On a cool Sunday morning in November, I found myself heading south from Baltimore with three warriors from the nascent nation of Asaheim, their swords, spears, and banner stashed beside them in my minivan. War was brewing, and as we drove, they discussed battle plans and the revenge they would take on a particularly bothersome foe. But before they could unleash hell upon their opponents, I was told, we needed to make a quick stop. Their mage had mislaid his "burning hands" and needed a new pair.

As we strolled through a discount department store in Glen Burnie, Maryland, people stared at my costumed companions. A middle-aged woman whispered, "Are they Goths or something?"

"No, wrong tribe," I answered. "I believe they're more like Vikings."

The burning hands—a pair of red wool gloves—were for my 22-year old son. The pair of fellow warriors were his roommates. And the battle we were headed to was Bellum Aeternus I, a fantasy combat and live-action role-playing (LARP) event hosted by the Darkon Wargaming Club. Nearly 500 participants were set to gather in a Maryland field for a weekend festival of virtual carnage. Darkon's officers hope that Bellum Aeternus will grow into an annual gaming event that draws fantasy and combat enthusiasts of all kinds from across the country—or at least from across the Mid-Atlantic, the cradle of padded weapon combat gaming.

Rise of a kingdom

"Video games, they're fun—but I like creating my own fun," said one Darkonian I met hours later, after parking the minivan and unloading our gear. He identified himself as Warboss Gutsmangle, leader of the Darkon orc nation known as Waaagh Gutsmangle. "Nothing against video games, but I can come up with better things than programmers for my character to do, and being able to have this sort of limitless role-play opportunity appeals to me more."

We spoke as an example of how that fun is created—one of the day's first battle games—was preparing to start: Two armies face each other in a broad clearing, hundreds strong. They form ranks for the coming clash. Some are in full plate armor or suits of chain; others are dressed in handmade studded leather or almost nothing at all. Swords and shields raised, bows and pikes at the ready, they stare across the open field and size each other up.

Then someone throws what looks like a padded trashcan into the field between the armies and hell is unleashed. The two sides close quickly and try to push the can past each other in what looks like a Game of Thrones version of rugby. Call it Kick the Can, Darkon style. The field is soon strewn with those feigning mortal wounds or even death as "The Can" is advanced by a wedge formation of attackers, then thrown and kicked and carried over an imaginary goal line. Next, everyone resurrects, and the game starts again.

The weapons and shields are covered with foam, while arrows are tipped with padded orbs designed to prevent eye injuries. Combatants yell out a color code for the damage type their weapon does and do mental math to calculate when they are wounded or killed. It's easy to know when you've taken damage in a Darkon battle—while the weapons may be fake, the hits are very, very real.

“I like dressing up, I like wearing funny clothes, and [Darkon] provides a safe environment to hit people with pillows. I still get to wear the funny clothes, but I get to hit people, too. It has its moments.”

The Darkon club has existed in its current form since 1986, but its roots go back a decade further. In 1977, a Tolkien enthusiast named Brian Wiese started a live, Dark Ages-inspired combat game called Dagorhir (a name derived from Tolkien's Sindarin Elven language and meaning "battle lords"). Dagorhir's "boffer" combat—fighting with foam-padded stand-ins for pre-gunpowder weapons—is the basis for the combat rules of Darkon and a number of other battle gaming clubs, such as Amtgard and Belegarth, which also splintered off from Dagorhir.

Unlike those clubs, which claim members across the US and around the world, Darkon has kept to its roots in the Baltimore and DC area. The game was the subject of a 2006 documentary film, and it has evolved over the years. Today it incorporates a strategic "land" game, an in-game economy with its own coin of the realm, and layers of political intrigue—all of which drive live-action role-playing on and off the battlefield.

Darkon has also physically grown significantly. The Bellum Aeternus event, held at what was once a grass airstrip in the Patuxent River State Park, drew hundreds to do battle. More just show up to watch and catch up with old friends. Many brought along spouses and children, and a collection of merchants—selling everything from weapons and armor to fantasy-inspired pottery—gave the event the feel of an alternative universe Renaissance fair.

The Darkon game goes beyond whacking people with foam-covered weaponry. It diverges from Dagorhir's original combat rules by incorporating magic; among its classes of combatants are clerics, mages, and others who can cast spells that can be used to incapacitate, attack, or disarm opponents. It also allows non-weapon combat tactics like grappling, tackling, and "shield bashing"—striking an opponent with the flat of a shield to knock them down or off-balance—that are banned in some Dagorhir offshoots, such as the Amtgard clubs.

John Machate is a 20-year veteran of Darkon and the group's outgoing president. In-game, he is Sir Bendore Dubh of Dai-Dagan, a member of the royal court. (Off the field, he works for the Defense Department as an IT professional.)

"I've done other 'boffer' combat clubs," he told me as he donned a breastplate and prepared for battle. "But they didn't hit hard enough. I like solid bumps. There are some aspects of battle we can do in this game that you can't do in other games."

Machate has put his stamp solidly on the game, serving as Darkon president twice and treasurer once. He wrote the rules governing how countries claim and fight over land and the rules for the game's nobility system. At 42, he no longer takes to the field as frequently, but he has become more involved in the role-play around the court. This also gives him a chance to use the gear acquired in his other pursuits, which include 17th century living-history re-enactments and serving as guard for the royals at Maryland's Renaissance Festival.

"I like dressing up, I like wearing funny clothes," he said. "And [Darkon] provides a safe environment to hit people with pillows. I still get to wear the funny clothes, but I get to hit people, too. It has its moments."

Like other full-contact sports, Darkon's combat is not without risk. "There have been torn ACLs and PCLs, and broken bones," said Jennifer Karner, a 25-year old from Glen Burnie. Karner is Darkon's "coin marshal," accountant for the in-game economy. While she does fight, she tends to specialize in the group's role-play events; her Darkon persona, Siren, is a thief and the head of Darkon's Entertainment Guild. It's an underworld organization that controls the in-game casinos, taverns and betting on gladiatorial pit-fights.

"I basically get to play a mob boss. I used to be a wallflower before I got involved in this," she told me. "Darkon is my shiny, happy place."