Gareth Clark was a rather simple middle-aged man and a product of modern times. He had a short head of gray hair that was cut in a straight line. His healthy light complexion in a sense was rather alive. His blue eyes were bright and attentive as they scoured the weekly paper's many lines.
He filed his taxes regularly and he paid his bills on time. He owned a small house in upstate new york with two floors on a ten-acre property. He trimmed his lawn properly, and the shrubs that circled his house were well kept. He had no pets ever since his dog Rex had died of old age to his deep regret.

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be one against whom there was no official complaint.
And all the reports on his conduct agree that, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint. For in everything he did, he served the Greater Community.
Except for the death of his father till the day he retired, he worked for his employer and never got fired, and satisfied his employers, Jameson washing machines Inc.
Yet he wasn't a creep or odd in his views, And his Union reports that he paid his dues.

His Social Psychology workers found that he was popular with his mates and liked to drink.
The Press are convinced that he read a paper every day and that his responses to current events were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, and his Health-report shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.

So why then was he chosen to be sent to a strange new world? Surely it wasn't because of his employee of the month award? That would be preposterous. He wasn't an adventurer or man to take ridiculous risks. So why then was he chosen? Why was the normal life he lived so horribly broken? Well, dear reader, you will find out now.

Gareth Clark woke with a start. The last thing he remembered was nodding off in his rocking chair while reading a copy of the daily newspaper that he had delivered every morning at around ten o'clock every morning. Where he was now was very much not his rocking chair or anywhere he knew of for that matter. He looked around to find himself in a throne room where a king sat on a golden throne with his advisors and attendants milling about. The hall was quite large, with the arching ceiling easily more than twenty meters tall with gold-leafed arches and well-cut stone pillars. On the floor was a long opulent red rug that had gold threads interwoven with the red.

The walls had stained glass windows above that let the light burst in a spray of prismatic colors, giving the room a quiet picturesque image of an ideal throne room. The king, a man a good ten or so years older than Gareth who was in his late forties had a long mane of silver hair below the golden crown that held a large purple gem. His skin was slightly unhealthily pale and he looked like he was quite worried about something as his eyes squinted in stress.

This was all so overwhelming for Gareth who was no more than your sightly above average layman.

"Who are you?" the king had spoken, his question carrying across the hall, turning the heads of the nobles and guards towards Gareth, who froze in fear. He was in front of a king. There was no film crew, nor did this look like a play. Perhaps he had somehow been kidnapped and taken to some faraway European country? He did not know.

Gulping Gareth gave his best bow with his hands at his side.

"I'm Gareth, Your highness," he greeted the king respectfully, only now noticing the black leather strap that was resting across his chest and down his side. It was a weapon strap that was loosely connected to a long Sheathe on his left hip. Sitting snugly in the sheath was a long Falchion with a round pommel that had a large green gem embedded into the metal.

The king noticed the weapon and his eyes went wide.

"Another hero?" He almost spat out. His disbelief etched across his face with rapt intensity.

"Hero?" Gareth gulped. This was not funny. He was a washing machine salesman, not a hero. He was averse to violence, surely there was a grave mistake.

"Tell me, hero. What weapon do you carry? The king asked as he looked at the man, sizing him up. Clearly, the man in front of him was out of place, but to think that the hero summoning had summoned yet another hero after the four came. It was unprecedented.

Now Gareth was a well-read man and had studied history in university, so naturally, he could identify the flat, curved blade.

"I believe this is a falchion your highness" Gareth said as he drew the silvery blade from it's scabbard and held it in his hands. He turned the blade over slowly in his hands. The blade was quite sharp, which he learned the hard way as he sliced his left palm accidentally with it wincing with a little "Ouch" he couldn't help but exclaim.

"I believe I will have to brief you on your duties soon, but I am quite busy" The king said to Gareth who stood shellshocked.

"Duties?" He managed to squeeze out through the apple-sized lump in his throat, but the king was already busy talking to his attendants.

The king murmured something in the ear of an attendant in a red silk outfit who then walked over to Gareth and bowed.

"Sir hero, come, let me show you to your quarters" The man who looked about fifteen years younger than him said as he ushered Gareth away.

Today was going to be a long, confusing day and Gareth dreaded every second of it as he was led out of the throne room and into the stony halls of the castle grounds.