The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

With an audible huff of dissatisfaction, Arete reined in her tail and tucked it back beneath her cloak.

Seeing the mokoi queen stand down let Picayune's wavering heart begin to beat again. He was sat right next to her, and he could practically feel the destructiveness that radiated from that whip, there was a palpable threat of the nothingness that ran Picayune's blood cold.

He had never been so terrified in his entire life. For the first time, he felt genuinely relieved to be facing the Vampire in the arena—because at least that meant he wouldn't have to face her.

Without a word, Arete sat back down and resumed eating her salad. Everyone watched her for a moment longer, waiting.

But once the Animal also returned to its meal, so did the table return to theirs.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft clinks of cutlery against porcelain. No one dared speak through the unease.

Once again, an unease that existed for all but one.

The Vampire leaned forward, parting his lips to speak again, but Dionysus quickly interjected, sparing everyone another incident. "Now that everyone is here, and we've had a moment to enjoy our meals—"

The Vampire interrupted, "I haven't"

"We apologize, Vampire, but we cannot meet your nutritional demands."

"You have two armz."

Dionysus simply ignored that comment and moved on, making the Vampire childishly pout.

"Now that everyone is here," Dionysus repeated, unbothered, "I can commence with the itinerary of the month. Things are going to be a little different this century. I understand that for most of you, that means nothing, as you've only known one century—and for that, I offer my condolences."

The Game grimaced with befuddlement, first he was called filthy and now his lifespan was being slighted. This was why the Game was never fond of non-humans, always so rude.

Dionysus continued, unconcerned of his insult to the Game, "This time for the first time, the Tournament will be watched using the brand-new incalescent technology developed by the TOIL initiative. This means that everyone from across the continent will be able to watch your fights in real time, from wherever they are. This is truly a remarkable age we live in."

He beamed, then added, "That said, the Tournament Corporation has no desire to be blamed for a continent-wide food shortage because the populace abandoned its work to binge combat matches. But fear not! The Tournament Corporation has come up with a solution. We have worked together with nobles from all across Trammel and have come up with a miraculous invention to solve this problem."

Dionysus paused to let the anticipation build, but most of the contestants were just bored waiting to see how any of this involved them.

"We're calling this invention… the holiday! Once a week, citizens will be relieved from their duties to spend as they wish. It is on these days that your matches will take place. That way everyone will be able to watch your amazing fights and the supply chain can continue to move on mostly unimpeded. Isn't that amazing?!"

The nobles, legends, and sovereigns at the table exchanged confused glances.

For once, the Vampire voiced what everyone was thinking.

"People vork?"

Dionysus slouched in exasperation. "…I see I have tuned myself to the wrong audience. Regardless, my point is that each of your battles will be separated by a week, after which another week will pass, and the next arena will start. So on and so on until all arenas are complete, a month will pass, the Tournament matchups will be reshuffled, and we'll start anew. Rinse, repeat, winner, hooray!"

"And…" He turned one of his mouths toward the Vampire with a tight-lipped frown."Given the Tournament's broader reach this century, the Tournament Corporation would like me to emphasize the fact that the Tournament is not a battle to the death and never has been."

He muttered under his breath, "Something all too many of you tend to forget."

Returning to his more spokesman-like volume, Dionysus resumed. "So I would like to let everyone here know that you do have the option to yield with the only consequence being eternal shame."

Picayune stiffened at that last comment.

"But you all don't need to dwell on those sorts of things now. Rest, eat some more, and enjoy each other's company!" With that, Dionysus finally sat back down, quenching one of his tired mouths with a long sip of wine.

Poetaster turned to Liederkranz, eager to resume their earlier conversation. "You know Liederkranz, I was thinking that perhaps before the Tournament starts, we could do some sort of performance to celebrate the occasion. You could play a song and I can choreograph a dance for it!"

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Liederkranz's eyes lit up. "Really?! It would be an honour to share a stage with you, Poetaster. How about we perform it right before our match?"

"That's a great idea!" Poetaster was already planning, its mind racing through logistics. "I'll need to find a wizard in the city somewhere to prepare the necessary rune work if we want to do this right."

Picayune thought back to Belabor and how she told him that stress would only hinder him by this point. He needed to relax, work on a short simple project with far lower stakes. Picayune cleared his throat to get the two contestant's attention before speaking.

"I could probably handle the setup myself. From your play last month, the spellwork didn't seem too complex. I could even spice things up a little, if you want."

Poetaster let out an entertained, barking laugh—amused and a little incredulous at Picayune's accidental insult. "Oh? My team's spell designs were just simple?"

Picayune reddened, realizing his blunder "That's not what I meant. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to-"

Poetaster placed its hand placatingly over Picayune's shoulder. "It is fine Picayune, I would be delighted to upgrade my staff to have the spellwork of a fellow Tournament contestant"

Picayune preened at the fact that the great Poetaster had actually known his name.

Dionysus chimed in with a note of caution. "You may draw your spellwork upon my stage, Picayune, but you must accept that I have my own staff look over your runes to ensure there is nothing which could affect the match itself."

Picayune nodded respectfully. "Yes, of course, Mr. Dionysus, sir."

Unable to wait another moment, Poetaster stood. "Let us move to my chambers where we can brainstorm the specifics of our show."

Picayune had barely touched his stroganoff at this point. He scanned the room, catching the Vampire smiling at him with unsettling delight while Arete stabbed angrily at her salad. Suddenly, the idea of leaving this room as soon as possible sounded absolutely wonderful.

As the group departed, the Vampire's grin widened, and he spoke out absently.

"Vhat a sweet boy."

The bell above the store entrance chimed the arrival of a new potential customer; namely, the Game.

Unfortunately for the younger Tournament invitee, the store clerk was nowhere to be seen. That suited the Game fine, and he chose to take the opportunity to explore the shop's wares while waiting to be attended to.

It took him a moment to acclimatize to the room's cacophonous ambience. Hundreds of clocks—wall-mounted, shelved, or stacked—proclaimed their existence all at once. Every second a chorus of clicks and knocks and ticks and tocks and thuds and thumps all combated for attention; each toll sonically igniting the room to life. Every sound made all the louder within the entrapment of the rather small shop. Homely wooden paneling soaked up what sound it could, but there was only so much architecture could do against such overwhelming auditory onslaught.

At the back of the shop stood a counter, and behind it, a closed door—presumably leading to staff quarters or storage but the door was currently closed making it impossible to truly tell.

The Game slowly wandered over to a small shelf in the corner of the room, where a curious little clock caught his eye.

It was a tiny fist-sized grandfather clock whose diminutive brass pendulum swung left with a tick—then vanished—only to reappear as a cluster of pendulums above the clock's casing. The multitude pendulums radiated outwards, forming a sort of crown that grew until reaching its apogee. Then they collapsed inward. The original pendulum reemerged swinging to the right with a tock—vanished again—and the whole crowning process repeated.

Beside the tiny royal grandfather stood an octahedral clock, whose one-dimensional clockface stretched and squashed with each passing second.

The Game's eyes drifted from one contraption to the next, lost in the otherworldly machinations surrounding him—until the hour struck.

Every clock belted out its chime in full defiance of harmony, each bell battling the others in a dissonant symphony. The air shook with ringing madness until, somehow, their tones collided and fused—the last chime of the hour converging into a final, unified strike. A climactic crescendo of myriad bells layering upon one another to form a phantom gong. The building invented an invisible clock at the center of the room, its deep, bassy tone rattling the Game's bones. The divine note rumbled through the room for nearly a full minute before fading.

Once the reverberations of the non-existent clock finally came to a rest, the back-room door swung ajar.

Walking through the doorway was a lithe woman with a warm beaming smile. The Game thought he could see behind her a short child made of brass fiddling with some cogs, but he couldn't have been sure before the door swung close again.

"Hello sir, how may I help you?" She spoke with the crisp chipperness of a seasoned salesperson, each syllable bright with rehearsed enthusiasm.

That tone pulled a predatory grin to the Game's ear. She was precisely his kind of person.

"I had heard that you sold things other than clocks here?"

Deep within the woman's heart a frown was conjured. No one ever came for her clocks.

On the surface, her smile remained as steadfast as ever. "You must be here about the Tournament then?"

The Game nodded. "Yes. I wanted to place a bet on tomorrow's match—between the Flare and the Band."

The saleswoman reached beneath the counter and heaved out a ginormous booklet packed with strange sticky coloured squares, loose sheets, counters, bookmarks, and other appendices. She plopped the massive tome on the counter with a thud and flipped it open—seemingly to a random page—and began silently reading through. A few hums of concentration escaped her lips as her eyes darted across the densely packed text.

At last, she came to a conclusion and lifted her nose from the book. "Yes, the Flare versus the Band. Their odds are six to the Flare against seven to the Band. How much were you planning on betting, sir?"

The Game cocked an eyebrow, visibly surprised. He'd watched a reshowing of Poetaster's latest play just last night on the incalescent firebox, and the sheer intensity of that performance had impressed him. "Really? The Flare is the underdog?"

The saleswoman chuckled. "Everyone seems to have the same response. Time has a funny way of dulling the impact of one's deeds. While yes, it is true that Poetaster has quite the raw power at their disposal, many forget that Liederkranz was one of the original members of Murugan Squad. Her experience in combat is nearly unparalleled. She enlisted into the Second Human-Mokoi War at the age of thirteen and has been outmaneuvering physically stronger opponents ever since."

The saleswoman gave a light shrug. "Of course, at the end of the day, strength is strength. That's why the odds are as close as they are."

The Game nodded, suitably convinced.

"So," she asked, voice perking up again, "do you know who you want to bet on?"

The Game smiled "Of course."