Kickoff

Kickoff written by TiredHuman

A Tale Among Tales

An adventure with a rather mundane beginning...

If the vast amounts of stories shared through songs and texts of old truly exemplified the nature of tragedy and destiny, one would be forced to conclude that all great adventure begins a cold, dark, stormy night. The severity of the weather, of course, would ominously prophesize the chaos to be unleashed, wrecking the right amount of surrounding structures to strike any observer with the appropriate amount of apprehension.

A mysterious character would unearth a cryptic prophecy to precisely the WRONG people, leaving the night to invariably end with a terse promise of bloodshed. Cold, frightened, and terribly hopeful, the meek people overhearing their future salvation would silently await their golden hero to save them. The evil ruling them, lashing out and cursing, would vow to destroy their “so-called hero” and rewrite the story that would have been set.

Unfortunately, ours is a story that can hardly hold a candle to the dramatic beginnings of its predecessors. While other storytellers
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holler and yell in the town square, the poor chap telling ours will be stuck with their normal timbre, describing a rather cheerful, bright summer morning.

What was particularly interesting about this morning was the complete lack of distinguishing features it had to boast of. See, every day has a tiny, notable detail that sets it apart from the rest: a new ear-splitting bird call, a fashionably late sunrise, or even a new national interest in crispy bird stew. But this morning did not have a single thing. It was the most tediously average morning to dawn in centuries.

The wind rustled the trees just hard enough to avoid being noteworthily gentle, and just hard enough to avoid being memorably violent. The sun rose cautiously, frustratingly punctual as it tread the same path it had followed for millennia. Its pace—its glow!—a perfectly poised performance of calculated competence. The usual cacophony of bird cries adorned the air, the occasional shriek shattering eardrums at the same rate
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as the day before.

In the face of sheer mundanity, a heavy sense of dread settled among the population. Fingers fiddled. Toe-nails twitched. Foreheads furrowed. Living impoverished under the absolute rule of a Being of unknowable power, such a thing was not extraordinary. Rather, it was yet another reason this morning was so average.

There was something about this dread, though. Something... different. People looked at each other uneasily, watching each other go on their way, down the same paths they'd followed since forever. Some—the slower ones of the group no doubt—glanced at the Great Tower At The Top Of The Hill, the home of the the Great Being that ruled over them. They hoped, perhaps, that it might hold the answers to the peculiarity of the dread they were feeling. This was, naturally, just an indication of their naiveté; any seasoned villager would easily tell you that such a hope is futile. Whatever the motivations or otherworldy wisdom the Great Being harbored, it never deigned
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to speak them out loud, much less share them with humans.
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