The Table Still Fits

I opened the Fantasy book last week, and the page still smelled like that room.

Not the original copy. That one is long gone, lost in a box somewhere. This is the replacement I bought after the first move, or the one after that. Same rules. Initiative is still a d20. Four or less still misses. Armor still takes the hit before you do. I sat with it longer than I meant to. The Western Empire tavern came back first. The one that was supposed to be a single night. Somebody’s knight kept fretting about his mail like it was a real problem. The thief kept the map even when we were not using it.

We never finished what we started. We just kept showing up.

That table is still the one I measure against. College was the best of it. Late nights, too much pizza, the books stacked on the floor because the table was full. I would drive to the New Hampshire store that carried the whole Palladium line and stand in front of the wall until I knew which one I could actually buy. Money was tight. I still made room in the budget. Rifts was always the coolest thing on that wall. The covers made everything else look small. I bought it anyway, even though I knew I wasn't ready to run it. The Fantasy books were the ones that got used. They still are.

The books feel like family now. The ones that came with me when the regular table broke up. Some went into boxes for years. Some stayed out. When I finally had my own money, I stopped rationing and bought the ones I had been waiting on. A few of those are still here. Last year the 5E shelf went into the closet, and these replaced it. I can open one, and the fight is still the same fight. I do not have to relearn it. A knight who cares about his armor. A scholar who is useless in a dungeon and useful when the runes on the wall are lying.

That part has not gotten old.

Palldium never gets old.

Last year the blog went quiet after January. I told myself I would come back when I had something new. Then December arrived, and the usual stack started again. Same feeling as the drive to that store. The books arrive, or I go get them, and the year has a shape. I am in the desert now. The store is gone. The wall of spines is still in my head. I can still stand there and pick the next one, my brother looking at figures and paints. The table will still be there when we sit down. It always has.

The smell of the page is enough to bring me back there.