The first thing that they noticed was that no cards were used, nor were there any playing pieces. There were no wheels or boards, and the players were in teams. Instead of a dealer, there was a sort of gamemaster who directed the play. Each player assumed a character at the beginning of the game and rolled dice to determine the character’s abilities. The gamemaster then presented them with an imaginary scenario through which they had to play, as teams, supporting one another with their respective skills. One character might be a thief, another might be a druid, still another a fighter or an adept, and so forth. And the game that they had stopped to watch just happened to be called, ironically, “The Lost Treasure of Bodach.”
The players had already chosen their characters and rolled to determine their strengths and abilities. They had already completed the preliminary rounds, and now the climax of the game was about to begin.
“You have just entered the lost city of Bodach,” said the gamemaster to the players. He proceeded to set the stage for them. “It has been a long and dusty journey on a hot, sweltering day, and you are all exhausted. You long to rest, but you cannot, because you know that in another hour’s time, the sun will go down, and then the undead will creep forth from i their lairs, where they molder throughout the day. i Therefore, your first priority must be to find a place to hide, a shelter that is defensible, where you may spend the night in safety-inasmuch as one can ever be safe in the city of the undead, of course. If you succeed in finding such a shelter, then perhaps the undead will not find you. On the other hand,” he paused dramatically “... perhaps they shall. There is no predicting what may happen in the city of doomed souls. But for now, remember that you have but one hour before the sun goes down. Consider what you choose to do next very carefully.”
Sorak and Ryana noticed that they were not the only ones who had stopped to watch and listen. A number of other people were standing around, observing the play with fascination. It was, in a way, much like watching a small, informal theatrical production of an improvisational nature. The players had to improvise, because they had no idea what the gamemaster would present them with next. He was die only one who had a script. And the players had to improvise in character, just like actors on a stage.
“As you stand inside the ancient city gates,” the gamemaster continued, “you see a narrow street stretching out before you, leading to a plaza with a large fountain that has been dry for countless generations. All around are ancient buildings, crumbling into ruin. Sand blows across the streets, piling up into small dunes against the ruined building walls. As you approach the plaza, you see that it is littered with hones, the skeletons of adventurers just like yourselves who came to Bodach in search of the lost treasure and found, instead, their deaths. As you approach still closer, you see that many of these bones are broken, snapped open so that the marrow could have been sucked out, and many of these bones also bear the marks of chewing.”
The players glanced at one another uneasily. The gamemaster had a deep, mellifluous and dramatic voice, and he knew how to use it to its best effect. They could all see in their minds’ eyes the image that he was constructing for them, and his presentation had them all caught up in the illusion he was spinning out.
“Beyond the ancient bones,” he continued, “on the opposite side of the fountain, three streets radiate outward from the plaza. One of these streets leads straight north and affords a clear and unobstructed view. One leads to the northwest, but it curves off sharply to the left after thirty or forty yards, so that you cannot see what lies beyond this curve. And the third street leads to the northeast. However, there is a pile of rubble from a collapsed building in the center of it, almost completely blocking the street. You cannot see what lies beyond this pile of rubble, but you can see that it does not block the street entirely. There is a very narrow passage to the right, just barely wide enough to allow one individual to pass through at a time. You must now choose which way you will go.”
The players huddled briefly in conference. One of them was in favor of taking the street in the middle, the one that led straight north and afforded them an unobstructed field of view. The others did not trust that choice, and they argued in character. They thought it was too easy and too tempting. The gamemaster seemed to want them to go that way. It could be a trap. Three of the players wanted to take the street to the left, the one that curved around. The fifth player argued in favor of the street to the right, the one that was almost completely blocked by the pile of rubble. His arguments were persuasive. It was clearly the most ominous choice, he said. They could not see what lay beyond the rubble, and only one of them could squeeze through the narrow opening at a time. There was every reason not to choose that path, the fifth player said, because it not only hid what lay beyond from view, but it also exposed them to the greatest danger, since they could only go through one at a time. The gamemaster had purposely designed the scenario in such a way as to make that the least attractive choice for them, the fifth player insisted, which was precisely why it was the choice that they should make. The fifth player convinced the others, and they all elected to take the street to the right, past the pile of rubble from the partially collapsed building.
“Very well,” the gamemaster said, revealing absolutely nothing by his tone. “You proceed and come to the pile of rubble. Only one of you can get around it at a time. Even if you turn sideways, two cannot squeeze through together. So now, you must decide who will go first.”
Without hesitation, the other four players agreed that the fifth player, the one who had argued for the choice, should go through first. Suddenly, the fifth player seemed to find this choice much less attractive than he had moments earlier.
“And so it is decided that the thief goes first,” the gamemaster said, referring to the character of the fifth player. He gazed directly at the fifth player, once j again, revealing nothing in either his manner or his tone. “Your wager, Thief?” The gambling element entered the game with each new dramatic situation that the players were presented. Before they rolled the dice to see how the scenario would progress, depending on their characters’ strengths and abilities, they would first wager on the outcome. It was a game in which the players were pitted against the house, represented by the gamemaster. And even though the gamemaster knew what was coming up next, he had to work from a prepared script, and he could not control the roll of the dice that determined a character’s strengths and abilities, and the outcome of any given confrontation.
The fifth player swallowed nervously. “I will wager three ceramics,” he said, cautiously.
The gamemaster raised his eyebrows. “Is that all? You had argued so insistently for your choice, and yet now, suddenly you do not seem very confident.”
“Very well, then, curse you! Five ceramics!” said the thief.
The gamemaster smiled faintly. “Make your roll.”
The thief rolled, and the gamemaster noted the score. It was a low score, and the fifth player licked his lips nervously. “Very well, who goes next?” the gamemaster said. The other players would all complete their rolls before the gamemaster revealed the outcome, based on their scores and their strength and ability rolls at the beginning of the game.
One at a time, the other players wagered and then rolled. Each time, the gamemaster noted down the score to balance off against the strengths and abilities rolled earlier. When they had all finished, the gamemaster consulted the scores that he had written down, taking his time about it to allow the tension to build among the players, and many of the onlookers, as well.