The Line

An Apocryphal Story entitled

The Line

Copyright 1996 by Rich Staats

All characters, actions and “schtuff” depicted in 
this story are fictional.  Any resemblance between 
the characters and persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.  However, the story is 
dedicated to a real person.  Someone whom 
many will miss.  Jon Roorda touched the lives of 
many.  He is remembered with fondness.  Jon, this 
one is for you.  Caution, this tale might not be 
suitable for younger readers.  It chilled my blood as I 
wrote it.

	The flashing red and blue lights shimmered 
brilliantly off the broken glass. The common room 
lights were out with the power, and the emergency 
lights did little to dispel the horror and gloom.  
Leon’s body lay in a pool of what appeared to be 
liquid tar in the bad, intermittent light.  A jagged, 
gory soda bottle lay to his side. The other gamers all 
gaped on with dazed looks except for Russell who 
cackled on to himself  “the evil is dead; I killed the 
infiltrator!”  I shook my head in shock and disbelief.  
How did it come to this?  Where exactly had we 
crossed the line between fantasy and reality?

	I prided myself on running a good 
campaign.  It should have been good.  I had 
been doing it for years.  The gaming world was big 
and complex with plenty of detail.  I had a wealth of 
experience to draw on; as a member of the armed 
forces, I had lived all over the world, experienced 
foreign cultures from the inside, and conducted 
patrols under hostile conditions.  When I described 
the party members’ hearts pounding in their throats, 
I was describing something I had felt.

	Maybe it was my own passion about the 
campaign that translated into the players taking 
things too seriously.  Maybe it was deeper. Was  I 
responsible for this tragedy?  I had commanded 
hundreds of soldiers and had sent them into 
dangerous situations --- sometimes to their deaths.  I 
had seen more than my share of young fatalities; 
still, Leon’s death struck me as particularly 
senseless, meaningless, and his death was not the 
only one weighing on my soul in recent days.

	As a commissioned officer, I was expected 
to do my share of community service.  Some officers 
chose to work with the special Olympics or the 
scouts, I was always drawn to the youth centers to 
help with the youngsters there.  Possibly it was 
because I came from such a large family growing up.  
I had forty some first and second cousins.  As the 
oldest of the lot, I was expected to help entertain 
them at family get togethers.  Games had been a 
natural way of getting the kids together both in the 
family and in the military bases around the world.

	I was drawn to role-playing because of its 
apparent connection with the occult.  My 
grandmother had claimed to be a witch, and my 
uncle Otto had been a collector of the weird and 
wonderful.  One of his chests contained books and 
scraps of paper with what Otto claimed were “spells 
set down by his grandmother, a witch.”  My 
grandmother, Otto’s sister, had branded my foot 
when I was twelve.  She said it would give me the 
control to “call up the powers.”  Like all her ravings, 
I dismissed this.  After all, who could believe an old 
woman who left 16 year old pizzas in her freezer 
when she died?  Even though I was active in the 
Church, my interest in the occult did not diminish 
over time.

	What could be more natural than doing 
wargames and role-playing with “my kids” in the 
youth centers as I called them?  

	The years had produced a lot of success 
stories.  There were kids who got turned around in 
school.  I wistfully recalled one mom who had told 
the recreation center director that I had to take her 
kid into the gaming group.  Things worked out.  He 
and his brother Chuck had gone from high school 
dropouts to graduates with good jobs.   I had been at 
gamers’ weddings, graduations and confirmations.  I 
had even had a couple of my gamers name their 
children after me.

	I would have traded all that to bring Leon 
back.

	I struggled to think of what was different 
about this campaign.  Why now?  Why with this 
group?  Where did the descent into madness begin?  

	They were brighter than my average 
gaming group had been.  MIT tended to attract folks 
who were bright and passionate about what they did.  

	Russell was the first one I met.  Oddly, we 
got to know each other at a church retreat.  I was 
“horn swaggled” into driving for the foray.  (Most of 
the congregation was composed of undergraduates 
who had neither licenses or access to automobiles; at 
all of thirty years, I was the well resourced “grey 
beard” in the crowd.)  Russell was tall, lanky and 
blond.  A standard activity at these retreats was to go 
around the circle and describe yourself.  When it got 
to me, I mentioned that I played RPGs.  Russell 
came up to me afterward and brought up the fact that 
his dorm had a core RPG group who had recently 
lost its gamemaster.  I volunteered to come over for a 
session or two.

	When I arrived at MIT, it was just another 
assignment to me.  I didn’t think I would have time 
to do gaming, but I was separated from my family 
(which was still at Fort Polk) and feeling pretty 
lonely.  Most important, I missed being around some 
younger, lively people.  The majority of the folks in 
the military were under 25 years of age, and they 
certainly knew how to have fun.  My fellow “grad” 
students tended to be a dour lot who focused on their 
studies just to keep their heads above water.  I wasn’t 
feeling the same level of academic stress; so, I 
agreed to meet Russell’s friends.   

	The group was fairly reticent when I 
arrived, but when I pulled out my sound effects, 
detailed maps and calligraphic handouts, the group 
became more lively.  I sized up the group and tried 
to get a feel for the dynamics; anything can be 
helpful in planning scenarios and getting sessions to 
hum along.  

	Russell was the group leader and had 
clearly assembled those present.  Russell was both 
highly religious and a type AA personality.  He kept 
detailed notes and filed the group’s handouts in a 
binder.  

	Leon was Russell’s roommate at the time.  
Leon was heavy set and sported a half-hearted goatee 
and an old, stained tie-dyed top.  When Leon 
laughed, you knew that someone had fallen for a 
ploy of his and was about to be the butt of a joke.  
Still, under his seething intellect, there was a kind 
core.  He was the kind of guy who would rip you up 
with his sharp with and then give you the shirt off 
his back.  

	Santiago sat to Leon’s left.  Santiago was a 
soft spoken, friendly man.  His smile was disarming, 
and Santiago tended to act as a moderating influence 
on the group.  

	Harmon sat opposite me at the far end of 
the table.  He was short with quick eyes, and he 
asked a lot of technical questions about game 
mechanics.  

	The last member of the party was Pete.  He 
took everything in and swirled it through his 
dizzying intellect.  When he acted, you knew that 
whatever objective he sought was caught in his grasp 
just as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow.  Pete 
favored complicated plot twists and engaging, multi-
dimensional NPCs.

	The campaign took off like a rocket.  The 
group drank in every detail.  Every handout was 
analyzed, and each NPC was treated as a valuable 
clue in a complex mystery.  The more time I put into 
the campaign, the more information the group 
wanted.  I was getting calls three or four times a day 
from the gamers asking about aspects of the 
campaign and information their characters might 
know.  

	It was a heady time.  

	The players were drawn naturally into the 
world.  The actions inside its confines made sense.  
There was an internal consistency.  By the time the 
campaign started, I had been running games in the 
same world for twelve years.  When I shut my eyes, I 
could see the NPCs, hear the squeak of the wagon 
wheels and smell the dust in the air.  Pretty soon, I 
could shut my eyes and see my players looking 
around in the world too.  The players started 
engaging in conversations like “hey Russell, what do 
you figure that field of purple flowers smells like?  I 
think they probably have a scent vaguely like lilac, 
but with a bitter tang.”  

	It became obvious that the players were 
spending a great deal of time outside the campaign 
planning and discussing actions in the gaming 
sessions.  I got to be a little nervous about the 
players’ academic averages and insisted that we 
spend some time doing non-gaming related 
activities.  The players all came from a single dorm 
at MIT, and pretty soon the other students in the 
dorm began to be involved in our non-gaming 
activities.  Rather than interjecting more distance 
into the gaming group, it cemented the group 
members and I more closely together.

	I started to withdraw from the campaign 
once my wife and three children arrived.  The gang 
from the dorm helped me fix up a wonderful, old 
captain’s house built in 1835.  The place had ten 
bedrooms, four fireplaces and a huge spiral staircase.  
When we began our labors of love, it was not much 
to look at, but as time went on, it was transformed as 
sure as a caterpillar turns into a butterfly.

	Our collective blood and sweat and tears 
turned the brick, board and mortar into a home.  

	Although our gaming time went down, I 
still did things with the group, and my eldest 
daughter used to remark that the house as always full 
of “moms and dads without kids.”  It was a common 
occurrence for me to come home from classes and 
research and find my living room filled with five or 
six folks from the dorm, playing with my children 
and watching TV.  The house became a home away 
from home for the dorm members.

	About that time, the marriage went to hell.

	It started out subtlety like my wife kicking a 
chair apart in front of me and throwing knives.  
When my four year old started routinely placing 
herself between her mother and me saying “Mommy 
stop being mean to Daddy!,” I knew it was time to 
do something.  After trying counseling and other 
options, it became obvious that one of us would have 
to vacate the home.  The police just laughed at me 
when I told them I felt threatened.  My lawyer told 
me that there was no chance for me to get the kids in 
Massachusetts as an active duty service member.

	I beat a hasty retreat with as much dignity 
as I could.  That wasn’t much.

	I threw myself into my studies and the 
campaign.  It became the Campaign.

	I cried myself to sleep and made handouts.  
I spent hours working on NPCs and encounters.  The 
level of complexity of the Campaign increased 
tenfold.

	About this time Leon approached me with a 
novel idea.  Feverishly, I turned the concept around 
in my mind.  Leon wanted to run a character who 
was secretly part of the group the party was trying to 
ferret out.  In the end, Leon’s mission for his 
character was to prevent the party from recovering 
the Orb of Power.

	The players were drawn into my maelstrom 
of emotional energy.  Some members of the group 
began leaving notes for each other, hidden in the 
dorm written in one of the languages of the 
Campaign.

	Some of the players became so involved 
with the Campaign that intra-party strife caused 
several of them to stop speaking together outside of 
the sessions.  Everyone knew something was up, but 
no one could figure out what.  The party knew that 
someone or something had too much information 
and seemed to be one step ahead of them.  It vexed 
them and tortured their spirits.  Leon laughed a lot.

	I gave up on sleep.  I started writing title 
articles for major journals.  I ran colloquiums and 
did seminars.  And the Campaign ... the Campaign 
... it became a mosaic of beauty, intricate and subtle 
in its the parts, and the whole was breath taking.

	I was producing work at a volume that 
should have left me panting.  Still, hard work is the 
morphine of the soul, and I had a lot of sorrow to 
drown.  I called my eldest on her birthday, and she 
hung up on me.  I was loosing my children as 
inexorably as the forces of Tim Hel were grinding 
the Kingdom of Slotara to dust ... with a little help 
from within.

	There were conspiracies within 
conspiracies.  I plotted the voices the NPCs would 
use.  I ran sound effects till all hours of the night.  I 
took all the players suggestions, embellished them 
and used them in the Campaign.

	All the while the party circled closer to the 
Orb of Power.

	I came over to the dorm one night to find 
Russell had barricaded himself in his room.  I went 
up to talk to him, and he let me in, revealing he was 
about to burn the party contract.   Our conversation 
was tense.

	“Russell, why are you doing this?”	“They 
are violating the spirit of the contract!  It means 
nothing; it is just a scrap of paper.”	“Russell, it is just 
a game.  Let’s go get some ice cream.”	“It is not 
a game.  Can’t you see that!  You can tell a lot about 
a person from the way they play these role-playing 
games.  These people are evil!  They have to be 
stopped!”

	With that, Russell lit the document on fire.  
He must have soaked the contract in something 
beforehand, because it burned in a sickly green 
flame.  (It was probably some copper salt.)

	Russell apologized to the other gamers, and 
things appeared to go back to normal.  Leon in 
particular went out of his way to mollify Russell.  
That same night Leon called me on the phone to 
reveal his next bit of brilliant intrigue.

	Harmon’s girl friend dumped him the next 
week, and he played his character recklessly during 
the weekend session.  Harmon’s grades dropped, and 
his character became suicidal.  He made some 
mistakes, and his character was killed.  Harmon 
gave me the strangest smile as he walked away from 
the session.  He said he did not need to roll another 
character up.

	No one heard Harmon tie the rope to the 
banister.  No one noticed the sound of his body 
trying to drop thirty feet and being stopped short at 
twelve by the rope attached to his neck.

	Everyone heard Kimberly scream that 
morning when she got up to run that following 
morning.  Near as the coroner could tell, Harmon 
killed himself at celestial midnight on Candlemas.  I 
didn’t show the investigators the strange note I got 
in the mail from Harmon two days later.  I burned 
the circle and scribed runes and threw out the ashes.  
I bathed for a long time that night, but the slippery 
feel of the ashes would not leave my skin.

	Santiago was Harmon’s roommate.  
According to school policy, Santiago could have 
taken a semester off with no penalty for losing a 
roommate to suicide.  But, Santiago declined.

	Santiago did not want to miss the 
Campaign sessions.

	The gaming time became more tense.  It 
was our solace and our hell.

	We started to play three times per week.

	Gaunt faces, hair raising escapes and feats 
of self sacrifice and bravery dominated our lives.

	I lost twenty pounds in two months without 
trying.  My children asked not to see me on 
Christmas.

	No matter what they did though, the party 
members could never outmaneuver the forces of Tim 
Hel.  They were just too clever, or they were getting 
help from a confederate.  

	Pete put the cleverly disguised clues 
together.   I thought it was over the session when his 
character asked a divination that revealed a traitor in 
their midst.

	I’ll never know what Leon did, but the next 
session Pete and Leon both made a show of trying to 
find the conspirator.

	The air was filled with paranoia.  Leon was 
in his prime, but everyone was looking over their 
shoulders.  Party members came and went to the 
sessions in groups.

	They didn’t trust each other alone.

	Santiago’s girlfriend left him.  She said he 
should marry the gaming group since it occupied all 
his time.

	Russell began to attend church three times 
per week.  He asked me to pray that he would find 
the strength to do what must be done.  Somehow, 
Russell’s moods seemed to improve during the 
gaming sessions.  I asked Russell what was up.  He 
said I knew, but that he knew like God, I was always 
fair.  He would not be found wanting when the time 
came he said.

	The children’s mother won full custody and 
moved out of the state.  She left a note saying that 
she wanted no child support or alimony.  She never 
wanted me to see or speak to her or the children 
again.  I felt a black pit opening beneath me.

	I tried to stop the Campaign, but it proved 
impossible.  We did take a brief hiatus.  Though, like 
a junky hooked on horse, we crawled back to the 
table, retching from our lack of will and indecision.

	Pete announced in an understated way one 
evening that he had figured out where the Orb 
rested.  He was right.  I stopped the session after the 
party made preparation for the journey.  I wanted the 
session where they found the Orb to be perfect.

	As the session broke up, Russell asked what 
special preparations the party members might have 
made.  I mentioned that as members of the Thaliban 
Society of Light, they would most likely have fasted 
before taking up the last leg of this holy quest and 
surely they would wear white garments on the day 
they brought glory to the forces of Light and Good.

	Pete remarked as I departed that the end 
was at hand, and all mysteries would be revealed.  In 
the distance somewhere heat lightning boomed 
across the sky.

	I made handouts the likes of which I had 
never made before.  I dug out some of my old uncle 
Otto’s documents.  Usually I mixed my inks.  I was 
particularly proud of a combination of scarlet and 
green that looked like dried blood, but when I made 
my documents that night, I didn’t cut corners.  I 
wanted everything to be perfect.  I felt dizzy as I 
inscribed the words on the parchment “O Magna 
Porta!  Adoramus tibi!”  I looped and curled the 
words into a mosaic, and it truly appeared magical as 
I finished the last touches in burnished gold leaf.

	The sky crackled angrily at me the night of 
our last session.  As I reached the doorway, I was 
greeted by one of our movie watching regulars, 
Pattie.  She remarked “you sure are lucky!  I thought 
the skies would have opened up by now.”  I waved 
my hand absently and said “they can start any time 
now.”

	It began pouring outside.  Pattie looked at 
me queerly and helped me carry my props to the 
room.

	All the party members including Leon were 
dressed in white robes.  They had glassy eyes.  I 
recognized the signs of fasting.  I should have; I 
hadn’t eaten solid food in three days at that point.

	The session was high-strung from the start.  
As the party entered the temple complex, the tension 
grew.  Each encounter brought the group to its feet.  
The thunder shook the plate glass of the common 
room.

	When the party found some potions, I gave 
Pete and Russell some money to buy the group soft 
drinks.  I explained that it would not be a dishonor to 
the gods to drink the healing draughts.  Pete and 
Russell had chosen some classy beverages in real 
glass bottles, a commemorative edition of some type.  
We all toasted their impending success that evening.

	The party entered the final chamber.  I 
darkened the lights and set up props while the 
players waited outside.  I turned on the floods to the 
strains of the Carmina Burana as the party entered 
the common room in march order.  I awaited them 
dressed in robes of black, surrounded by a cloud of 
incense.

	The Orb glistened on the table before me.  I 
whispered a greeting to the group and raised my 
hands to cast a spell.  They made their rolls, but 
none were quick or accurate enough to stop me.  The 
forces of darkness sent a thrill through my body as I 
sealed the four corners of the room.  Another wave 
of attacks came, and I revealed that one of their 
midst was a traitor.  Leon jumped up to serve our 
dark masters.  As he came forward to seize the Orb, I 
intoned the words of the spell on the parchment 
before me.  Russell and Santiago looked on in 
horror, and Pete gave Leon a conspiratorial grin.  

	Leon picked up the Orb and turned to face 
the remainder of the party.  I finished the spell 
which should have blasted them out of existence.

	The lightning bolt blasted the window 
behind me with a deafening roar, spraying me with 
shards of jagged glass.  My black robes protected me 
from most of the lacerations, but the bolt knocked 
me to the ground.  The power went out at the same 
time.  I heard the muffled sound of Leon’s laughter 
and then another glass smashing.

	Leon’s laughter abruptly ceased.

	I was still incoherent when the police 
arrived.

	Later these servants of Thaliban detained 
me again when some Quislings noted me carving the 
sacred symbols of Tim Hel in my arms.

	They hold me still, but these walls are 
nothing.  I could melt them with my gaze alone if I 
wanted.  But, I am patient.  My time will come.  Tim 
Hel whispers to me that he will be pleased only once 
I bring more sacrifices to him.

	I play the games and give the answers these 
puppets of Thaliban want to hear.  Soon I will be 
free to fulfill Tim Hel’s desires once again.  Tim Hel 
assures me all will be well.  

	I know he is right.

	You see.  I know everything.

	
I am God
.

Links