bowl in front of me.

“Actually,” I replied, “I think Gleeck’s stories are pretty interesting.”

Gleeck sat up straight and grunted proudly.

“That so?” the Satyr laughed. “I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end.”

“You saying Gleeck’s stories no good?” Gleeck shouted.

“No, I wasn’t saying that!” the Satyr replied, defensively. “What I meant was that we’ve both got some pretty interesting stories, but my ability to express complex ideas is much more… how shall we say…”

While they argued, I looked down at my soup. Yum, fresh from the microwave.

I had decided before the game that, because my character was a Fehu, I would refrain from using flatware. I thought it would be a fun character quirk and an interesting challenge, but I hadn’t anticipated eating soup.

The bowl was oddly shaped and would be difficult to hold without spilling, so I leaned forward, careful not to smudge the cat stripes painted across my chin, and started lapping the salty yellow liquid with my tongue. I was so hungry it actually tasted good!

The Satyr and the Ogre stopped arguing and looked at me. I sensed that the Gypsy and Half-Wolf were staring, as well. I looked up at them, hoping my stage makeup was thick enough to hide that my face was turning red.

“I brought you a spoon, you know,” the Satyr said defensively.

“I know,” I said. “But, um…I’m a Fehu. This is how I usually eat.”

“I’ve never met a Fehu who ate like that!” the Wolf exclaimed.

Oh crap! The rulebook made it sound like all of my mannerisms should be catlike! I thought this sort of thing would be common! Oh well…I’ll just have to work it into my background story. “Well, that’s how the Elves feed me.”

“Elves?”

“Yeah, the Elves that raised me.”

“Why would they make you eat like that?”

“And why were you raised by Elves?” Arcturus chimed in.

Criminy! I had revealed too much of my background story. I had been hoping to keep it secret for a year or so, and maybe tell it to my closest friends, but now I had spilled the most vital piece of information and I wasn’t sure how to backtrack. Oh well. I may as well divulge the rest of it.

I spoke as quickly as I could, and attempted to use a tough, detached tone, as though my words didn’t matter to me. “When I was an infant I was found in the woods by a group of Elves, or that’s what they told me anyway, and they brought me back to their village in the mountains, and I guess they had never seen a Fehu before, so they raised me like I was some kind of pet, and I grew up in the tavern there, eating scraps and things from under the table, but I got smart and learned to read, and discovered that there are other Fehu out in the world, and those Fehu are treated like normal people, so a few nights ago I ran away, and here I am.”

I had written the story partially to explain my ignorance of the in-game world (i.e. because Left Ear had come from a secluded mountain village, she didn’t know the names of most spells and monsters). I had also written the story to explain my character’s rude demeanor: because she had been treated poorly, she now treated others poorly.

As I finished the story, I noticed that almost everyone at the table seemed to be looking at me, with arms crossed and eyebrows knit.

Arcturus finally spoke. “That’s really terrible.”

“Mmm.” Gleeck grunted in agreement.

Oh crap! Now they feel sorry for me!

“No, no, really,” I squeaked, “it wasn’t all that bad. Some things just sound worse when you tell them, that’s all.”

The Half-Wolf pounded his fist on the table. “What happened to you was wrong, and don’t ever doubt that! No one of our kind should ever be treated that way!”

Everyone else at the table nodded in agreement.

I was wondering how I was going to repair this situation when the double doors suddenly flew open and slammed against the wall. An Elf dressed in a long red cloak rushed in. “Vampires!” he shouted breathlessly.

Everyone jumped up and grabbed their weapons. Gleeck pulled his girlfriend’s-head-on-a-pike-boffer-mace from his back, and Arcturus retrieved a long black polearm from under the table. The two of them moved into formation next to each other and I realized that despite their differences, they were battle partners.

The Rat, who had been silent until now, stood up and, with the confidence of a general, started shouting battle commands: “I need two people on the back doors, now! Lance, get the kids to the kitchen! Fighters, form a line! Healers, raise your hands! Does everyone see the healers? Good! Don’t let them die!”

Suddenly, someone outside shouted “10 Chaos!” and a tiny beanbag sailed through the door and hit the red-cloaked Elf in the chest. He crumpled to the floor.

For a moment there was tense silence. Then a dozen screaming people burst into the room, clad in blood-soaked tunics, waving red, claw-like weapons in both hands. Of course, they weren’t real Vampires, but my heart began pounding as though they were.

To my surprise, several of the attackers appeared to be women.

I would later discover that, while the in-game society is composed almost entirely of males, the out-of-game staff contains a relatively equal representation of both genders, and occasionally is composed of more women than men. This level of female control of out-of-game logistics creates an additional gender dynamic, and it is something I hope to discuss in an article in the future.

The vampires lunged into the crowd, swinging their claws and shouting “Six Drain! Six Drain! Six Drain!”

“Fighters, hold the line!” the Rat bellowed. The men scrambled to form a tight line alongside him. Behind the line was a row of battle-casters, chucking colorful beanbags over the heads of the fighters, shouting incantations:

“I Summon a Flame Bolt!”

“I Call Forth an Ice Storm!”

“I Curse You with Darkness!”

“Whither Right Arm!”

Meanwhile, enemy beanbags were falling all around, as the Vampires hollered “10 Chaos! 10 Chaos! 10 Chaos!”

I had been pushed to the edge of the line, and I held my sword in front of me, bracing myself for attack.

“Ellie, get behind the line!” Arcturus yelled.

Before I could react, one of the vampires lunged at me, roaring like a rabid animal. I tried to back away, but she slammed her claw into my sword, knocking it from my grasp. Then she hit me with a volley of blows, shouting, “Six Drain! Six Drain! Six Drain!”

I had five Body Points and they were gone before the second blow hit. I dropped face down to the floor, closed my eyes, and tried to look dead. The Vampire stabbed me several more times, then grabbed my arm, saying. “I pick you up one…I pick you up two…I pick you up three.” I stood and walked along side her, pretending she was carrying me.

I heard Arcturus shout. “Put her down!”

The vampire dropped my arm, and I dropped to the ground. I could hear the sound of her and Arcturus exchanging blows.

“Eight Magic! Eight Magic! Six Drain! Eight Magic! Six Drain! Six Drain!”

I opened my eyes and saw the woman slump down to the floor next to me, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Nice acting! Whoever she was, I admired her.

Arcturus grabbed my arm saying “I pick you up one…I pick you up two…I pick you up three.”

He pulled me back behind the line of fighters and let go of my arm. I dropped to the floor. “I need a healer over here, NOW!” he shouted.

“Got it!” someone replied. Then I felt a beanbag touch my arm. “I Summon the Powers of the Earth to Heal Wounds.”

“How many Body Points is that?” I whispered, ashamed at my lack of knowledge.

“10BP,” he replied.

Phew, that means I’m fully healed.

I sat up, feeling dizzy. “Thank you,” I said meekly as the healer scurried off to help someone else.

“You okay?” Arcturus asked.

“Yeah,” I said feebly, and stood up.

A fighter fell nearby, and Arcturus scrambled to fill the gap in the line.

I wasn’t sure what I should do now. Wait a minute. Where’s my sword? I looked back at the place where I fell. The sword was gone. I tried to scan the room for it, but couldn’t see past the rows of fighters and casters. And they were all moving so fast, it was difficult to interpret what was happening. Are we winning?

Suddenly I heard the sound of a door slamming open behind me. Before I could react, I felt a foam sword hit me hard in the back. “Seven Drain! Seven Drain! Seven Drain!” I crumpled to the floor, dead again.

“They’ve breached a back door!” the Half-Wolf shouted.

“Ellie is down!” Gleeck hollered.

“Reform the line!” thundered the Rat.

Someone grabbed my arm. An unfamiliar voice said, “I pick you up one…I pick you up two…I pick you up three.” I had no choice but to follow, as the stranger carried my lifeless body out the back door and into the night.

Watch for part two of “Into the Tavern” in next month’s issue!

Article © October 2007 by Samara Hayley Steele.