BERNOUSE, NEW HAMPSHIRE, TODAY
It felt like it was a hundred degrees outside, the sun blazing like the eye of Sauron, baking the little field where thirty men and women fought in pitched battles with sword and shield, spear and bow, axe and mace. And lightning bolts. Sometimes a fireball if Simon’s girlfriend could make it after her shift waiting tables at Ruby Tuesday’s. In the center of the chaos, two armored men circled each other, weapons held at the ready.
Sweat beaded on Griffin’s brow as he calmly circled his foe. The leather armor he wore was cooler than chain mail or plate, but it was still hot. He held his shield ready in front of him, sword poised to strike. The other man was a knight, taller than Griffin—not hard considering he was only a little over five and a half feet tall—and held a huge two-handed sword that was at least two feet longer than Griffin’s. He was wearing a suit of full plate armor, complete with an enormous bucket helmet. He looked quite intimidating. Griffin calmly continued to circle. The knight also overheated, with that blazing sun glinting off the chromed metal of his helmet and sweat streaming down his beet-red face.
With a sudden yell, the knight charged forward, his enormous greatsword cutting the air in front of him. He couldn’t help but telegraph such a dramatic move though, and Griffin had seen the impatience—and probably burgeoning heat stroke—building in him. He’d goaded his opponent into facing the hot sun and now he was squinting, going on the attack because he couldn’t clearly see Griffin. That made it very simple to step inside the range of his huge sword and slice at his unprotected legs.
The bigger man cursed as Griffin’s blade smacked hard into his left thigh. He took a knee and they separated. Griffin raised his “sword” and his shield again. The blade was his design of course. It had a fiberglass core with closed-cell foam glued in layers around it, secured with a layer of duct tape and finally a cloth cover. He’d been working on a new adhesive formulation that was supposed to strengthen the core—make the damn things less likely to break—and he'd been testing just how hard he could hit with it during today’s battle.
“I almost felt that through my armor,” Pete said, his voice sounding tinny coming from within the helm. “I thought I had you there, but that was a good hit.”
Griffin acknowledged the compliment with a flourish of his sword. He had to duck a yellow ball—a lightning bolt—that Vi threw. “Vi!” he shouted, “Friendly fire!”
“Sorry Griff!” Vi called back, far from the front of the battle. “I was trying to hit Pete!”
Reminded of his enemy, Griffin suddenly raised his shield and not a moment too soon. Even down a leg, Pete was no easy pickings. And that greatsword he made hit like a baseball bat, no matter how much foam he’d padded it with. He barely caught Pete’s attack—made when he was distracted by Vi’s bad throw—on his shield, stumbling back from the force of the blow. Pete tried to capitalize on his stumble, but the greatsword got tangled in one of the new guys’ legs as he dashed through their little dueling circle.
The little guy went sprawling, one of his sneakers flying off—he wasn’t even in period-appropriate costume—and face-planted into the grass. Both Griffin and Pete raised their hands and the battle stopped around them. Pete got to his feet and they both checked on the poor guy, who was wheezing like he got the breath knocked out of him. Griffin helped him sit up while Pete took off his huge helmet and set it down. “You okay, buddy?”
The new guy nodded. He was a kid in his early twenties with red hair that was plastered to his head with sweat. He had a Godsmack T-shirt on with black jeans and one sneaker. The other one was maybe fifteen feet away. Nate bent and picked it up—he had opted to go for the full dark elf get-up today with the black makeup and the black leather armor—and he tossed it over to the little group. “Thanks,” the new guy mumbled, “sorry for stopping the battle.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pete said, holding a hand out to help the guy to his feet, “we just don’t want anyone to get hurt. Next time though, don’t run through a duel, okay? Battlefield awareness!” He pulled the redhead to his feet and handed him his shoe.
“What’s your name?” Griffin asked.
“Keith,” said Keith.
“Nice to meet you, Keith, I’m Griffin,” Griffin said, putting an arm around Keith’s shoulders and maneuvering him to the edge of their little dueling circle. “Keith, can you tell me what time it is?”
Keith hesitated, nonplussed. “What… time?”
Griffin nodded.
“Uh, sure.” Keith patted his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Griffin?” Pete asked, “What are you doing? If Keith’s okay, let’s get back to the fight!”
“Hang on a sec, I just remembered I forgot something!” Griffin said. “But it might not be a complete disaster if it’s not quite fou—”
“It’s five-sixteen,” Keith said, looking at his phone’s display. “Why? is that bad?”
“Shit,” Griffin said sighing. He walked off the battlefield, waving his hand at Pete to start it up again, “I gotta get going! Sarah and I are telling Mom we’re engaged tonight. She’s finally back from that cruise or whatever.”
“How long was she gone? Six months? She can wait a little longer. And besides, it’s not night yet!” Pete said, following Griffin off the field as the battle recommenced around them.
The field they were in was a little grassy clearing next to the baseball diamond at Keystone Park in sleepy Bernouse, New Hampshire. Griffin walked over to the bleachers where everyone had deposited their bags and gear. Middle-schoolers had baseball practice in about an hour or so and they could see some of the more enthusiastic players were already beginning to arrive. If they didn’t clear their bags off the bleachers soon, the parents would be calling the Parks and Rec department again and Griffin desperately did not want to talk to Deb from the office downtown. Again. For the fourth time.
“Can you have the group get their gear off the bleachers?” Griffin said, grabbing his large black and red duffel bag and unzipping it. He fished around for his phone, expecting to see a text or a call from Sarah. “Huh.”
“What’s up?” Pete asked, pulling off one of his gauntlets and brushing back his sweaty hair. “Sarah pissed off at you?”
“Nah,” Griffin shook his head and stuffed his sword in his bag, still looking at his phone. “When I left, Sarah was going on-stream. That new game, Blade Omen 3, came out yesterday. I’m fairly sure she’s completely forgotten about the thing with Mom tonight. Here hold this.” He handed Pete his phone and began unbuckling his leather cuirass and pauldrons.
Pete mimed throwing the phone on the ground, but Griffin had already gotten involved in one of the buckles on his armor and didn’t see him. “I can’t believe the Lone Knight is getting hitched, dude. Fuckin’ wild.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Shut the fuck up, Pete. I don’t know who came up with that Lone Knight bullshit—probably Ian or one of his buddies.”
“Still! And Sarah’s a hottie! A former college gymnast should be very flexible!” Pete leered.
“You’re gross.” He pulled his cuirass over his head along with the pauldrons and dropped it into the open bag. He began unlacing the leather bracers on his wrists. “Look, I’ll be online later on tonight while I’m working on the map for tomorrow night’s big climactic D&D game. I wanted to talk to you about Illithar’s plans for the siege—there’s a token pack with some two-headed elephants that I think would be perfect and I need to see about the placement of the archers. I’ll be on our Discord server’s voice channel, so just drop by whenever.”
Pete nodded, picking up Griffin’s shield for him as he started hauling the now-stuffed duffel bag up to his dusty, light-blue Saab, parked next to Pete’s huge, canary-yellow pickup truck. The parking lot was right next to the baseball field, but they were on the far side, so they had to walk all the way around. Pete and Griffin chatted as they walked, laughing and goofing off. The parking lot was filling up as more middle schoolers arrived for baseball practice.
Griffin walked around to the back of his little car and opened the trunk, tossing his duffel bag inside. Pete placed the shield on top and Griffin closed the trunk with a satisfying clunk. “Remember to get the rest of the group to get their shit off the bleachers, Pete. I mean it. I do not want a call from Deb-fucking-Gorman, okay?”
Pete nodded and gave him a light fist bump, “You got it, boss. Hey man, be careful on the way home. Pigs are out in force right now—end of the month.”
Griffin nodded his thanks and got into the front seat, slamming the door and starting the car at the same time. He pulled out of the parking lot, waving at Pete and the rest of the battle group as he went. He turned up the air conditioning to full blast, reveling in the arctic air blowing on his face. He’d give his mom a call once he’d had a chance to get home and get in the shower; it was too dangerous to call her on the road.
The drive home was peaceful, even if the air conditioning really wasn’t up to the task. It never got this hot in New Hampshire. The extreme heat didn’t lessen the small-town charm of Bernouse though. The town was picturesque in a way that only postcards seemed to be. There was an old-fashioned movie theater downtown, a clock tower, a big old Episcopal church that looked more like a cathedral, and the sprawling campus of Bellweather Academy—the prep school that only the truly rich could afford to send their kids to. Bernouse oozed charm.
Griffin meandered his way through traffic, such as it was. There were only a few cars on the curving streets and byways of the town, and there were even fewer people on the pristine sidewalks. It was too hot outside for strolling. It was impossible to go over thirty miles an hour through Bernouse, even with only a few cars on the road. There were so many awkwardly placed stop signs, blind curves, and strangely timed traffic lights that you couldn’t drive more than two blocks without stopping until you were about a mile out of town.
Griffin had pulled to a stop at the stop sign on Main Street by the Starlight Theater, across the street from the Golden Dragon (a Chinese restaurant with delicious wonton soup and Sarah’s favorite Chinese place in town) when he saw one of the strangest cars he’d ever seen in Bernouse. Around Bernouse, there were two kinds of cars: the blocky little Saab sedans like Griffin’s and enormous SUVs. This car did not fit in either category.
It was parked in the little lot by the Golden Dragon. The thing looked like a movie prop or a Hot Wheels car—one of those ridiculous concept cars that are all weird curves and futuristic planes—and it had an eye-catching iridescent purple and green paint job. He stopped to stare for so long at the improbable vehicle that the person behind him had to honk twice before he realized he’d been holding up traffic. With a start, he drove through the intersection and continued home, wishing he had the presence of mind to take a picture of the weird car while he was at the stop sign. Sarah would’ve loved to have seen it.
Griffin bumped the door open with his duffel bag, holding onto his shield with his other hand. He dropped his keys off in the little bowl by the door and poked his head in past the foyer to see if Sarah was waiting. Their little townhome was a mess of collectibles, movie posters, and ongoing art projects all crammed in wherever they could fit them. The décor was a combination of hand-me-downs, thrift store finds, and their one piece of furniture that they’d purchased from a furniture store: the kitchen table that could convert from a round table to a long oval (currently in long form and covered in D&D maps, minis, character sheets, and empty beer and soda cans.) Sarah wasn’t in the living room so she must be in the office.
Griffin dropped his duffel bag in the little foyer, kicking off his sneakers at the same time. He grimaced as he stretched his neck and propped the shield up on top of the duffel bag and kicked the door shut behind him. With his shoes off, he was now allowed to walk into the rest of the house—it was Sarah’s rule and one he whole-heartedly agreed with no shoes in the house—and he flopped onto the comfy couch in the living room. There was an enormous, oversized blanket tossed on the couch and he grabbed that and stuffed it under his head for a pillow. He considered turning on the TV, then his phone dinged from his pocket. He dug it out and stared at it. It was a reminder for—right. Dinner with mom.
He groaned and rolled off the couch. He glanced over at the big wooden coffee table, still cluttered with D&D rulebooks, his laptop, and dice; he still had some work to do tonight that he couldn’t forget. Sarah would be in the middle of streaming, but she wouldn’t mind the interruption too much. He’d stop by and let her know that they had to get going soon. Before he went upstairs, he checked on Godzilla, his blue iguana.
Godzilla was resting on his favorite log in the afternoon sun, his eyes half closed. When Griffin approached, his eyes opened fully, and he raised his head. “Hey there, littlest kaiju, looks like you’re finally finished molting! Enjoying the sun?” He looked at the little water dish in the terrarium and saw that it was still full and clean. “Well, those figs we got from the store should be just about ready, so I’ll cut some up and you can have a treat. After your lettuce. Pig-lizard.” Godzilla blinked at him. Griffin chose to think of it as a particularly affectionate blink.
“Okay ladies-man, I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He grinned at his own joke and then went upstairs, taking them two at a time. He heard Sarah’s voice through the closed door of the office across from the bedroom. It sounded intense in there. The stream must be going well, so it’d probably be better to text her instead of just opening the door… He didn’t particularly want to be seen by—he checked her Twitch channel on his phone—8,300 people.
Griffin: Hi honey, I’m home
Griffin: We got the diner thing with mmo like an hour an a half ago
Griffin: dinner* momm*
Griffin: mom*
He heard the distinctive tone of a Star Trek communicator from behind the closed door of Sarah’s office. A moment later, the little ellipses popped up on his screen and a message from Sarah came in.
Sarah: Calm down psycho i’m almost done streams gong fukken nutzo
Sarah: You clean yet?
Griffin: No not yet gonna shower
Sarah: okok. you tell your mom were running late?
Griffin: I’ll call her when I’m done with the shower. I didn’t have any calls from her anyway.
Sarah: <3 <3
Griffin went into their room and quickly stripped out of his sweaty clothes, tossing them in the big basket they had for a hamper. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he hopped into the shower and took a critical look. He was pale in the harsh bathroom light—but he was always pale—and he was still at least forty pounds away from where he needed to be, but it was a damn sight from the eighty he’d already lost. He was beginning to see some muscle definition come in on his arms—the faux sword fighting (Sarah liked to spell it fauxm sordfighting in their text messages) was working wonders.
He couldn’t do much for his hair though—no matter what he did, his brown hair stood out like he’d recently been electrocuted. He had once heard someone say he looked like Matthew Lillard in Scream and he’d never really known how to feel about that. He’d grown his hair out once, thinking he could tie it down at one point, but that had been a disaster. Maybe he’d shave his head. He’d grown the beard to hide his weak chin, though Sarah said it wasn’t a weak chin; she never suggested he shave, though. Griffin had always been told his best feature was his eyes—his mom called them “piercing” blue, but to him, they just looked watery and light. He shrugged uncomfortably and decided that he’d had enough self-reflection for the moment. His looks would be vastly improved by a shower anyway.