Tabletop RPGs
Movar the necromancer blew up the entire party of adventurers, myself included, a halfing thief named Erwin “Ice” Mann, with a misplaced spell of raging hellfire. Our charred bones and dessicated flesh were all that remained of our formerly glorious rag-tag band of elves and dwarfs and humans and halflings. Hooray. The bad guys won.
My next character was named Gimli Goodfellow, stolen directly from the pages of “The Hobbit”. I was a vindictive, angry garden gnome with a passion for everything shiny. I had eight, that’s right, eight crossbows strapped to my arms, and with a specific twitch from my wrists, I could unleash a legion of yew arrows at an unsuspecting, yet deserving foe. I could even manage to attach a grappling hook to my ingenious contraption and fly around the city like Batman.
After Gimli was eaten by a gargantuan bear, I decided that before he perished, Erwin the halfling had a son with a dwarven prostitute. Stud Man, the half-halfling/half-dwarf, was born. After a brief argument concerning my ability to wield a seven-foot-long sword, I settled on using two shorter, yet equally pointy and therefore deadly, swords. Using the power of good luck and random dice rolls, we succeeded in slaying a gigantic red dragon. I then proceeded to convince the person running the game that I could craft a suit of impervious plate armor from the rotting carcass of the beast. So I, Stud Man, a genetic crossbreed, brandishing two kitchen knives, and decked out in the discarded scales of a giant red wyrm, became a hero of the land and champion of the people.
But things, as they always do, changed. The powers that be drove us from our rightful home for being “too noisy” and “disruptful.” The authoritarian librarians had begun a chain reaction that shattered our motley assortment of geeks and nerds, and sent the shards spinning through the nether regions of teenage angst and turmoil. It was no longer hip to be a dumb fighter. We had to be a dumb fighter with character. Boys found girls, and homework, and other distractions from the game. Instead of elves and wizards, we became interested in vampires and werewolves. No longer content with a white hat warrior and a black hat magician mentality, the game became about relationships, loss, and salvation.
My next character, after years spent in the wilderness of normalcy (if being in the clutches of video games and school can be considered normal), was one of the last kings of Scotland, turned into a vampire after killing his wife in a fit of jealous rage. I then commited suicide after having found out that she had been set up, but alas, vampires are immortal and lacking the knowledge to successfully kill myself, I did not die. Instead I fell into a coma until I woke up in the 1990s, pissed off and bewildered by this new reality.
A soap opera with machine guns and pointy teeth.
After the King of Angst was savaged by rabid werewolves in the spirit world, my next character was hip. Jeremiah the assassin/vampire didn’t let anyone stand in his way. I had a sniper rifle and a custom desert eagle with a laser scope. I could also shapechange into a wolf, a bat, or even a ghostly mist. I even had designer sunglasses. How cool is that?
Unlike so many others, Jeremiah did not die. I retired him. He was ruining the game because there is such a thing, afterall, of being too cool, or too excluded, whichever way you want to look at it. Even a fantastical character can become ostracized.
My final vampire was stolen from the Disney TV series, “Gargoyles.” I was an eight-foot-tall, stony, barrel-chested, demonic vampire with huge bat wings. And a conscience. My name was Gorath. I had a large mace. A brawler you might say. Of course, since I was maturing, I was a brawler with character.
My next character was named Gimli Goodfellow, stolen directly from the pages of “The Hobbit”. I was a vindictive, angry garden gnome with a passion for everything shiny. I had eight, that’s right, eight crossbows strapped to my arms, and with a specific twitch from my wrists, I could unleash a legion of yew arrows at an unsuspecting, yet deserving foe. I could even manage to attach a grappling hook to my ingenious contraption and fly around the city like Batman.
After Gimli was eaten by a gargantuan bear, I decided that before he perished, Erwin the halfling had a son with a dwarven prostitute. Stud Man, the half-halfling/half-dwarf, was born. After a brief argument concerning my ability to wield a seven-foot-long sword, I settled on using two shorter, yet equally pointy and therefore deadly, swords. Using the power of good luck and random dice rolls, we succeeded in slaying a gigantic red dragon. I then proceeded to convince the person running the game that I could craft a suit of impervious plate armor from the rotting carcass of the beast. So I, Stud Man, a genetic crossbreed, brandishing two kitchen knives, and decked out in the discarded scales of a giant red wyrm, became a hero of the land and champion of the people.
But things, as they always do, changed. The powers that be drove us from our rightful home for being “too noisy” and “disruptful.” The authoritarian librarians had begun a chain reaction that shattered our motley assortment of geeks and nerds, and sent the shards spinning through the nether regions of teenage angst and turmoil. It was no longer hip to be a dumb fighter. We had to be a dumb fighter with character. Boys found girls, and homework, and other distractions from the game. Instead of elves and wizards, we became interested in vampires and werewolves. No longer content with a white hat warrior and a black hat magician mentality, the game became about relationships, loss, and salvation.
My next character, after years spent in the wilderness of normalcy (if being in the clutches of video games and school can be considered normal), was one of the last kings of Scotland, turned into a vampire after killing his wife in a fit of jealous rage. I then commited suicide after having found out that she had been set up, but alas, vampires are immortal and lacking the knowledge to successfully kill myself, I did not die. Instead I fell into a coma until I woke up in the 1990s, pissed off and bewildered by this new reality.
A soap opera with machine guns and pointy teeth.
After the King of Angst was savaged by rabid werewolves in the spirit world, my next character was hip. Jeremiah the assassin/vampire didn’t let anyone stand in his way. I had a sniper rifle and a custom desert eagle with a laser scope. I could also shapechange into a wolf, a bat, or even a ghostly mist. I even had designer sunglasses. How cool is that?
Unlike so many others, Jeremiah did not die. I retired him. He was ruining the game because there is such a thing, afterall, of being too cool, or too excluded, whichever way you want to look at it. Even a fantastical character can become ostracized.
My final vampire was stolen from the Disney TV series, “Gargoyles.” I was an eight-foot-tall, stony, barrel-chested, demonic vampire with huge bat wings. And a conscience. My name was Gorath. I had a large mace. A brawler you might say. Of course, since I was maturing, I was a brawler with character.