Fantasy and Reality

I watch the rain pattering on the window. There’s no gentle wind or thunder, but that’s fine; it beats the ice and snow we endured not too long ago. The lawn and trees especially seem greener and perkier, their newly-growing spring foliage swaying beneath the drab gray clouds floating overhead.

Then, a stranger holding a tattered umbrella and wearing sanitary gear walks onto our neighborhood's pock-marked street. He glances toward me, and I look away, back to my second-hand computer. My eyes then dance across a news article published minutes ago about a mayor from one county over imploring everyone to stop shooting each other for one flipping second so hospitals will have more room for pandemic victims.

I shut the blinds.

My body jolts as my enviably oblivious kitten bounds into my lap, begging for scratchies. Chuckling, I oblige her, but then I muster up the courage - or stupidity - to peek outside at our home’s empty driveway.

“Okay, everyone!” my mother calls from two rooms away. “Dinner’s ready!”

I sit my computer aside and ignore a sullen, displaced meow before traveling into the kitchen. Mom’s there, finishing four plates of turkey half-sandwiches, and so are my two younger, teenage brothers, who barely keep themselves from drooling.

“Smells great, Mom!” says green-eyed Cameron, flipping his red-brown ponytail behind his head and away from a blob of mustard.

Black-haired, blue-eyed, immuno-deficient Jack nods. “Yeah! Thanks a bunch!”

“Anything for my darlings,” Mom says before looking at me, her fudge-haired, mocha-eyed mirror. “You, too, dear. Grab your things, and let’s head for the table.”

Returning her smile with a grateful, “Thanks,” I select a plate and enter the dining room. It’s a warm and cozy placeーthough the candles certainly help. Even so, my eyes dart to the lightless bulbs overhead, drained dry from financial hemorrhaging no longer staunched by Mom's crappy jobs, lost for almost two months now. We’ve little money to spare for even the scant groceries that made tonight's meal—or the timing and luck to find them—and with Jack’s poor health, only Dad’s been heading into town for supplies. Then again, Dad’s also a policeman.

Somehow, I don’t feel much better knowing that…

“Hey, come on,” Cam says, elbowing me back to reality. I then re-hear everyone’s stomachs complaining about today’s meager lunch. “Let’s eat already!”

Dinner slips steadily through our fingers though we savor each transient bite. Enriched bleached white bread, deli turkey loaded with salt and artificial preservatives, mustard, bruised and wilted veggies, and some stale chips badly faking the tastes of mozzarella and marinara become a king’s feast, bursting with delicious flavor. As I shake the last precious crumbs down my throat, I can hear my empty plate wailing.

We thank Mom, whose eyes brighten despite dark circles, and then clean things up.

“Alright!” Mom announces before reaching for a worn but colorful cardboard box on the floor. “Time to play Caverns & Creatures, everyone!”

Soon, booklets, maps, character sheets, and transparent crimson dice of all shapes and sides cover the table. I gather up my own sheet as resident game master Cam finally gathers his notes.

“Okie-dokie,” he says after reading things over. “So, last time, on Caverns & Creatures, the noble Darkhunters slew the evil black-and-red dragon Trogdorr—”

Jack snickers. “‘Trogdorr…’” 

“—the dread Lord of the Northwolf Mountains,” Cam continues, “and freed his enslaved subjects. Now, we find ourselves resting in the city of Winterfall. It’s freezing cold and has been raining for days. Though everyone’s doing well, cabin fever is spreading throughout our inn. However, since Trogdorr is vanquished, we don’t currently have any jobs on our hands.” He—both the omnipotent and omnipresent Cam’Narra’Tor and also Fangburn Half-Orc of the Necromantic Sword—glances around the table. “What do you want to do?”

“Play a really fun board game?” Jack—Gim-Lee Ironaxe, the legendarily soft-spoken dwarf—suggests.

“How meta,” I say. Then, as Aizaak Fawkes, the blessed human champion of Pel’orr, god of light and goodness, I growl, “Let’s hit the road already. It’s just bad weather, and I’m getting tired of this place. I can only stand being cooped up with everybody’s stench and the same five kinds of ale for so long...”

Mom—elfin Princess Clariel the Moon-Touched—half-hums. “It would be nice to stretch my legs outside. The walls and chairs and things tell such interesting stories, and their voices are so soothing at night, but...”

“Their delivery is a little wooden?” Aizaak asks.

Everyone laughs, myself softest of all. Feeling the void in the chair to my right, I look over my shoulder at the front door. Around us, the pattering rain has worsened into a downpour.

“You know, Cat-Dad’s been gone for a while,” Aizaak muses quietly. “I wonder where he’s gotten to...”

The laughter falters.

“Maybe he’s killed all the mice and is bored with preserved fish?” Gim-Lee asks tentatively, his fingers scratching through a spoiled black and white kitten’s fur. “He does hate being cooped up, too…”

Fangburn grunts. “No worry about Cat-Dad. Is cat, and Dad. Takes care of self.”

“Fang-a-burnie is right,” Clariel singsongs. She then pirouettes over to Aizaak, poses on the tiptoes of one foot, and takes his hand. “Cat-Dad is Cat-Dad, and he's perfectly alright. My absolutely gorgeous tiara says so.”

Mom’s fingers come to rest over my knuckles. Two pairs of chocolate eyes glimmer in the candlelight.

“Right?” she asks.

After a moment, I smile and squeeze her hand. “Right.” Then, Aizaak snarls, “Ugh, get off me, woman. I don’t wanna catch your creepy.”

“Aw! It’s so sweet how you try to hide how much you really care, my little grumpy-pants!” chimes Clariel. “And you don’t ‘catch’ creepy; you grow it!” She leans in and whispers, “It tastes like horseradish.”

Aizaak gives her an...odd...look. “What is wrong with you?”

“Suddenly,” Cam’Narra’Tor says, “a Northwolf messenger bursts into the inn. Soaking wet and shivering, he slams the door behind him and screams that the innkeeper should barricade us inside.”

“What wrong, invisible but amazing voice in sky?” Fangburn calls.

Aizaak snorts. “‘Amazing.’ Hah!”

One eye twitching, Cam’Narra’Tor answers, “The messenger tells everyone that a plague is spreading through Winterfall.”

A sudden gust of wind batters the house.

“...a bit close to home, don’t you think?” I ask slowly, looking at Mom and Jack.

“Yeah...” Cam admits, “but I got inspired and made a really good story!” His eyes brim with entreaty. “I promise!”

Mom smiles. “I’m fine with it. We’ve survived darker things.”

“...yeah,” says Jack with a faintly stiff nod that bounces his hair. “This’ll be fun!” He glances to me. “Right?”

Then, Cam turns his puppy-dog eyes and trembling lower lip against my resolve, and I relent with a simple, “...okay.”

“Not again...” Aizaak crosses his arms. “It’s not a blood plague, is it? I had enough of that nastiness the first time.”

“Me, too,” says Gim-Lee, shuddering.

Fangburn laughs. “No worries! You die, I revive as minions!”

“Oh,” Aizaak derides, “that’s comforting.”

Cam’Narra’Tor continues, “According to the messenger, the plague is a highly contagious respiratory sickness. The old, very young, and those otherwise weakened are hit hardest, and many have already died—so many, in fact, that the Northwolf territories are having trouble handling things.”

“Well, that escalated quickly,” remarks Aizaak.

Gim-Lee looks puzzled. “Yeah. Didn’t we, like, only just find out about this?”

“Magic, perhaps?” guesses Clariel.

Aizaak shrugs. “Makes sense. Now, messenger,” he twirls a black dagger, “are you infected?”

Fangburn chortles and rubs his blade, glimmering with dark magic.

“The messenger gives you all a terrified look and says no,” Cam’Narra’Tor says. “The innkeeper, however, agrees to close up shop. Before he does, though, he says that anyone who wants to leave should go now, but you aren’t coming back in. Afterward, the inn stays closed until the outbreak is contained. No exceptions.

“How do you respond?”

We stay despite Aizaak’s griping. Days become weeks, though everyone tries to make the best of things. Though Cat-Dad doesn’t reappear, we assume he doesn’t want to risk our lives and is holed up somewhere safe. 

In time, however, the inn’s stock eventually runs low, and the outbreak shows no signs of stopping.

Then, Aizaak, in a near-desperate midnight hunt for food, stumbles upon a secret passage in the cellar. With some doing, our team sneaks down into the depths with Clariel’s magic lighting the way. After a small eternity of then navigating a trap-lined labyrinth, we enter a large cavern deep beneath Winterfall.

A thriving black market stretches out before us. From our hiding place, Clariel especially makes a horrified noise as we observe, among food and other trafficked goods, dozens of cages containing a myriad of badly mistreated and crying animals. The scents of blood and blood magic hang especially thick in the air.

“A butchery,” Aizaak murmurs, gripping his knives.

“How awful,” says Gim-Lee, who comforts Clariel.

We then sneak further into the hive of scum, villainy, and desperation while struggling to keep Fangburn’s anger issues in check. Some black marketeers and their customers in sanitary outfits mill around, but they don’t see us.

Suddenly, Clariel spies a familiar, blue-eyed black cat in a small cage. An identification tag is stapled through his ear.

“Beloved!” she gasps, nearly blowing our cover. Her halfling-turned-cat fiancee rubs up against the bars and into her fingertips. “What happened to you?”

“I got caught by some poachers,” Cam-as-Cade-Bluebarrel replies. “Then, they brought me to this place.” With a horrified look, he then says, “The Northwolf plague started here. Someone got the bright idea to butcher a bespelled jungle bat without cleaning things properly.”

“How horrible…” Clariel breaths.

Fangburn's teeth grind. “Wish it just infect these guys."

“Come on. Let’s get him out,” whispers Aizaak, he and Gim-Lee barely holding back the half-orc. “Quickly!”

Fortunately, Cat-Dad is successfully freed, and we begin creeping out of the cave.

Then, Fangburn breaks free of us. With a...bloodcurdling...warcry of, “LEEROOOOOOOOOYYYY JEEEEEENKIIIIIIINSSSSS!” he leaps into the middle of some marketeers and starts slashing.

In moments, a vicious and rather confusing battle ensues. Aizaak’s roguish predilections, Gim-Lee’s axe, Clariel’s magic, Fangburn’s necromantic sword, and Cat-Dad’s teeth and claws lash out in all directions. Cages break open and bonds are shattered, letting animals both normal and magical swarm everywhere. Wild magics explode and interact all around the cavern, turning it into an enchanted minefield, and one rather peeved mind-peeler dragon decides to try and devour the brains of everyone present. In the bloody chaos, however, most of the surviving marketeers forsake battle and flee for their lives.

Despite a score of injuries, most of our group barely manages to evade the dragon thanks to all the eldritch magic around us. Now, with our efforts and many resources exhausted, including a very deceased Gim-Lee, we once again try escaping to the inn.

A hand rockets from the darkness of the labyrinth and snatches up the weakened Cade. Then, a lingering marketeer holds a knife to his throat.

“The criminal demands the Darkhunters' immediate and unconditional surrender, now,” Cam’Narra’Tor says. “Otherwise, Cat-Dad’s neck is getting a new sieve.”

“Must you be so crass about it?” Aizaak asks, dropping his knives.

Simmering with anger, Fangburn releases his sword and Gim-Lee’s axe.

Clariel holds up her empty hands but, looking just beyond the marketeer, says, “Oh, hello there, little acidic pudding. Do you want something to eat now that you’re free?” 

“The man doesn’t believe you,” says Cam’Narra’Tor. “He tells you to shut up, and one more word means Cat-Dad dies.”

With an inhumanly blithe smile, Clariel shuts up. Beside her, Aizaak shrugs, and Fangburn chuckles. From within the marketeer’s hands, Cat-Dad flits his ears toward the darkness behind his captor, puffs up, and hisses in fear.

After a safe-by-one-number roll, Cam’Narra’Tor continues, “You successfully unnerve the criminal, barely. Still holding the knife to Cat-Dad’s throat, he turns to make a quick look over his shoulder.”

Clariel casts the absolute last of her magic.

The ice spell zooms toward the criminal. He whirls around and begins slicing his knife across Cat-Dad’s jugular. 

Aizaak and Fangburn tense, the former crying out in fear.

In the real world, a die spins on one axis. 

Toddles. 

Falls. 

Lands on the almighty number ‘0’.

Clariel’s spell strikes home a split-second before Cat-Dad bleeds like a stuck pig. The marketeer can't even scream before he is a block of ice.

And then an acidic pudding seeps from the shadows and devours him whole.

“Well, that was conveniently and unnecessarily gruesome,” Aizaak remarks as he runs.

“The impeccable voice of this world’s fair and just yarn-spinning deity reminds you that this is a fantasy, that evil should not get off scot-free, and thanks you for your understanding,” Cam’Narra’Tor says smugly.

Aizaak harrumphs before muttering, “Vain and touchy much?”

Cam’Narra’Tor sends him a saccharine smile. “The same deity suggests Aizaak might also spontaneously turn into a goldfish if he keeps being a rude little smart-alec.”

No goldfish included, the Darkhunters flee into the labyrinth. However, completely exhausted, we find a relatively safe place to hunker down for the night and plan to return to the inn tomorrow.

"Whoo!" Jack cheers. "What a ride!"

"Very creative and exciting," Mom adds. "Well done, dear."

“Thanks!" Cam says. “You know, we should probably stop here so we can all prepare for the next round.”

“Why?” Jack asks.

“Well, think about it.” Cam's eyes sparkle anew. “With the fallout from the plague as well as the potential implications of a hidden and potentially extensive black market system, there’s bound to be interesting challenges like," he numbers things off on his fingers, "corrupt governments, fear-mongering, shadow organizations, geopolitical paradoxes… Oh, and monsters. Lots of monsters.”

The edges of Mom’s next smile don’t quite reach her eyes. “Think of all the good story possibilities,” she says, “and how it opens our characters up to react as at least mostly decent people.”

“I thought this was a fantasy, oh-so-glorious Cam’Narra’Tor,” I jibe on her behalf. “You know, that thing we use to escape from overdoses of reality, which is kind of why we started this game in the first place? Or did you waste all those impeccability points on your voice and presentation rather than intelligence and substance?”

“...you aren’t un-convincing me about the whole goldfish thing, you know,” Cam sneers as Jack and Mom laugh.

“What you four use to escape, you mean,” Jack soon says, fiddling with the edges of his character sheet and sniffing dramatically. “I’m dead now.”

Cam pats his shoulder. “Aw, cheer up, baby bro. You can always make a new character, or we can revive you with basic stats. After all,” he gives Jack a one-armed hug, “I know someone who could use a good minion~!”

I smile before glancing at the door again. Nothing but blackness shows through the window as the four of us get ready for bed. When lightning cracks over the house, I start as if shot and nearly choke on my meds. 

Then, the front door’s latch turns without warning. 

I whirl around.

My heart gallops at a shrouded figure coming inside.

I reach for an imaginary knife.

With a tired toss of his head, Dad removes the hood of his blue poncho as he steps fully inside and closes the door. A couple of plastic Wally-Mart bags filled with groceries hang in his hands. After he removes his gear, sets down the sacks, and washes up, Mom, Jack, Cam, and I rush over and envelop him in a tight group hug.

“Well, hello there,” Dad rumbles. “What’s all the fuss about?”

Mom kisses him on the cheek. “Oh, nothing much, beloved. We just had a very thrilling C&C session tonight, is all.”

“Aw, really?” His blue eyes twinkle beneath his short black hair. “I’m sorry I missed it. Someone else called in sick today, and headquarters had me work some overtime to help cover for them.”

“Did everything go well?” Mom asks.

Dad nods. “Sure. Was pretty quiet. Not many people out anymore, especially since the precincts are cracking down thanks to Baltimore.”

Mom sighs in relief. “That’s good.”

My siblings and I leave them alone to sort through the groceries in the kitchen, with Cam and myself cleansing everything as best we can. A gallon of milk, some bologna (which I hate), and other odds and ends eventually find their new homes between the fridge and the pantry.

“That’s all they had left,” Dad announces, his expression perfectly straight. “Everything else was picked clean by the time I got to the store.” He then chuckles and asks, “You’d think zombies were roaming the streets by how everyone’s acting, huh?”

Facing the fridge’s rather emaciated insides, I feel my stomach twinge, but I say nothing. Off to my right, I hear Cam and Jack shift from foot to foot beneath soft chuffs of amusement.

“Well, we still have clean running water,” Mom says, “and some intermittent fasting will do us good, I think.” She pokes at her mild love handles. “I’ve been wanting to shed some pounds anyway. Now, I really don’t have an excuse!”

“Me neither,” replies Dad, patting his semi-existent abs. “Maybe I can get my dashing age-twenty body back finally.” Then, he smirks. “You know, Cam’s got some extra flab around his head that could really go, too, come to think of it...”

Cam sputters with faux-indignance, and then another, more genuine round of laughter makes its way through our family. Before we go to bed, we share another close group hug, and I imagine this moment crystallizing around us forever.

“We’ll be alright,” Dad murmurs, his grip stone and his body a willow tree. “Fate’s dice keep rolling, and one day, somehow, we’ll be alright.”

Thunder booms overhead.

“We’ll be alright,” I whisper, burying my face into Dad's shoulder. “One day. Somehow. We’ll be alright…”