The scene opens with billowing smoke, wafting aggressively in the face of our camera’s lens. An odd “British” voice speaks calmly.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Ah, yes, the fog of war. It blinds so many. 

The smoke slowly dissipates, revealing a birds-eye-view of sweeping green fields, emerging forests, and bodies of water speckling the landscape in the far distance. But directly in front of “us”, a medieval battle is about to unfold. A tall, ancient and twisted castle sits in the center of shot. On one side of the castle, a vast army of yellow stands proudly in lines, stretching it seems for leagues. Horses and foot soldiers, archers and catapults, all formidable, all standing at the ready. On the other side of the castle, a hulking army of grey approaches slowly. It is clear that the castle in question is in terrible peril. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
It blinds so many. But not me.

The camera zooms, ever so slowly towards our castle. White standards flair from the walls, all white with a single black bowler cap against it as its only design.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Never me.

As the camera zooms it becomes all too obvious that this isn’t an actual castle at all. But a miniaturized model. Our view sweeps over the lines of intimidating yellow “soldiers” to see they are miniatures as well. Cut to the army of grey. The same. Simple figurines.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
To the casual observer… it might appear our fair castle, everything I have worked tirelessly to build, must dig in for a terrible siege. Starved and cut off from any aid. Put to the torch. Or worse. I, however, am no casual observer…

A small, unblemished hand reaches down to clasp a yellow piece, bringing it closer to our camera’s lens. It is proud general, it’s majestic horse reared back, a sword held high over head as giving the all-important order to “CHARGE!”

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Oscar Burns… the plucky hero determined to find his place in this world once again. A noble warrior. Perhaps a little lost. Is his ego clouding his intent? Can his immense pride withstand the pressure it puts upon itself? Hmm. I do find myself wondering. 

The hand gently returns our “general” to the field of battle. Adjusting his placement just slightly before the camera sweeps across the parapets of our bent, distorted castle to its opposite side. The grey army waits. The same small hand plucks a grey piece up, bringing it closer into our view. A bald, barking barbarian, club raised above his head, face twisted into a war cry. A tribal chief, perhaps.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Ah… this one. Is this one friend or foe? A creature, in some ways much like mine, to be sure. But a man all his own. Bronson Box. Dare we open the gates to him? Dare we let him inside? Well… I fear we must. Bronson Box, the ORIGINAL Defiant, they say…

He returns the piece to the “board”. There is a pause before a shadow falls across the field, the castle, the forests, the armies. A brutish hand covered and smeared with black paint scoops up a dozen or more grey pieces into itself, holding them aloft as "gently” as it knows how.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
My Corvo might be the LAST Defiant. Perhaps… Perhaps… common cause can be found. Perhaps… victory can be ours, our armies joined. 

The black fingers slowly close upon the grey figures in the palm of his ebony-painted hand.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Oh, how I hope…

We see the grey “tribal chief” figure, its club raised, poking out between thumb and forefinger. The black painted hand of Corvo Alpha clenches. The camera zooms in on the twisted, screaming face of “Bronson Box” for just a moment before we see another hulking hand, this one covered and dripping with globs of red paint, come into shot.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
How I hope every piece knows its role. Knows the part it must play.

The red painted hand SMASHES the table under its clenched, “bloody” fist, absolutely destroying the rank and file of yellow pieces that had been carefully assembled. It sweeps many away, leaving a crimson streak across the battle field before again POUNDING the table where the yellow “general” had been. Pounding, again and again. In the aftermath, the general is nowhere to be found…

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Corvo Alpha knows his part.

The small hand we had previously seen comes back into view, this time tenderly placing itself on the wrist of Corvo Alpha’s black hand. Grey figures tumble from it the hand back to the “board”. Slowly, Corvo drops the remaining grey figurines. The “tribal chief”, nor smeared in black, lands on his feet, as if staring back at the hand, defying it as only it can. Challenging it. Corvo goes to smash it, but again, the tender hand of Lord Nigel stops him.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
And when the time comes… he will be ready to Play.

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