Charlie's Model Shop hadn't been open long before the Fantasy invasion began, and soon valuable space was occupied by ranks of highly-priced packaged orcs, wolf-riders, goblins, dwarves and the like; while expensive games in lurid boxes offered adventures amongthe Undead and the Creatures of Chaos. Into the shop came a newt ype of wargamer- bright, well- educated lads from the local University, very articulate in publicising and defending Fantasy - one of them loftily said: "We demand from our games high levels of unthinking heroism, extravagant blood-shedding, justifiable carnage, and all those spine-chilling factors of Fantasy that divorce it from real-life!" It all disgusted Bob, who growled: "Pity they can't put their brains and imagination to better use!" None of our Regular Gang actually took up Fantasy, but we talked about it and liked the fact that you only had to buy a few miniatures (although they were darned expensive) for these searches for hidden treasures and for battles with incredible monsters. We noticed with appreciation that the Ancient and Medieval wargamer could use his historical figures for Fantasy, reinforcing thern with a few "specialty" or personality figures like Wizards, Barbarian Warlords and other larger-than-life characters. And those who tried to make their battlefields look realistic admired the trouble these Fantasy boys went to with scenery and presentation - obviously sheer spectacle was one of its big attractions. Well, it was all good natured banter - most of the time anyway, but it began to get intense and serious from the day Thau Maturge glided into the Shop. The Fantasy Boys did not seem to know him or who he was but when they realised he was to Fantasy what Billy Graham was to Religion, they rallied behind this tall, thin bearded man who always wore a skintight black one-piece outfit under a flaming purple cape. in fact, he could well have been a model for one of Charlie's packaged Fantasy figures and one day Alan noticed his resemblance to a figure labelled "The Necromancer" on the figure- rack, madly overpriced at £ 1.50. Thau didn't talk to you, he lectured listeners with wild-eyed dialogue, like this: "The most challenging aspect of Fantasy is its limitlessness... its lack of recognized boundaries so permitting constant breaking of new ground... it invites new ideas, new gaming mechanisms and theories. Fantasy has no place for stereotyped rulings, military conventions and traditions that bind and restrict the conventional wargamer." Luckily, Bob stormed out of the Shop at that moment, because he would have choked at the next bit! "Open your minds to the fact that the Fantasy world abounds in what you would call 'odd creatures'... mutated beings with extra limbs and of bestial appearance, who possess the power to cause insanity by wild laughter and unbearable noise, to sicken with repulsive odours..." After a bit, Charlie began to get fed up with Thau, believing he was discouraging callers to the Shop evidently Thau noticed because suddenly he became pleasant, reasonable - and challenging: "Come on lads, take off your blinkers... how can you condemn Fantasy when you've never even taken part in it? Why not come over to my house and try a small game... an ambush or a brawl... a raid on a Bank... or a jail Break... how about a little arson... or an assassination?" Fred said it sounded like Mike Blake and Ian Colwill's Individual Skirmishing to him. Come next Saturday night, Chris, Fred, Alan and Toby (Bob would have nothing to do with it) piled into Thau's battered 1960's vintage coverted hearse and were driven eight or so miles out of town to the little village of Thaxley where our host lived alone in the Old Rectory. The room he ushered us into was large, with dark corners the shaded lights did not reach, velvet curtains completely covered windows, and old fashioned black upholstered chairs encircled an antique table inlaid with what appeared to be the plan of a building - rooms, passages, staircases, each identified by a number made up of small jewel-like stones embedded in the tabletop, throwing off shafts of light. Our host poured mead from a large cut-glass decanter and passed around small honey-flavoured cakes; the two in combination with the heated, incense- laden air, produced a pleasant languor. Thau told us he was to be our Dungeon- master and that we were to traverse a subterranean complex, seeking treasures guarded by monsters, whom we would have to fight. "What sort of monsters?" asked Alan. Thau smiled mirthlessly: "Anything... goblins... or their sub-divisions Orcs, half-Orcs and hobgoblins... or dwarves... or perhaps elves... basically humanoid but with less than human appearances and habits. Or the Undead... zombies or skeletons... or flesh- eating ghouls... mummies... wights, wraiths, spectres... and ghosts!" We shifted uneasily in our padded chairs, seeing this he reassured us: " Do not be a feared... I am your Gamesmaster with a special part to play in developing the characteristic traits of these creatures... it is my knowledge and imagination that brings them to life." Talking of it later, none of us had a very clear picture of the game, recalling vaguely - as in a dream or nightmare - shadowy paths along fearful and perplexing ill-lit or dark corridors, fighting-off attackers able to change from spitting cats to slithering snakes, or muscular dwarves and skeletons whose bones rattled on the ground like throwing a handful of dice. Then we found ourselves standing on the pavement outside Charlie's Model Shop without remembering a thing about the journey back to town; the cool night waking us up. Then Thau's resonant voice hanging in space: "And that is a touch of Fantasy, my young friends!" When we met at midday in the Black Bull for the usual Sunday beers, we all confessed to aching in every limb, to feel tired and drained; Fred showed us hands and forearms scratched and scored as though by a cat, Alan had a big lump on his head, and Toby displayed a strange copper coin he had found in his pocket - but he thought it might be a token from the pub's fruit-machine. Next day in the Shopwe told Charlie of our experience; he shook his head wonderingly and when Alan told him the Necromancer figure had gone from the Fantasy rack, cursed the pilferers who took a daily toll from him. We borrowed his dictionary and looked up the word NECROMANCER... Fred Read it out: "One versed in the art of predicting by means of communicating with the dead; a master of magic and enchantment." Charlie looked thoughtful and taking the book from Fred, searched through it. "Ah, here we are... thought the name rang a bell.. THAUMATURGE - "Worker of miracles, a wonder worker". The warm shop suddenly seemed to become chilled. None of us ever saw Thau Maturge - or whatever his real name was again and he became part of the folk-lore fast growing up around Charlie's Model Shop. Some weeks later, driving through Thaxley, we stopped outside the decaying Old Vicarage, gazed at its boarded-up windows and exposed roof timbers. Oh yes, that was Fantasy, all right! Back to Table of Contents -- Courier Vol. IX No. 1 Back to Courier List of Issues Back to Master Magazine List © Copyright 1989 by The Courier Publishing Company. This article appears in MagWeb.com (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other articles from military history and related magazines are available at http://www.magweb.com