Of Moustaches and Magical Dice
D&D: The Gathering
David had always thought highly of himself. Seeing his very person as an undiscovered hero in the epic tale that was his suburban life, he tried to spice it up with theatrics. Fancying himself like Aragorn, having spent the previous night watching the entire trilogy in one go, he thrust open the dining room doors with both hands and an air of importance. Arms raised above him he declared:
"I have lost the will to live!"
"Take your headphones off if you're going to talk to us," his father said in passing, giving David a casual glance. David took it as the welcome home it was supposed to be. Pressing the 'stop' button on his Discman and halting the bemoaning of Metallica, the sixteen-year-old made an obscene gesture at his father's retreating back anyways. It was what people expected of him to do. His mother, sitting at the table quilting, gave him a stern glare. He let his hand sink down.
"It's just the hormones, dear."
David started at his father's voice from the kitchen. He'd always suspected his father was a telepath, he was bald, after all. He wondered, briefly, when his own power would come in. It really should have surfaced by now, so said the laws set by Stan Lee. It would be like his father, to hold something back. Just like that bicycle he had wanted when he was ten…
"David, don't forget you wanted to do the dishes tonight," his mother added, resuming her sewing.
"It's Dahvid," he snapped. He was no common peasant, like his peers at school.
"What?"
"You know, Daaaahvid."
"Since when?" she quirked an eyebrow at him. Why couldn't she have normal children?
"Well, you know, it's more…eloquent. More…me," he said, posing.
His mother sighed and went back to her work, assuring herself that this was just a phase he was in. Granted, she had been telling herself that for over five years now. It was no use. He would not even take his shoes off when entering the house anymore.
"Anyways, I'm off to the Batcave," he announced with a wave, quite proud of himself that he had successfully evaded the dishwashing issue.
He gathered his stuff as fast as he could, throwing his dice and sheets into the small beige pack as well as his players' handbook. However, his most treasured game piece, a pewter figurine he had painted himself, went into the breast pocket of his shirt. If anything happened to it, his heart would shatter into a million pieces and paint the sky with glittering stars, reminding him of what he had lost forever.
But then, he was just theatrical.
Slinging the pack onto his shoulder, he bounded down the stairs and out the door. As he shut the door behind him, he heard his father calling after him:
"Be back at eight! And don't forget the dishes!"
Damn it, so close… Well, it did not matter; he was never home on time anyway.
Pulling his bike out of its hiding place in the bushes by the garage, he hopped on and pedaled down the frighteningly suburban street.
The Batcave was really just the back of the local comic and games shop owned by a crazy old (thirty-seven was, after all, one step from a nursing home for a teenager) man with a Boston accent called Ben. They called him Obi-Wan. He had a soft spot for serious gamers, and when Clark, a friend of Dahvid's who worked for Kenobi, mentioned he was putting together a D&D group, he gave them free access to the back room. The room was not large and mainly used for storage, but there was a big table and a refrigerator. A Star Trek poster hung on one wall, Spock's benevolent Vulcan eyes gazing down upon them like a Geek god, blessing them with Logic. It was not much, but it was Home.
After ten minutes of tedious bicycling (ugh, exercise), Dahvid pulled up in front of the shop. Securing his bike, he waltzed in.
"General Kenobi!" he announced, his feet placed apart and one hand pointing at the condemned proprietor sitting behind the counter.
Ben glanced up from the comic he was reading and glared at the obnoxious youth. "Don't start, Dahv. They're in the back. And quit blocking the doorway."
"Aw no one's here." Dahvid quirked an eyebrow and, pitching his voice up, hissed, "nobody likes you! Fat little hobbit!"
The proprietor shook his head. Generally, Ben was a patient man who defied the thirty-and-above geek stereotype. However, Dahvid just happened to rub him the wrong way occasionally. He was not a bad kid, he was just annoying as hell. But Ben could handle it; he had faced much greater evils in his life, like munchkins. And Ferengi.
The other kids were not so bad. He did not really know their names (hell, they each seemed to have five of them or something) despite the fact they were in the shop all the time. The only one he really liked was the young lad who worked for him. What was his name again…? Kinda looked like Clark Kent… Clark! That was it. Clark Somethingsomething. He was very punctual (especially when it came to leaving), was good with the customers and knew gaming like the inside of his pants. It was to Clark and Clark alone he gave use of the back room, he was the only one who was trustworthy. Always the boyscout, just like Superman. If Clark was not with the group, then the back room stayed locked.
Leaving Ben to his comic, Dahvid entered the Batcave just in time to see Clark sneeze as he opened a box. It looked like it had been in some old lady's attic for centuries. 'FRAGILE' was stamped on the side in big bold letters, even though there was nothing but papers and slim booklets inside.
"Hey guys! Live long and prosper," Dahvid announced, raising his hand in the Vulcan sign.
Clark did not look up. "Wrong fandom, ignoramus."
"I wasn't talking to you!" Dahvid snapped, and finished greeting the Spock poster.
"You're late," Leslie, Dahvid's cousin, stated helping Clark empty the box. He was a handsome young man in his early twenties whom you would never expect to be a gamer at first glance. But after five minutes talking to the fellow one would quickly realize he was a loon. He was into the whole 'save the rainforest, don't hurt animals, eat salad' stuff. A noble goal in itself, but really annoying to listen to continuously with no end in sight. But the girls liked him anyway. It made Dahvid sick.
Dahvid was about to make an oh-so witty retort when he remembered he was above the common peasantry. Instead he seated himself in his usual place between Icis and the Eyebrow and gave them each complimentary nudges. The two girls returned the gesture with 'friendly' kicks.
The Eyebrow, also known as Lucy, turned to the young teen, Simon, on her left. "Can I switch seats with you?"
"Oh please, not the little farter!"
"Shut up Dahvid!" Simon's voice broke, Dahvid's name coming out as a squeak. Red-faced, the fourteen-year-old took Lucy's seat. The Eyebrow, named such because of her dark unibrow that was impossible to ignore, gave Simon a grateful smile, showing off her impressive braces.
A sharp cough tore through the room, and the group turned their attention to Clark, the Dungeon Master.
"Now that everyone is here," at this, Clark shot Dahvid a dark look, "we can get started. Just so you all know; Ray's dead now too."
"Aw dude, c'mon!" Raymond pouted, tossing down his character sheet with an annoyed huff.
"Yep, suffice to say, you've all managed to kill yourselves. This is an accomplishment never before seen," he said sarcastically, pushing up his thick-rimmed glasses. "In fact, I think we need to try a new strategy. This is the third time! If we want to be serious players we need to stop fooling around like this!"
"Chill mate," Kyle attempted to placate their local god, "maybe you just take this too seriously. I mean, sometimes it seems you're out to get us."
"And whose fault is that? If you guys would pay attention, I wouldn't have to smite you!" Clark slammed both hands palm down onto the table, leaning forward, glaring at each gamer in turn. Simon swore he could see a glint of red in his eyes.
"Who put Kryptonite in his granola?" Leslie muttered under his breath to Raymond, who sat beside him.
Clark quickly collected himself and sat back down. "Fortunately, Ben has loaned me an old gaming campaign that I think will help. That way I don't have to make up the adventures myself. It'll give us focus."
"What do you mean?" Icis asked with suspicion.
"I speak of…storyline."
A collective gasp was heard as the group leaned back in horror.
"You mean…direction? As in beginning, middle and end? As in…in..."
"Plot," Lucy nodded wisely.
"Nooo!" Dahvid, Raymond, Leslie, Icis, Kyle, and Simon all screamed.
"Thank you, Lucy, for not being a douchebag." Clark unfolded his DM screen and placed it before himself. "Now, where were we?"
"We haven't even started," Dahvid sighed.
"Right. Anyway, I was talking to Obi-wan about you guys, and he suggested we try some of his older gaming campaigns. You know, less confusion and new shit to deal with –his words- and a new setting. What do you guys think? Give it a try?"
"Yes!" Lucy practically begged. She was getting tired of the guys getting sidetracked with the barwenches and female NPCs.
"That's the spirit! What do the rest of you say?"
The remaining members looked at each other, shrugging. Kyle spoke up, forcing the Australian accent he had lost years ago.
"What's the campaign called?"
Clark reached into the box and held out a slim book. On the cover a serpentine black dragon spat forth a spray of green acid upon the shield of a fighter. A dwarf, a woman with a glowing staff, and an archer stood by to aide him. Above the painting, a fanciful title read:
Dragonlance: Dragons of Despair
No one has ever heard of it.
--
We are back, and we forgot how to log in. Luckily, MacGuyver saved the day. We would like to say it gets better, but we might be lying. We will try- (There is no try, do, or do not) shut up Lence. Okay, nevermind.