SiSU: - Homeland - Cory Doctorow

“Come on and meet the rest.”
Homeland
“The rest” turned out to be three more guys, sitting on low cushions around a coffee table
that was littered with paper, dice, and meticulously painted lead figurines. We'd interrupted
an old-school gaming session, the kind you play with a dungeon master and lots of roleplaying.
I'm hardly in any position to turn up my nose at someone else's amusements
-- after all, I spent years doing live-action role-play -- but this was seriously nerdy. The
fact that they were playing in the middle of a dust storm on the playa just made it more
surreal.
“Hi!” Ange said. “That looks like fun!”
“It certainly is,” said a gravelly voice, and I got a look at its owner. He had a lined and
seamed face, kind eyes, and a slightly wild beard, and he was wearing a scarf around
his neck with a turquoise pin holding it in place. “Are you initiated in the mysteries of this
particular pursuit?”
I slipped my hand into Ange's and did my best not to be shy or awkward. “I've never played,
but I'm willing to learn.”
“An admirable sentiment,” said another man. He was also in his fifties or sixties, with a
neat grey Van Dyke beard and dark rimmed glasses. “I'm Mitch, this is Barlow, and this is
Wil, our dungeon master.”
The last man was a lot younger than the other three -- maybe a youthful forty -- and cleanshaven,
with apple cheeks and short hair. “Hey, folks,” he said. “You're just in time. Are
you going to sit in? I've got some pre-rolled characters you can play. We're just doing a
mini-dungeon while we wait out the storm.”
John brought us some cushions from the hexayurt's recesses and sat down with crossed
legs and perfect, straight yoga posture. We settled down beside him. Wil gave us our
character sheets -- I was a half-elf mage, Ange was a human fighter with an enchanted
sword -- and dug around in a case until he found hand-painted figurines that matched the
descriptions. “My son paints them,” he said. “I used to help, but the kid's a machine -- I
can't keep up with him.” I looked closely at the figs. They were, well, they were beautiful.
They'd been painted in incredible detail, more than I could actually make out in the dim light
of the yurt. My character's robes had been painted with mystical silver sigils, and Ange's
character's chain mail had each ring picked out in tarnished silver, with tiny daubs of black
paint in the center of each minute ring.
“These are amazing,” I said. I'd always thought of tabletop RPGs as finicky and old fashioned,
but these figs had been painted by someone very talented who really loved the
game, and if someone that talented thought this was worth his time, I'd give it a chance,
too.
Wil was a great game-master, spinning the story of our quest in a dramatic voice that
sucked me right in. The other guys listened intently, though they interjected from time to
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