Wargaming Forum and Wargamer Forums - View Single Post - The Epic of Valdrel
View Single Post
post #2 of (permalink) Old 05-08-12, 03:43 AM Thread Starter
So be it.
JAMOB's Avatar
JAMOB's Flag is: USA
Join Date: Dec 2010
Location: Boston
Posts: 1,900
Reputation: 15
Default Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Most Repetitive Introduction Ever, and it’s not technically an introduction at all
Vince was quietly working in his large, boring office, writing a long, boring report for his large, boring boss. He was bored. Needless to say Vince did not like his job. Everything was very large and very boring.
Vince wanted adventure, the kind found in epic fantasy novels. His favorite fantasy was being a Viking, only one who was civilized. The easiest way for him to cheer himself up was to think of the Viking he wanted to be: drinking tea, pinky up, in full battle armor, or asking politely to enter a house before murdering the inhabitants, all the while saying things like “Cheerio!” and often “Well, old chap, would it be too much trouble for you to fight back?” No one else understood the appeal of these images—well, except for me that is.
My name is Tyr’ron the historian. From a young age Vince and I have been good friends, going everywhere together. Unfortunately it was not to last. When he was very young, Vince’s parents were killed rather cruelly by his uncle. He, of course, remembers none of this, and I am not inclined to tell him. He had amnesia after a particularly bad knee injury. Since then, we moved numerous times finally locating ourselves in New York City. I thought that here we would be safe from Vince’s murderous uncle, but unfortunately it once again was not to be.
He found us. I don’t know how, but he did, and once again we ran, and—I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself--but let me start over.
Vince’s life was boring, he was misunderstood, out of place, whatever. I am going to briefly walk you, dear reader, through his life.
Every day, Vince wakes up, I make him tea, he grabs a bite to eat, and I drive him to work in my cab. (I’m currently a taxi driver.) He enters work, checks in, and goes to his office. This, in case you didn’t notice, brings me back to where I started. As I hate repeating myself, I ask that you read, hopefully not for the first time, the first four sentences. I will wait.

Welcome back. I believe I have sufficiently stated the boring nature of his place of work. I suppose I should describe his co-workers. His boss is named Smith, Mr. Smith to his workers. Mr. Smith has a secretary named Mrs. Jones, who does most of the work while Smith spies on his workers, assuring himself that they are working hard. Then there is Eddy, a friendly fellow with very interesting ideas; the Colonel (no one except Mr. Smith knows his real name), a silent and aggressive Veteran of some war or other: and Eileen Jenkins, a delightful young girl and the center of everyone else in the office’s attention. For all the interesting co-workers, the place was incredibly boring, most likely due to Mr. Smith.
He was a harsh old man, insisting that everyone enter and leave at specific times, varying depending on Mr. Smith’s own personal schedule. No one was allowed to be there without him, and those absent while he was present were harshly punished, docking much needed pay. He was a fat, greedy, despicable man. Why, though, was the job boring? You see, dear reader, with harshness came strictness. Talking other than that specifically related to work (and even this was monitored) was forbidden. No food or beverages were allowed inside any part of the office. Coffee breaks were scheduled, and were almost always solitary, so that everyone but one person was working at all times, and normally they all were. The work—boring. Imagine the most boring atmosphere possible. Even though there were some interesting people, any exciting contact was expressly forbidden. In this setting, dear reader, was my good friend Vincent confined for so many years.
Days passed, weeks went by, whole months seemed to disappear in the endless monotony. And, as always, Vince sat, quietly working in his large, boring office, writing a long, boring report to his large boring box. And, as always, he was bored.
As Vince finished looking over his report (this one about his long, boring meeting with an accounting firm), dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, his phone started buzzing. “Oh, God, no, not now.” He had been expecting a call from a local charity (one that he believed was a scam). Every time they called, there were long, heated debates, both parties screaming loudly. They had promised to call again. He didn’t want them to. Unfortunately, the boss expected all phone calls to be answered promptly, yet forbade personal calls. He hated the ringing and the buzzing.
Vince put down his report and wearily picked up the phone.
“Mr. Maurice here. How may I be of service?”
This is where I come in. “Vince, cut the crap. It’s me, Tyrone.” Yes, I know I said my name was Tyr’ron. I’ll get to that later.
“Ty, what is it? You know I’m not supposed to take personal calls at work.”
“I know, I know, but this is impor—“
And here, he cut me off. “I don’t care. Tell me later. If I don’t go now I might lose my job.”
I was getting worried. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to do. “All right, Vince, I’ll make this fast. I…”
He cut off abruptly. At the time I had no idea what had happened. “Vince? Vince? What happened? Where are you? VINCE!”
I was worried. I believed that my best friend had been kidnapped! Of course, I later found out that his boss had walked in, so he had hung up. I wish I had been able to tell him. Three good men would still be alive…No. I am getting ahead of myself again.
I left a note for him, knowing that it would be a while before I saw him. Knowing that he would have those same horrific nightmares. Knowing how helpless he would be, but knowing that this was his best chance.
What had I been about to tell him? I would have said, “We have to leave.” I know him. He would have said, “Again?” “Again,” I would sadly respond. He never understood why. We were being chased, and they had found us. They knew me better than him, so I would have to leave on my own. I left guards, hoping they would be enough, praying to the wolf that he would be all right, that we would see each other again.
That night, he came home. He read the letter I left and was devastated. It read:
“My Dear Vincent. I am sorry. I am so very sorry. I have not been truthful with you all these years, and am not who you think I am. Not only did I lie about myself, but also about you. I am sorry that I cannot say more of this now. Suffice to know that I must leave. I cannot say where, or why, only that I am. Goodbye.”
I knew that he would understand the signature, if not the rest. We often used these symbols among ourselves. Predictably, he called me immediately, but I had deactivated my phone account. I took the precaution to erase my name from existence, other than the memories of a select few. How? Ha. Like everything, secrecy can be bought. In my place, Benny, another taxi driver, drove Vince to work daily and took care of him. No one, other than Vince, noticed the change.
That night, Vince once again has his strange nightmare. Here is an account of it from his journal:
I am standing in a strange arena with no walls, but I sense I cannot leave. I face another, who, like me, is in ornate battle armor and wielding nearly identical swords. Two crowds cheer, one for and one against me. We stare at each other long and hard, his eyes filled with hate. We mirror each other’s movements, drawing our swords and stalking silently. Then, we fight. As I swing, I realize, as I do every night, how skilled I have become. Again we fight, again I win, as always. He dies by my sword, although I spared him. My triumph is snatched away, as it is every night, as the sun is blotted out by a storm of arrows. I always fall, screaming, clutching my burning leg. Then, as always, I awoke.”

It is really a sad thing. Think of it from his perspective. He has amnesia and cannot remember his past. He has a recurring dream that constantly torments him. And now, his best friend has left him, and seemingly no longer exists. I wish so much to tell him the truth.

Last edited by JAMOB; 05-08-12 at 02:10 PM.
JAMOB is offline  
For the best viewing experience please update your browser to Google Chrome