Here is his Dad's blog entry from the 15th....

So long Robbie Greenberger. We barely knew ye.

August 15, 2008

The Final Week

Robbie fought with every ounce of strength he had left. It proved not to be enough as the lung disease proved stronger and more insidious.

Over the last few days, he was having increasing difficulty breathing. The constant dry cough led to more nausea and no amount of antiemetics seemed to make him more comfortable. As a result, he wasn’t eating enough and was losing weight fairly quickly, down 6% in the last week. He endured multiple CT scans, electrocardiograms, ultrasounds and x-rays all ruling things out but not finding a cause. As a result, there was little choice but to do a biopsy and it was determined to work on only one side to minimize the risks.

A simple lap around the hospital floor proved too taxing for him on Monday. He was struggling and on Tuesday told Deb that he wanted to fight on but was feeling really tired.

a severe but very curable form of the dread disease. Robbie had two very impotant things which will eventually help him beat this thing. First, he is young and strong and totally convinced he is going to make it. Second, he has a great pair of parents to back him up. And up to about a month ago, they had won...Remission. However the thing is stubborn, and Robbie is back in the hospital. This time , he may have to endure bone marrow replacement. Everyone in charge of his care is still very convinced this brave young man will triumph, but it is a long hard road.

If you are interested in helping on a personal level, you can try the following link:

National Marrow Donor Program

Even if you live far away & you can't help Robbie, help someone !

Not so many years before, there was a sixth player. A decidedly intense player. Glenn Lasseter had once been a welcome member of the gaming crew, though at times a bit over-zealous. Throughout his gaming, he alone felt as if he understood the game’s “hidden meaning” more than any of the others. He felt its power better than anyone else, and only he understood its very soul. This sense of superiority grew until it became an obsession. No one played the game to his standards; no character was as good as his, no magic as powerful. He believed his “insights” to the game would make him powerful, therefore, unbeatable. Of course, he was bound to fail sooner or later, as so many of the overconfident do. So, though he was still allowed to play, (as it was never their policy to prohibit anyone from playing), more and more of the group shied away from any game in which Glenn participated. Soon, the group was reduced to only Dave, Bob and Glenn that night, while John played host to what would be known as ... his final game.

The game began like any other on that very stormy night. Most everyone else had begged off, citing the weather, not the participants, as the reason to stay home. But for the “core” group, it was a perfect backdrop for the festivities to come. As usual, John was elected Game Master, and as usual, Glenn decided his character was to lead the group. Their quest; delve deep into the dragon’s cave and retrieve the King’s daughter, who was to be sacrificed to the beast in exchange for the wyrm’s continued indifference toward the village. Though Dave and Bob had protested, Glenn petitioned that since his was a superior suit of armor, and he possessed a greater strength than the others, he could endure more battle and protect them all. Secretly, he reasoned it had cost quite a lot to gain +10 plate mail, and he sought to recoup that expense.

In the end, John had relented. “Very well, I’ll allow it,” he said, shaking his head, then chided, “but armor isn’t everything.” Feigning study of the game materials, John almost smiled.

Glenn soon found out what John meant by that comment, as later in the evening, the group stumbled upon the great beast at last! His ego drove him on as he exclaimed “Stand Back, all. I’ll handle this! He then draws his sword and charges in!”

Actually, the luck of the dice was with him for quite a few rounds, because the dragon couldn’t seem to tag him with his breath weapon, and Glenn made every dex roll to dodge out of the way of the worm’s claws. Meanwhile, Glenn had constantly rolled well, scoring repeatedly with his magically sharpened long sword, yet made no wound of consequence and each blow was merely an annoyance to the beast. The storm outside whipped into a frenzy while the battle inside likewise reached its inevitable climax.

Anxious to move the game along, John finally concluded that the dragon would now be too angry to use the breath weapon, and decide to chomp the little man. With a final throw, John looked out over the table , making no effort to hide his smile now. “An eighteen! A mortal wound! No matter the defense, the dragon had scored with the bite. I finally hit you, so...” he tried to continue.

“No way!” shouted Glenn caught up in the moment. He shook his fist full of dice and cast them to the table as he spoke. “My armor cannot be penetrated by normal means! And although he has magic ability, his teeth are just teeth! My character drives his sword through the beast’s eye! There... forty-two points damage!” He sat back, pleased with himself, certain he had both slain the beast and saved his character’s life.

“Just a moment,” John countered, rubbing his hands together gleefully, dice between them. A few anxious seconds ticked by. Remembering a fantasy novel he had read that covered just this kind of melee, he slowly replied, “Yes, your right, the teeth do not penetrate. But I think you have to agree that mail is not a solid piece, but is composed of many interlocking pieces, yes?” Glenn nodded slowly, not knowing where the D.M. was going with this.

“And, of course, the dragon can bite with a tremendous amount of force, am I right?” Glenn fought for control as the light began to dawn. His anger soon grew into fury. “So, although your plate protects you from the teeth, the force of the jaws has crushed you in your very own armor, just like a grape. A simple puncture wound from one of his teeth, you might have survived, but because of all that ‘protection’ you are wearing…”As he let his voice trail away, John tossed the damage dice, a mere formality, he knew. A cold stare was all Glenn could manage.

“You’re dead, Glenn. I’m sorry...”

“SORRY!?” Glenn boomed accusingly, “That had nothing to do with being “sorry”. You killed him! On purpose!” Something had taken hold of him, as if it was no longer his life to control. In a fit of fury, he grabbed the lip of the flimsy card table and hurled it upside down, scattering dice and paper alike across the floor. Dave and Bob were awe-struck. They’d never seen anyone lose it over a game before...

Glenn stood on the ruins of the game, pointing an accusing finger towards the game Master. “Do you know how long I’ve had this character? How hard I’ve worked to get this high in level...? Of course not, you’re John bloody STEVENS!” He shoved aside the booktable before John could scrabble away, and grabbed him up by his shirtfront. The window to the basement slammed down, hurled open by the wind, adding the storms’ chaos to mix. Game materials swirled around him as lightning forked outside, giving him a sinister profile. Glenn was always a half head taller than John, but now in his rage he seemed even more menacing in stature. Dave tried to intervene, attempting to insinuate himself between the two. “Hey, Glenn, what are you doing? It’s just a character. Take it easy...!”

“Yeah, we’ve all lost characters,” Bob chimed in, hoping to calm him down. Glenn would have none of it. All his attention centered on John.

“You still don’t understand, do you? You think this is just a game? I grasp far more than you can possibly hope for, and you treat this as just a game!?” Glenn’s eyes blazed with an unearthly fury. ‘Greatest D.M. Ever’, eh?, ‘D.M.’ is gonna stand for DEAD MEAT!!!” He lifted John from the floor so that he was nose-to-nose with his new enemy. “I won’t let you get away with this,” Glenn sneered hoarsely, spittle dripping from his chin, “I will have my revenge, sir,” he whispered in mock respect, then shoved John backwards over the back of his chair. Dave had a hand on his shoulder and spun him around. ”That’s enough, Glenn...” He faltered as he met with a demonic gaze in the face of the man he once thought he knew. He couldn’t tell if it was the storm or if some fire had taken Glenn over. Somehow, Glenn had managed to snatch up the fireplace iron from the hearth, and now raised it high over his head. Instinctively, he stepped back in shock of his friend’s anger, and as Glenn sought to bring it down on Dave’s head, a great flash flooded everything as lightning arced into the room and found the iron. A great shower of sparks exploded and flew in all directions, while a blue haze formed about Glenn, just before he was flung to the hearth, unmoving. All the lights in the room sputtered and died.

The three remaining gamers stood there trembling in the darkness, too numbed by recent events to speak. To Bob, it seemed like a nightmare, and as he relived the incident in his mind, it played back in slow motion like a bad horror movie. Only the occasional lightning of the dying storm, which would illuminate the ruins of their game, reminded him this was all too real. A bright flash came just as Bob looked down where Glenn lay. He sank down to his chair softly muttering “ohmygod” over and over again.

Dave, always the cool pragmatist, stepped forward and knelt by the motionless form, seeking to find a pulse. Suddenly, as the lights returned, Glenn’s eyes snapped open, glaring into Dave’s, locked on with an incredible, almost supernatural glow. Glenn’s arms came up quickly and grabbed Dave, one hand by the belt, while the other closed about his throat, and as the smaller man lifted him clear of the floor, Dave couldn’t tear himself away from the gaze long enough to realize what had happened. Only the gasp from John as he was hurled across the room woke him from that reverie. Bob simply stared dumfounded as Glenn stood panting by the fireplace.

“You’ll all pay for this, I promise you!” And with that, he bolted for the door. There was a noise like a thunderclap as he tore the door back, cracking the solid wood down its center and nearly ripping it from its hinges. Then, like the dying storm, in a final lightning flash, he was gone.

They began to clean up the mess in silence... continuing any semblance of a game now was too much for any of the remaining gamers. They all thought that was the last they would see of him...

The night began like any other game night, as John meticulously set about preparing for the evening’s festivities. Heather had departed early for the hospital, so John began by tidying up. First, he cleaned his basement family room from top to bottom, making sure also to clean the two folding tables, set up along the large sofa. Once this was done, he then brought out all his gaming reference books, and placed them on the table, some published by the game company, but most concocted from John’s fertile but whimsically twisted mind. When the game was in readiness, John set about providing refreshments for his guests, placing bowls of chips, pretzels, soda and beer within easy reach of all (especially for the Game Master!). After all, they might be in for a long night.

As he worked, he noticed the storm building outside. Looks to be a nasty one, he mused. As if to answer his unspoken comment, lightning flashed briefly, then followed a heartbeat later by the thunder. “Perfect,” John muttered, a smile playing on his lips.

“Perfect”, snorted Dave as he gazed upwards at the darkening skies. He’d hoped to make it to John’s house before the storm broke, but it looked like Mother Nature had other plans. He drove his light blue mini-van through the progressing storm, grimly determined to cheat the weather.

Presently, he pulled up to Bob’s house, and honked the horn. There was the brief acknowledgement of a wave from a window, and a moment later, Bob emerged. He trotted down the drive, circling the vintage 1967 Shelby, his gaming materials tucked under one arm, and climbed in. The wind was picking up, and tugged at his clothes while carrying leaves and debris into the van.

“Thanks, Dave,” he said as he belted in, noting Dave’s frown. “One day, that damned car’ll be worth what I paid for it...”.

“Fix it, or buy a new one. You can afford it,” the driver replied.

“But Dave... it’s a classic!” Bob protested. “Besides, it’s a roadster. How am I gonna drive it on a night like this?”

Dave ignored him. He really didn’t mind picking up his friend (it was the reason he’d bought the van to begin with: carpooling and the like), but now it looked like all hell was going to break loose. He would never admit to anyone it was weather like this that made him, a full-grown man, really nervous. And only the other gamers had any clue as to why...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Remember to stay thru the end credits....

“Tiresias,” Robinton shouted to his companion, “this won’t do. We’ll break off and circle to the north. Ride around that dune to the east and flank them. We’ll be ready for them...” Tiresias nodded, and leaned forward in the saddle. Grasping his mighty war-horse by his grey ears, and moving his head close to one, the ranger whispered gently an urgent command to the beast, and off they flew, great clouds of sand billowing from it’s hooves. It was as if a sandstorm had erupted from nowhere, and now was tracking across the east to bear down on it’s hapless victims, the Golenn thieves.

As Robinton led his men over the next dune, he caught a glint of light in the corner of his right eye. As he turned his horse eastward to meet Tiresias, and their foes, a brighter flash blinded him as he rode over the next rise. A great force seemed to lift up the sand his mount was leaping across, as if a giant hand had brushed them aside, and with a whinny of fear, the horse and it’s rider were flung to the ground. A cloud of obscuring sand was thrown up all around his men as they too struggled to recover from the blast. A surprised Tiresias was soon reigning his steed to a halt next to them, amid the valley formed by three great crests of sand. A small tornado of dust slowly subsided before them. Tiresias’s horse snorted and whinnied, in frustration, having lost it’s prey. Struggling to his feet once again, Robinton slowly began to stroke his beard. Amid the chaos, he could see his men, all scattered about the sand in various states of confusion, but none of his foe remained.

The marauders had vanished.

NOW

John, Dave, Lance, Eric and Bob had known each other since high school, and unlike most of their classmates, stayed friends through college and saw each other frequently thereafter. Their favorite hideaways were Wildwood, New Jersey, with it’s endless amusement piers, and Johns’ basement. Even as they each married and began families of their own, they always tried to find the time to do something together, though they would quickly admit that those chances were understandably becoming further apart. Of course, others of their ever-expanding clique of friends were always welcome to join in, but they found that they most enjoyed the time they spent alone... just the five of them.

John was the most handsome of the group, and the most talented. His angled chin, jet-black hair and easygoing manner had garnered him many roles in the area theaters, as well as more than a few women. (There were a thousand hearts breaking the day John married Heather. “Christ, you’d think someone died!” quipped Bob when he saw all the tearful women at the wedding.) Even so, these facts had never ruled his life, and his ego remained ostensibly humble. For this reason above any other, he became the natural choice for DM; it was impossible not to like him.

Dave bore the demeanor of a diplomat, as befit an employee of the Federal Government, so he often functioned as leader of the party. Nobody was sure what exactly he did for a living, but since they all knew the Cold War was over, and all that Bond stuff was a bunch of s_ _t, they all agreed that it must be pretty mundane to want to “hang around with us jerks”. Tall and heavyset, Dave’s roundish, cherub-like face was ringed by a dense black beard he had proudly borne since graduation, which he stroked incessantly when annoyed or in thought.

Eric, the eldest and most intelligent of the group, looked upon as a big brother to all the others. He always had room at his house for one more friend, and could always be counted on to lend an ear to them all. He worked for a major computer company, which was probably the reason for his strange, spontaneous humor, which would manifest itself at the weirdest time he could find. Once, while the town was gripped in the teeth of winter, Eric became fond of pointing out that, in his hometown of Buffalo, they had to endure much harsher conditions. He then began to strip to the waist in the middle of a shopping mall parking lot, screaming with indefatigable glee that “This weather is BALMY!” All agreed that, on that particular day, it was in fact Eric who was balmy.

Lance was the creative cement of the group. His was the heart of a poet with the wit of “Hawkeye Pierce”, and the demeanor of William Shatner thrown in at the last minute. He always had a joke at the ready, which made him a fun companion wherever they found themselves going, especially when one of the others was feeling low. His job at a national comic distributor was often the source for the latest information on new films and conventions around town, which they often attended en masse. Much of his humor, however, often had a biting and sometimes sorrowful edge to it. Only his closest friends could surmise that it was his loss of a loved one he was trying to assuage with a veneer of witticism.

Finally, there was Bob, the only father in the group. He was an enigma, an amalgam of the others. Heavyset, but not too much, a bit of talent, but not enough, a bit of wit, but not enough, a bit of success, but not nearly enough (according to his wife), he always had dreams that exceeded his abilities. He looked up to all the others in befuddled awe of their accomplishments, grateful to at least be a welcome witness to the proceedings. Though happy with his life, he was seemingly relegated to the “followers - only” section, always yearning for something more.

Although one or two of them could probably be caught together on any day of the week, Thursday nights were usually reserved for role playing of some sort, which often included the entire quintet. Though they had first played D&D”^tm many years ago in college, they had since gone beyond the simpler games and graduated to “Champions”^tm , “Amber”^tm , “Traveller”^tm , “MegaTraveller”^tm and “SuperMega-GonzoUltraTraveller”^tm , the latter of which, a somewhat “improved” version of “Traveller”^tm , created by Winchell Chung, yet another of their gaming cohorts. But, since John had specifically requested it, the small core group of adventurers was invited to revisit the original game system and have a nice melee “ just like ye olde days!”

TO BE CONTINUED

The master of Arms, in service of King Talen, Robinton was the tenth generation descendent of the city hero, Valen Tor. Being the eldest a male child in his family was, therefore, a hard role to fill, even for a man such as he. Broad of shoulder and strong, Robinton was taller than most of his siblings, many of whom also served as soldiers of the Realm. Dark tousled hair always threatened to fall down over his keen, brown eyes. His hard, chiseled features were ringed by a great forest of dark beard, which he often stroked in thought or annoyance. When he began this ritual, it was generally recommended that you put as much distance between you and his mighty axe as possible.

Robinton spent many years studying and practicing all facets of combat and tactics to assume the role of Protector. He first studied with his father, who had held the post of Master - of - Arms for thirty years. Until his passing in combat, when the boy was but twelve, Robinton idolized his Dad. As the eldest son, he knew he mustn’t grieve outwardly, for he was now the man of the family. Also, he knew that justice would prevail itself upon the guilty parties. Somehow, in Greythorne, it always did.

And so, the honor fell to Robinton to carry on, and to that end, he was apprenticed to the greatest swordsman in the land, Deamon Vas, so he could complete his training begun by his father. This in itself wasn’t a surprise, as Deamon taught King Talen, Robinton’s great uncle, before he had assumed the throne. But what had annoyed Robinton was Tiresias, the king’s snotty little son, also apprenticed to the great warlord. A good five years younger than himself, Tiresias was like an eager little dog, nipping at your heels, and about as welcome. Every time he would turn around, the younger boy was there, asking insufferable questions, anxious to impress Robinton at any opportunity with what he’d been taught that day. It was just that Tiresias had no brothers and a king for a father, which meant that, much of the time, he was alone. Nevertheless, Robinton swore, at the time, he was going to kill the little brat before he’d see his 12^th birthday. Then, after eight summers, his lessons were complete, and Robinton left to assume his post while Tiresias stayed behind. If someone had told him then that they would become fast friends and would owe each other their lives many times over, Robinton would have slain them as a liar.

These thoughts, among others, the great warrior mused upon as he and Tiresias led a small detachment of men near Golnath, between her hot desert lands and the banks of the Threllfall . There were rumors about that a band of Golenn marauders were picking off shipments of gold and goods flowing downstream to the tiny Grey village of P’holen.

“Damn, it’s hot,” Tiresias complained, as he eased his helm off, and produced a cloth with which to dry his forehead, “I don’t know how the Golenn stand it.” He began to wipe out the inside of his gold helmet, steering his horse with his knees.

Robinton just chuckled at his freinds discomfort. “You might stand it better if you’d get out in the field more, and stop hiding from responsibility in that comfortable little palace of yours.”

Tiresias frowned while he replaced the helm, and was about to retort, when suddenly, an arrow whistled by his ear and struck the young man behind Robinton, great gouts of blood fountaining from the wound in his neck. As the soldier toppled from his mount, more arrows began to rain down as the marauders broke from their hide in the great sand dune just ahead. Shields came up, as Robinton sounded the attack, and they all spurred their horses to greater efforts. ...

To be continued...

In days of old, the Land of Greythorne was a place of beauty and majesty. Bordered by frozen Nadoure to the north, Greythorne’s great green plains swept southward for thousands of leagues, interrupted only by the few mountains near arid Golnath, her southern neighbor. Far to the east, across the Shadowlands and the dark bole of Chillenwood, Greythorne finally ended at the Great Sea. Away to the west, the staggering beauty of the Skaedeen Mountains ripped a jagged silhouette against the setting sun. As far as the eye could see, the peaks cast orange and pink shadows across the plain, while beyond, the foothills fell away to yield to the yawning emptiness of the Great Canyon, which no living being had yet to cross. Dozens of small rivulets fell from Skaedeen, each delivering it’s contents to successively larger tributaries, at last to the edge of the plain, where they combined to fill the bed of the Threllfall River, whose meandering course divided the land roughly in two before finding it’s way to the Sea, five thousand miles away.

Her land, broad and fertile, and for the most part, flat, Greythorne was a farmers dream. Any and all forms plant-life flourished in her green meadows, and what could not be found in the plains, thrived in the cool shade of the forest Chillenwood. All manner of creatures found happiness in Greythorne’s diversity, and her size left plenty of room for fauna and hominids alike to share without on encroaching on the other.

While there were many smaller streams and creeks, as the largest (and only) river for many leagues, the Threllfall attracted almost all of the population to her fertile banks. Because the river was so broad, much of the land was fertile for hundreds of miles in either direction, and farmland stretched out as far the eye could see. The Threllfall’s size also gave her speed, and most of the smaller towns did not sail the swift waters.

If one were to follow the Threllfall to her source, nestled among the foothills of the western mountains, the city of V’tor grew up, as a mountain unto itself, out of the mists below. Once the lair of a mighty dragon slain by Valen Tor, the finest knight in Greythorne, the city was established in the bole of the mountain and adapted his name. The people who settled here were a hardy folk, who’d come south from Nadoure, and finding the riches that the river had carved from the mountains, built a sparkling city whose beauty rivaled even that of the mountains above. Though her citizens believed in peace above all else, they were often the recipients of violence, for there were many from Golnath and even elsewhere within Greythorne who would exploit Skaedeen’s resources.

V’tor’s people were among the few who braved the rampaging waters of the Threllfall at her most furious, and were Greythorne’s greatest mariners. Her sailors had navigated her fierce currents to Chillenwood and even ventured out as far as the Great Sea, though few had ever returned from such a voyage. It was in this way that Skaedeen metals and precious gems found their way into markets all over Greythorne. However, the water was another vulnerable temptation to thieves and opportunists seeking to gain what was not theirs to take.

So out of necessity, there arose from V’tor an elite group of warriors, as many native as foreign to the town, who assumed the duty of the protection of the citizenry and merchants of the City, even beyond her borders throughout Greythorne. All the good folk of Greythorne looked upon them with awe, whilst the evil lived, rightly, in fear of them. Among all of the Protectors, as many good and bad folk would agree, there was no greater soldier than Robinton.

To be continued...