"The Cavasha attacks. It's tentacles slither toward you, pulling the monster's grotesque humanoid features closer. Suddenly, it's solid white eyes flash creating a blinding light." Looking toward Scott I say, "Make a Saving Throw or else go blind."

Carefully Scott picks up his die and rubs it in the palm of his hands. His eyes examine his base Saving Throw, 13+. Tossing the die, it bounces off the Referee Screen, rolls across his book, and lands on the table as a 6. He failed and I pronounced sentence.

"Sorry Scott, your character is blind, permanently."

The group immediately burst into a frenzied commotion. Bewildered questions about how to fight such a creature emerged. Sympathy for Scott's character, but more importantly the loss of the group's powerful fighter, also became topic of conversation. I allowed them to continue their debate; we were all unaware of the heavy footfalls that were marching down the stairs from above. The footfalls that would enter the basement and pronounce sentence on us.

"Mark Frederick Kibbe", the voice bellowed from the top of the stairs. It was my dad, awoken from his slumber by the ruckus of teenagers.

"Yes", I replied, motioning for everyone to be silent.

"Do you know what time it is?"

It was the phrase that we had heard a hundred times, a phrase that meant it was very early in the morning. With a quick glance I looked at the digital clock that sat on the shelf. The glowing red letters read 3:17 AM. I winced. "Sorry," I replied again, "we'll try to keep it down."

"Your mother and I are trying to sleep," the tired voice grumbled through fatigue, "don't you have school tomorrow?"

"It's Christmas dad; we're off from school."

With a dazed growl he turned and marched back upstairs. We listened to the heavy footfalls ascend the two flights and fade away. Instantly the voices resumed their frenzied debate.

That was one of the rituals in the Kibbe's basement, and it continued for years. I would be scolded in the morning, or most likely the afternoon when I awoke. But it was worth any punishment.

Having grown older, we no longer play in the basement, or awaken my parents in the wee hours of the morning. Instead, we game in a fifth floor apartment. I must admit that I miss the fatherly shouts and the late-night gaming sessions in my parents' house. Being yelled at by neighbors just isn't the same.

Written by Mark Kibbe of Basement Games, Co-Creator of the Forge: Out of Chaos RPG and World of Juravia, http://www.basementgames.com