The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

The dining hall was far more intimate than one would expect from such a grand structure. It was a compact chamber with a single round table, just barely large enough to seat the nine chairs arranged around it.

Picayune scanned the odd ensemble of characters already gathered. Only two chairs remained empty. He took a small comfort in knowing he wasn't the last to arrive; though his comfort immediately vanished when he realized that the other empty chair meant that the last contestant was expected to be present for dinner.

The other seven chairs were already occupied.

Closest to the entrance sat a strange, seven-eyed fox creature, obediently chewing a thick pile of bones stacked high on its plate. It rested calmly on its haunches, tail ludicrously long—looping under and around its chair in an awkward attempt to stay clear of the servants' passing lane. It mostly failed.

Next to the Animal sat the Game: a short, but fit red-headed man locked in lively conversation with his dinner partner—the host himself, Director Dionysus.

From toe to shoulder, Dionysus appeared like an average if not slightly pudgy man. But above his shoulders, where a neck should have been, there was only empty air. His head floated independently—a perfect sphere without eyes, ears, or hair, lined only with a multitude of mouths. Each mouth acted independently from the other: one drank wine from a bejeweled goblet, another chewed upon his meaty meal, and a third bantered wordplay with the Game.

To Dionysus's other side, a chair had been pulled away from the table to face a nearby window. In it sat Palmer: the Topiary, quietly basking in the day star's light. The Topiary was an odd man, he never went anywhere without his basket of strange fruits, which even now rested beside him, one protective hand resting atop the basket's rim.

Next along the table sat the Vampire—the mokoi Picayune would be facing in the Tournament.

The sight of that creature sent a chill through his spine. The Vampire was impossibly tall and even more so pale. The intimidating beast looked just barely human enough to trigger that uncanny revulsion in Picayune's brain. Worst still was that he exuded absolute confidence. The Vampire was surrounded by nothing but enemies, and yet acted like he had not a care in the world; as if none posed him the slightest threat.

Picayune had a horrible sinking feeling that he might be right.

The only reason Picayune hadn't already turned around and fled—and the only reason no one else had tried to kill the Vampire on sight—was the one guarantee that held them all in place: with Dionysus present, no harm could come to any contestant. Even a mokoi as powerful as the Vampire wouldn't be foolish enough to break the laws of the Tournament.

Picayune couldn't even understand why the Vampire was at this dinner. He didn't even have a meal in front of him!

Unfortunately, Picayune's focus didn't go unnoticed.

The Vampire met his gaze and took a few testing whiffs of the air. His nose wrinkled sharply as he gagged—lips peeling back into a snarling grimace, revealing two engorged fangs.

Picayune broke eye contact at once.

He turned his attention to the last two occupants at the table; Liederkranz: the Band, and Poetaster: the Flare—inseparable as always, and presently doubled over in fits of giggles. Picayune couldn't make sense of them. They were enemies—scheduled to face each other in the very first round of the Tournament—yet somehow, they'd become fast friends before even arriving in the city.

Currently, Liederkranz was recounting the time that she had challenged Doyen: the Hero, and Jocund: the Bulwark, to a drinking contest. She told the story without a hint of pride or boast, as if a bar match with two of history's greatest icons was rote. Picayune was harshly reminded of the caliber of company he was in the presence of.

"Doyen? Nooo. He wasn't even able to last a full three mugs. The guy's a total lightweight! Jocund, now he was a real challenge, and I tell you when he finally passed out leaving me the only one left, everyone was floored… some literally floored from drinking too much. I can tell you though, Captain Rem was not impressed with me that night."

Poetaster guffawed dramatically. "You outdrank Jocund?! How much can you hold girl?"

A wry smile curled across Liederkranz's face. "More than you."

The Game, who'd been deep in conversation with Dionysus, whipped his head around with a giddy grin. "Wanna make a bet?"

While all this was going on, Picayune found his seat in between Poetaster and the final empty chair. Poetaster gave him a perfunctory greeting but otherwise returned to what they were doing beforehand. He felt out of place in this room of legends and twiddled with his thumbs unsure how to join in on the conversation, or if he was even supposed to.

Thankfully, he wasn't left to count ceiling tiles for too long. A servant approached and set down his meal: a meticulously plated beef stroganoff. He didn't know how the Tournament Corporation knew what his favorite meal was, but there it was.

Picayune was looking forward to locking his insecurities deep in the recesses of his mind and simply enjoy his mouth-watering meal. Steam rose from his plate, its aroma a soothing blanket. Picayune forked a satisfying mix of noodles and meat and summarily plopped it into his mouth.

Before he even had the opportunity to appreciate its perfect craftsmanship, he heard the creak of the entrance doors echo from behind him; and suddenly, all conversations in the room went silent as they stared over his shoulder.

The final contestant had arrived. Picayune swallowed the food like sand in his mouth. He twisted in his seat.

Framed in the doorway stood a slender figure cloaked in dark burgundy, the fabric cinched tight at the neck with a clasp shaped like a pink eye. The eye cast an eerie illusion of following one's gaze, and more than one contestant shuddered at the sight of it.

Under the cloak, thick black trousers disappeared into tall, knee-high leather boots, while atop the figure's head sat a thick woolen tuque, its tie straps pulled taut under the chin, forcing the hat snugly shut. A heavy purple scarf wrapped around the figure's neck several times over, burying it in fabric and the two winter articles almost entirely hid the contestant's expressionless porcelain mask. The mask was a pale albinistic white, the only splash of colour being a red X crossing its mouth.

Under all that clothes, the new entrant looked like a normal if below average height person. That was until they noticed the long scaled pink tail that ended in a barbed spike sliding out the back of their cloak.

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The Vampire wrinkled his nose in confusion while Poetaster, the ever perfect diplomat, stepped in to break the silence. "You must be the Curio, it is wonderful to mee—"

Poetaster was cut off by the Vampire's sudden exclamation. "I recognize zat zmell! Arete—iz zat you?"

Arete clenched her gloved hand and spoke through gritted teeth, her voice harsh and edged with a difficult to place accent. "It is Queen Arete now."

There was only one mokoi who would claim queendom. A hush fell over the room, everyone stunned to silence.

Everyone except for the Vampire of course, who broke into peals of laughter. "Ah how zey grow zo fazt. I vemember vhen you ztill teethed off ze teat of a young Allons-y." The Vampire brimmed a nostalgic smile. "She alvays told me zat you had a voraciouz appetite as a babe."

Liederkranz ignored the Vampire's grating comments and rose from her seat; already priming a spell in the back of her mind. "Queen?"

Around the table, everyone tensed, readying for a potential fight.

Mostly everyone, the Vampire simply smiled.

The expressionless porcelain mask of Queen Arete turned slowly toward Liederkranz. "Stand down, human. Perhaps the Khan would have blindly attacked, but I am not the Khan. The Mokoi have no interest in instigating another war at this time. I am here for the Tournament, and the Tournament alone."

Liederkranz wasn't convinced, nor most of the people present who chose to all hold onto a tense silence, each of their hands hovering near to a weapon.

It was Dionysus who finally cut through the stillness with a cheerful clap. "Well! I, for one, am always delighted to witness the entrepreneurial success of my contestants. Come—sit, drink, relax!"

Arete gave no reply.

Her tail slowly slithered back beneath her cloak, curling tightly as she met each acrimonious glare with one of her own.

The Game attempted a diffusing smile and poured her a glass of wine. Arete cautiously moved toward the last empty chair next to Picayune as she held a calculating eye to her potential enemies.

Liederkranz in turn, cautiously reseated and returned to her conversation with Poetaster, keeping faith in Dionysus's silent promise of peace.

Picayune, however, was frozen. Every muscle locked tight. He was terrified that the slightest movement might enrage the adjacent mokoi and send her into a murderous rampage.

Fortunately, her four-legged neighbor on the opposite side was far more welcoming—letting out a gleeful yip before licking the side of her porcelain mask. The licking was less than appreciated by Arete but did wonders for alleviating the room's tension.

It didn't take long after her seating for a servant to arrive with her meal, presenting the queen with what Picayune saw as a surprisingly palatable salad. Without comment, Arete removed her mask—carefully setting it on her lap—then grabbed her fork and began to eat.

A lull fell over Liederkranz and Poetaster's conversation as both stole wary glances toward the unmasked queen.

Picayune was taken aback to see that behind that mask was not the grotesque malformation of a typical mokoi, but instead was the young face of a woman of captivating beauty unblemished by marks of any kind. A few strands of golden hair managed to loop out and back in from the seams of her tightly bound tuque.

She ate her salad in silence, graceful and composed.

Picayune knew he was staring—but found it difficult to pull his eyes away from her allure.

The room had nearly settled back into its familiar rhythm, the emotional storm ebbing—much to everyone's relief.

Everyone's relief, except the Vampire, of course.

In typical disregard for the comfort of others, his curiosity could not be contained. "Zo," he drawled, "did Ardor appoint you as heir, or vas it more of a virst tyrant to zteal the throne type thing?"

Picayune choked on his beef stroganoff.

Liederkranz dropped her fork on her plate with a sharp metallic clang.

Arete fixed the Vampire with a glare of pure disdain. "I deserve that throne just as much as the Khan did!"

Her fingers tightened around her own fork. Across the room, Palmer shifted subtly—his hand hovering near the hilt of his purple sheath. Just in case.

All efforts to calm the tense crowd were instantly undone.

The Vampire's smile only grew wider with the room's increased discomfort. "I'm zure you do. Zay, you didn't happen to keep zome of Ardor's blood for me, did you? It vould be a terrible mizzed opportunity to let zuch an interesting specimen go untazted."

He leaned in, chin resting eagerly atop steepled fingers, eyes glittering with honest anticipation.

Arete's face attempted—and failed—to hold back her abhorring rage, and Picayune felt as if he could see the steam billowing from her ears. She slammed her hand against the table. Silverware jumped. Both Palmer and Liederkranz startling into fighting positions.

Arete looked about to scream at the top of her lungs, but held herself back at the last second. Instead, she spoke with a calmness Picayune found much more intimidating.

"And why," she said, voice like frozen iron, "would I ever want to save anything for you?"

The Vampire's grin faltered, his lips falling into a soft frown—surprised, even a little wounded. "A gift for an old friend?"

Picayune heard the table creak under Arete's grip as she spat her reply. "You are not a friend, you're not even an acquaintance. You're an arrogant, selfish traitor! As far as I'm concerned, I have more bad blood with you than I do with any of these filthy humans!"

The Game managed a meek disapproval, "Filthy?"

The Vampire recoiled with genuine confusion by Arete's statement. His expression morphed into puzzlement. "But… vhy?"

Arete's face flushed to a tomato red, her quivering fists stretching the seams of her gloves. She gave a glance to the discerning Dionysus and decided against attacking. "We needed you. The mokoi needed you. We could have won the war if only you had joined us in the Rain theatre. But no!" Her voice cracked into a shout as she shot to her feet, rattling her plate once more. "You already had what you wanted so you turned your back to your people. So many mokoi died for nothing and the war ended up a waste!"

This time it was Liederkranz's turn to slam her fist. "Excuse me, Queen." she snapped, the title oozing with mockery. "I do believe you were referring to the slaughter of my countrymen just then."

Queen Arete redirected her glare to the older woman, "And what about your slaughter of mine, Little Butcher? You think I don't know who you are?"

Liederkranz rocked upwards, white-knuckled around her steak knife, "Clearly not, if you think you can talk like that in my presence. Maybe you need a reminder."

Arete growled and Picayune shrunk deeper into his seat, awkwardly trying to inch away from the enraged queen next to him.

The Vampire waved away Liederkranz. "Pleaz zit child. Ze adult iz talking." He then turned to Arete, confused. "My little Arete, ze var was not a wazte. I captured a whole two new islandz for my Pleurothallidinae. I even zent you their children'z severed headz as zelebratory tribute."

The Game balked. "You what?"

Arete furied. "I didn't need trifles, I needed a staging ground!"

Liederkranz screeched with horror "TRIFLES?!"

The two women whipped out their weapons: Liederkranz, her steak knife glowing with built up arcana: Arete, her pink scaled tail shooting out from under her coat gripping a long red whip with a broken blade wrapped around its tip.

A branch began to bloom from Palmer's purple sheath, the empathetic Animal growling in the tension. Picayune was ready to bolt, completely missing the signals the Game was trying to send him.

Before the two women could leap over the table and throttle each other, Dionysus rose from his seat. He spoke calmly, hardly raising his voice above his norm, "Now this is supposed to be a pleasant dinner." Under that disarming veneer was the curdling warning of a Director. "I will not tolerate any violence or combat outside of your allotted matches. If you want to fight each other then win your bouts until you can face each other officially within the confines of the arena."