Live Action Roleplay

The sun hung low over the suburban sprawl, casting a warm golden hue across the patchy lawn of a modest two-story house. Inside, 23-year-old Simon hunched over his cluttered desk, his wiry frame dwarfed by stacks of fantasy novels, dice trays, and a flickering computer screen displaying elven runes. His glasses slid down his nose as he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad, muttering about archery modifiers and spellcasting ranges. His dark hair, perpetually tousled, stuck out at odd angles from hours of running his hands through it--a habit born of nervous excitement.

Downstairs, the clatter of wooden spoons against a mixing bowl echoed through the house. Ellie, his girlfriend of two years, stood in the kitchen, her auburn curls cascading over her shoulders as she kneaded dough for what she insisted would be "authentic elven waybread." At 21, she radiated a bright-eyed enthusiasm that complemented Simon's quieter intensity. Her freckled cheeks flushed with effort, and her green eyes sparkled as she hummed a tune she'd decided was suitably medieval. Flour dusted her oversized T-shirt--one of Simon's old ones, emblazoned with a faded D20--and her bare feet tapped the linoleum floor.

The three-day live roleplay camp loomed just a week away, a sprawling forest adventure where they'd join dozens of others as elves defending their woodland realm from marauding orcs. Simon had spent months researching elven lore, crafting their characters' backstories, and plotting strategies. Ellie, though newer to the hobby, threw herself into it with a zeal that sometimes outstripped his own. She'd declared that authenticity was paramount, and for her, that meant no modern conveniences sneaking into their costumes--no zippers, no synthetic fabrics, and certainly no bra or panties to clash with her vision of an elven maiden.

"Simon!" she called, her voice cutting through the hum of his concentration. "Do you think elves would use rosemary or thyme in their bread? I want it to feel right."

He pushed his glasses up and leaned back in his chair, stretching his lanky arms overhead. "Uh, probably thyme," he said, his tone distracted but fond. "Rosemary's too woody for a light bread. Thyme's more... delicate. Elven, you know?"

She grinned, brushing a curl from her face with a floury hand. "Perfect. You're my lore master." She turned back to her dough, kneading with renewed vigor, oblivious to the streak of white now smeared across her forehead.

Simon watched her from the top of the stairs for a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips. Her naivety about the practicalities of a forest camp amused him--three days without modern underwear in the wild might test her commitment--but her passion was infectious. He adjusted his glasses and returned to his notes, sketching a rough map of their planned camp layout. The forest awaited, and with it, their chance to live as elves, if only for a fleeting weekend.

Ellie stood before the chipped full-length mirror in their cramped bedroom, her reflection a study in determination and medieval charm. She'd chosen a corset for the roleplay, a deep forest-green piece she'd found at a thrift store and painstakingly altered with Simon's sewing machine. The corset hugged her torso, its stiff boning cinching her waist into a graceful hourglass, accentuating the gentle swell of her hips and the modest curve of her chest. The fabric, slightly worn at the edges, shimmered faintly in the afternoon light streaming through the window, its rich hue evoking moss-covered stones. Over it, she wore a flowing dress of creamy linen, its hem brushing her ankles and its sleeves tapering to delicate points at her wrists. The dress billowed slightly as she turned, the lack of modern undergarments lending it an unhindered, natural drape that she deemed perfectly elven.

Her auburn curls spilled freely down her back, unbound and wild, catching the light in a cascade of copper and gold. She'd woven a few thin braids with wooden beads--hand-carved by Simon--into the mass, their soft clacking adding a faint percussion to her movements. Her freckled skin glowed with a light sheen of sweat from her efforts, and her green eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and stubborn resolve. Barefoot still, her toes curled against the hardwood floor as she adjusted the laces of the corset, tugging them tighter with a small grunt.

"Simon, can you check this?" she called, her voice slightly breathless from the constriction. He ambled in from the hallway, his arms laden with a bundle of hemp rope and a leather quiver he'd been assembling for their arrows. His eyes widened behind his glasses as he took her in, the nerdy part of his brain cataloging the historical inaccuracies while the rest of him simply stared.

"Uh, wow," he managed, setting the supplies on the bed. "You look... like you just stepped out of Mirkwood. But, uh, can you breathe okay? We've got three days of running around ahead."

She flashed him a grin, twirling so the dress flared out. "It's snug, but I'll manage. Elves don't slouch, right? Besides, it's authentic." She smoothed the fabric over her hips, then pointed to the quiver. "Is that for me?"

"Yeah," he said, shaking off his daze. "I reinforced the stitching so it won't tear when you're drawing arrows. Still need to finish the fletching on about a dozen shafts, though." He knelt by the bed, pulling out a box of goose feathers he'd scavenged from a craft store, their tips dyed a muted gray to match their elven aesthetic.

Downstairs, the kitchen table had become a staging ground for their preparations. Ellie's waybread cooled on a wire rack, its thyme-infused aroma mingling with the sharp tang of beeswax Simon had melted to waterproof their leather pouches. A pair of hand-carved wooden daggers lay beside a map of the forest site, its edges curling from repeated folding. Simon traced a finger along the path they'd take from the parking lot to the elven encampment, muttering about sightlines and ambush points. Ellie, meanwhile, packed a small satchel with dried fruit and nuts--"elven rations," she insisted--her corset creaking faintly as she bent over the table.

The afternoon slipped into evening as they worked, the house humming with their quiet synergy--Simon's meticulous planning and Ellie's earnest improvisation weaving together like the braids in her hair. The forest loomed closer with every task completed, a promise of adventure shimmering just beyond the horizon.

The gravel crunched under the tires of Simon's beat-up hatchback as they pulled into the forest clearing, the late morning sun already baking the earth with a steady, golden warmth. The air buzzed with the hum of cicadas and the distant chatter of other cars unloading their cargo of roleplayers. Ellie practically leapt from the passenger seat, her green corset glinting in the light, the creamy linen of her dress swaying as she hauled her satchel from the trunk. Simon followed more slowly, his thin frame draped in a tunic of muted brown and gray, a leather belt cinched around his waist holding his quiver and a wooden short sword. His glasses fogged slightly in the humid air, and he wiped them on his sleeve, squinting at the sea of tents and colorful banners sprouting across the field.

A tall woman with a clipboard and a pointed elven ear prosthetic waved them over, her voice crisp despite the heat. "Names?" she asked, pen poised. Simon rattled off their character names--Elarion and Sylvara--earned nods of approval, and they were handed woven armbands of silver thread to mark them as elves. Across the clearing, a cluster of burly figures in jagged leather and smeared face paint roared with laughter, their orcish armbands a stark red. The teams were splitting naturally, elves drifting toward the shaded western edge of the forest, orcs lumbering east with mock growls and clashing wooden axes.

Ellie tugged Simon's arm, her bare feet sinking into the soft grass as they joined the elven contingent. The forest swallowed them quickly, its canopy of oak and pine filtering the sunlight into dappled patches. The air was thick with the scent of warm earth and resin, a faint breeze rustling the leaves overhead. Their group--about twenty strong--moved with practiced quiet, their costumes a patchwork of flowing robes, leather bracers, and feathered cloaks. A lanky man with a lute strung across his back whispered coordinates, and they veered deeper in, boots and bare feet alike leaving faint trails in the moss.

They found their spot: a small hollow ringed by gnarled roots and shielded by a curtain of hanging vines. Simon dropped to his knees, unpacking their gear with methodical care. He drove wooden stakes into the ground, stringing the hemp rope between them to frame a lean-to, while Ellie draped a canvas tarp over it, securing it with stones. The shelter was rudimentary but authentic, its low profile blending into the undergrowth. She knelt beside him, unpacking their rations and stacking the waybread on a flat rock, her corset creaking as she stretched to arrange their waterskins.

The heat pressed down, a relentless weight that beaded sweat along Simon's brow and darkened the edges of Ellie's dress. She fanned herself with a broad leaf, her cheeks flushed but her grin unwavering. "This is it," she murmured, tying her hair back with a leather cord. "We're really elves now." Simon adjusted his glasses, nodding as he sharpened a stick with his dagger to serve as a cooking skewer.

Nearby, other elves set up their own camps, hammering stakes or weaving branches into screens. A fire pit was dug in the center of the hollow, lined with stones and fed with dry twigs until a small blaze crackled to life. The group gathered briefly, voices low as they planned their first moves--scouts would fan out at dusk to track the orcs, while the rest fortified their position. Simon sketched a quick map in the dirt with a stick, marking streams and ridges, while Ellie passed out chunks of waybread, her fingers sticky with crumbs.

The forest settled into a rhythm of rustling leaves and distant birdcalls, the warmth wrapping around them like a living thing. The elves worked in quiet harmony, their camp taking shape as the sun climbed higher, oblivious to the orcish drums faintly thudding on the far side of the woods.

The sun had dipped lower, painting the forest in hues of amber and shadow, when a figure emerged from the underbrush into the elven hollow. Clad in a long gray robe tied with a rope belt, the game master carried an air of quiet authority, his sharp eyes scanning the camp from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A wooden staff tapped the ground as he approached, its tip carved with swirling runes. The elves paused their tasks--sharpening arrows, tending the fire--and gathered around, Simon and Ellie settling on a mossy log, her dress pooling around her as she leaned forward eagerly.

"Evening, defenders of the woodland," the game master began, his voice low but carrying through the still air. "I'm here to lay out the mechanics before the first skirmish kicks off at midnight." He pulled a folded parchment from his robe, unrolling it to reveal a list scrawled in looping ink. "You've got your basics--combat with padded weapons, no headshots, call your hits. Victory points for holding territory or taking out orcs. But there's more to spice it up."

He tapped the parchment with a finger. "Spells. Optional, but potent. You can buy them with real coin--cash only, no cards out here. Proceeds go to the event's upkeep, so it's your call." A murmur rippled through the group, brows furrowing. Simon adjusted his glasses, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper, while Ellie tilted her head, her braids swaying.

The game master held up a hand. "Before you balk, hear me out. The orcs have shamans who can do the same, so it's balanced. Here's what's on offer." He rattled off the list, his staff punctuating each name with a soft thud against the earth. "'Vanish'--makes any item you touch disappear permanently. Could be a weapon, a shield, whatever. No reversing it, so use it wisely. 'Freeze'--locks a person in place for twenty minutes, no moving, no fighting, just stuck. 'Gale'--summons a burst of wind to knock back anyone in a ten-foot radius. 'Mend'--fixes a broken weapon or armor piece on the spot. And 'Flare'--blinds everyone nearby for thirty seconds with a bright flash, but you've got to close your eyes too or you're caught in it."

He rolled the parchment back up, tucking it away. "Five bucks a spell, one-time use. Cash to me or my assistant by the fire before sundown tomorrow if you're in." The elves exchanged glances. A wiry man with a feathered cloak shrugged and stood, fishing a crumpled ten from his pouch. "I'll take 'Gale' and 'Mend,'" he said, heading toward the fire where a young woman in a hooded cape waited with a lockbox. Another elf, a woman with a bow slung over her shoulder, followed, muttering about 'Flare' under her breath.

Simon frowned, tapping his pencil against his knee. "Seems pay-to-win," he whispered to Ellie. She nodded, brushing a curl from her face. "Yeah, but it's tempting. Imagine vanishing an orc's axe mid-fight." She giggled, then shook her head. "Still, I'd rather stick to what we've got. Feels more... us."

Most of the group stayed seated, hands in their laps or crossed over their chests, content with their wooden blades and cunning. The game master nodded, unperturbed. "Your choice. Orcs'll have their shamans either way--spotted a few hulking types eyeing the spell list when I briefed them. Midnight's when it starts, so rest up and plan. I'll be roaming if you need me." With a final tap of his staff, he melted back into the trees, leaving a faint trail of dust.

Simon scratched out a quick tally of their resources--arrows, daggers, a spare tarp--while Ellie tore off a piece of waybread and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The fire crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows over their lean-to as the warm night settled in, the distant thump of orcish drums growing steadier on the wind.

The forest pulsed with life as midnight struck, the warm air thick with anticipation. The elves crept through the undergrowth, their silver armbands glinting faintly under the slivers of moonlight piercing the canopy. Simon led their small squad--five in total--his wooden short sword gripped tightly, his glasses fogged from the humidity. Ellie followed close behind, her bare feet silent on the moss, the hem of her creamy linen dress brushing against ferns. The others fanned out, bows drawn or daggers at the ready, their breaths shallow as they neared the ravine marked as neutral ground.

A guttural roar shattered the stillness, and the orcs burst from the shadows--hulking figures in ragged leather, their faces streaked with red clay, wielding padded axes and clubs. The elves scattered into formation, arrows whistling through the air. Simon ducked a swinging club, rolling behind a tree as an orc's bellow echoed off the bark. Ellie darted to his side, her green eyes wide but focused, clutching a wooden dagger she'd painted with silver runes. The clash erupted in earnest--wood thudded against wood, shouts rang out, and the ground churned under scrambling feet.

An elf to their left cried "Hit!" and dropped to a knee, clutching his arm as an orc lumbered past, victorious. Another orc charged Simon, axe raised, but he parried with a clumsy swipe, the impact jarring his skinny arms. Ellie lunged, slashing her dagger across the orc's back--a glancing blow, but the hulking figure growled "Hit!" and stomped off, feigning a limp. The chaos swirled around them, leaves crunching, sweat dripping, the warm night amplifying every sound and sensation.

Then, from the tangle of vines to their right, a new figure emerged--an orc shaman, broad-shouldered and draped in a cloak of tattered furs, his face smeared with black ash. A twisted staff dangled from one hand, and in the other, he clutched a small card, its edges glowing faintly with reflective tape. Simon froze mid-step, but Ellie didn't see him until it was too late. The shaman lunged, his meaty hand brushing the sleeve of her dress as he bellowed, "Vanish!" With a dramatic flourish, he flung the card at her feet, where it landed in the dirt, its printed text gleaming: *Vanish--Item Removed Permanently*.

Ellie gasped, her hands flying to her chest. For a heartbeat, they both stood still, the battle raging around them. Simon blinked behind his glasses, then nudged her arm. "It's the game, El. You've got to drop it." She nodded, swallowing hard, her cheeks flushing crimson in the dim light. With a quick tug, she loosened the dress's laces, letting it slip from her shoulders to puddle on the forest floor. The creamy linen lay abandoned, a casualty of the spell, leaving her in just the forest-green corset. Its boning hugged her torso, ending just above her hips, exposing the smooth, cleanly shaved expanse of her lower body to the warm night air. Her freckled skin prickled with goosebumps, though the heat kept her from shivering.

The shaman cackled, raising his staff in triumph, but Simon grabbed her hand. "Back to camp--now!" he hissed, pulling her through the fray. They darted past a pair of elves locked in a mock grapple with an orc, weaving between trees as shouts and thuds faded behind them. Ellie's corset creaked with each sprinting step, her bare legs flashing pale against the dark foliage, her breath ragged but steady. Simon's tunic flapped as he led the way, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one followed.

They stumbled into the hollow, the fire's embers glowing faintly amid the elven camp. The lean-to loomed ahead, its tarp sagging slightly from the night's humidity. Ellie dropped to her knees beside it, panting, her hands braced on the mossy ground. Simon crouched next to her, wiping sweat from his brow. "You okay?" he asked, his voice low. She nodded, brushing a curl from her face, her grin shaky but real. "Yeah. Guess that's one way to test authenticity." The distant clamor of battle rolled through the trees, but for now, their shelter offered a fleeting respite in the warm, restless night.

The fire crackled in the center of the elven hollow, its flames licking at the dry twigs and casting a warm, flickering glow over the gathered figures. Ellie knelt by the pit, her bare knees pressing into the cool moss, the forest-green corset her only shield against the night. She brushed a damp curl from her forehead, her voice tentative but clear. "Does anyone have an extra dress? Mine's... gone." Her freckled cheeks flushed, though the heat of the fire masked it as she glanced around the circle.

The elves--some sprawled on logs, others leaning against trees--shook their heads in unison. A wiry man with a lute across his back shrugged, his feathered cloak rustling. "No luggage, no spares. We packed light for the immersion." A woman with a bow propped beside her nodded, her leather bracers glinting. "Same here. Just what we're wearing." Then a stocky elf with a braided beard grinned, digging into his pouch. "Got these, though," he said, holding up a pair of plain cotton panties, slightly wrinkled from being stuffed in with his rations.

Ellie's green eyes widened, but she waved them off with a small laugh. "No, thanks. It'd ruin the illusion--elves don't wear modern stuff like that. I'll manage." A ripple of murmurs broke out, then applause--soft at first, clapping hands against thighs or logs, growing louder. The lute player whistled. "That's dedication!" The woman with the bow grinned. "True elven spirit right there." Even Simon, sitting cross-legged beside her, gave her a proud nudge, his glasses reflecting the firelight.

She settled back, sitting on her heels, the moss soft beneath her. The corset clung to her torso, its boning accentuating her slender waist and the gentle curve of her small breasts, the fabric ending just above her hips. Below it, her body was bare, the warm air brushing her exposed skin. Her legs, folded beneath her, were slim and freckled, the firelight dancing across their pale surface. Her pussy, cleanly shaved as she'd prepared for the authenticity of the roleplay, was fully visible--its smooth, pink folds catching the occasional glint of flame, a stark contrast to the dark green of her corset. The outer lips were plump and neatly tucked, glistening faintly with sweat from the battle and the heat, her inner labia just a subtle hint beneath.