All to Play For
“The important thing in life is not victory but combat; it is not to have vanquished but to have fought well.”
― Pierre de Coubertin
The celebratory drums rolled through the jungle twilight, echoing among the shadowy ruins in the Zenj Garden. They were loud enough to drown out both the crackling of the immense festival bonfires and the roar of the jovial crowd. The Garden was on the outer edge of Nantambu, far from the elegant canals, vast temple plazas and university grounds that made up much of the city. Instead it was a sunken clearing full of ancient ruins older than empires and trees even older than that. It had long become the traditional site of most local festivals from Crystalhue to First Rain. Most special of all, of course, was the opening festival of the Mtihani, which it hosted every four years.
One hundred and ten competitors had arrived this year for the Great Games (as it was often known locally) from all over Golarion. Some had come from ever farther afield, drawn by the fame of the event. Even for the citizens of Nantambu, quite familiar with all forms of magic, visitors from Castrovel were not commonplace. As was traditional, all had been gathered in the Zenj Garden at dusk, and given the great feast that would serve as the opening of the Mthani.
The food was, quite simply, spectacular and the heavy tropical wood tables groaned under the sheer weight of the offerings. Several whole roast gazelles turned on spits, slathered with pepper paste. A huge catfish, over eight feet long, sat in pride of place on a teak wood platter, heaped with onions and garlic. Huge pans of spiced rice sat steaming, ringlets of vapors vanishing into the darkening jungle sky. Entire pyramids, taller than a man, of every fruit from breadfruit to coconuts gleamed in the fire light. Trays of nuts, baskets of breads, pots of savory stew deep enough to drown in. A dozen types of glazed desserts winked and shimmered, topped with honey and icing. The smell alone was enough to fill the stomach.
There was entertainment too, the best the city had to offer. Dance troupes and jugglers, puppeteers and sword swallowers, all had amazed with feats both magic and mundane. Women had danced with flaming scarves, twirling in and out of pungent purple smoke. They were followed by a gang of laughing acrobats who tumbled under chairs, turned over plates of food and flipped backwards over startled crowds. Another man sang raunchy songs while a partner conjured up magical images to match the tune, staying just on this side of socially respectable. Last was a collection of junior mages from the city, dazzling all with spells. They made miniature storm clouds, complete with lighting, race among the tables, scudding through the fragrant air. They summoned glass swans and brass foxes to chase them, vanishing into the roaring bonfires. The finale was a sudden storm of icy blue flowers, settling on every surface.
The setting matched the festivites. The Garden was an expanse of open grass, dotted with crumbling pillars and towering trees that reached hundreds of feet in the air. The fires set dancing shadows into the green murk, making the trees shift with each leaping flame. Beds of flowers bloomed in every color, muted by the rising tide of dusk into pale pastel versions of themselves. The waiting jungle was close, the hungry wild near at hand yet pushed back by the light and festivity. Its bloody dangers and fertile promises waited for another day.
The festival took place in the center of the Garden, with long wooden tables drawn up in concentric circles around the main spectacle, the High Table. Here sat the Arbiters that governed the Great Games, from the creation of the ever shifting set of challenges to the enforcement of the rules during the events. Being an Arbiter was a great honor in the city, and often the capstone to a long career of successful civic, academic or commercial life. Most were, of course, drawn from the faculty of the Magaambya, the great magical school of the city, famed throughout all of Golarion as perhaps the oldest center of magical learning. Among these, most renowned were the Tempest-Sun Mages, who commanded the defenses of the city and its allies. Today however, they had the much more joyful task of overseeing the start of the Great Games, their magical powers turned to spectacle and sport, rather than war.
But even among the Arbiters, one stood out, neither mage nor soldier, nor city elder or merchant prince. He was a massive man, muscular and athletic, his every movement betraying power, of reserved strength. His clear skin was the color of old mahogany, dressed in the finest robes of the local style, gold and white. Gold bracers flashed from his arms, gilded with jewels of many colors. A crooked smile hung on his lips, revealing bright shining teeth. Kwamena Yeboah, The Laughing Tower and the winner of the last Mtihani, four years ago. Unlike so many he had remained in the city after his great victory and had become a driving force in the preparations for the current Games. Yeboah sat like a king surveying a new realm, dark eyes seeming to roam from table to table, as if seeking the next champion among the crowds.
Of course, he was right. Somewhere among the hundred and ten lay the next victor of the Mtihani. A glittering future of power, glory and honor lay ahead of at least one. The rest would, naturally, be losers…or worse. The Mtihani had claimed many a life, and it would surely feast again on the unwise, the foolhardy and simply the unlucky. Some among the contenders were unnamed, unknown even to the Officials. Even so, the people of Nantambu loved gambling as much as they enjoyed sports themselves, so soon running odds would be formed. Entire fortunes would rise and fall, cresting like waves on the stormy sea of victory and loss. But that all lay ahead, as distant as the sunrise.
For now they feasted, celebrated, stored up vigor and excitement for the challenges to come.
Bjorn sat at one of the smaller tables, on the outer edge of the arrangement. There had been no assigned seats yet a natural hierarchy had seemed to form. Those closest to the High Table seemed to be those held in higher prestige in the city, either well-born locals or those that had competed before in the Mtihani. Bjorn had never really considered repeat competitors but apparently there was a sizable population of them, a tight-knit group that were clearly on first name basis with each other. The outer rings were filled with people more like Bjorn himself, first timers to the city and the Great Game. Still, it wasn’t much of a slight. The food and entertainment was still just as good. The catfolk scanned the crowd, slit-like eyes working fine in the growing murk. As usual, Bjorn found himself the only catfolk present among the milling crowd but otherwise it was quite diverse. Most were human, divided up with a majority of dark-skinned locals and a smaller percentage of lighter skinned ones. One bronze-skinned man built like a bull was amusing his table-mates by lifting the table over his head with a roaring laugh There were dwarves, a smattering of half-elfs and at least one or two full elves. Others were stranger races that Bjorn didn’t recognize. Was that stocky fellow with blueish skin an oread? Did that woman two tables over have flames flickering over her head?
Even her own table of a dozen held unusual sights. Four were a group of priestesses from some rival Mwangi Expanse city, wearing jaguar robes. Next to them were a pair of gnomes, toasting each other into alcoholic oblivion. On the end was a solemn looking Avistanti wearing fine robes and an icy expression that dismissed all of the gathered finery. Ignoring them pointedly was a Grippli, the frog-people that lived in the jungle. Their large wet eyes were fixed on the table in front of them as they laid out a strange pattern of chicken bones on the rough wood. At the other end were two half-orcs (or maybe full orcs) talking to each other in low, guttural voices. Which left Bjorn and the one other person he knew, Garin, the short man seated next to her.
They had met on the long journey upriver to the city, threading through the jungle expanse. An excitable little man, Garin claimed to be a former agent for the Aspis Consortium turned private trader. Very much a small-timer, he made a living exploring the Sodden lands and selling what trinkets he found. Most interesting, to Bjorn, Garin had competed in the last Games, four years ago. He had washed out early, but Garinstill had far more experience than Bjorn could dream of having. At least, he knew the city well enough.
”Not bad,” The light skinned man said, looking around at the grand festivities still ongoing. He poked at his banana leaf plate at a small pile of spicy red shrimp. ”But some simple bread and honey could go a long way, eh Bjorn?”
Bjorn sat next to Garin, not paying the man much mind; for he was entirely way too busy stuffing the wonderfully delicious food down his gullet. It didn’t matter what it was, it was getting shovelled in. Bjorn used his paws, nay a piece of silverware in sight. He had nearly begun to hum in such content while he ate his fill. He tried everything on the table, layering it onto his banana leaf plate in heaps. To most, he must seem gluttonous. In reality, he hadn’t had a decent meal in several weeks. He wanted his energy up for whatever these games had to offer. Though, he didn’t want to overdo it and feel icky afterwards.
At his companions' words, a toothy grin appeared. Reaching over he plucked a red shrimp off Garins plate and he popped it into his mouth. Uncaring with the shell, loving how it added an extra bit of crunch to the bite. “Oh yeah.” He replied lazily. “ Sometimes simple food is the best kind of food, especially for travelling. But hell, having a large extravagant meal makes me feel so special.”
As he polished off the last bit of morsels, he began to finally slow down on his eating. The cat instead began to partially focus on the Grippli at his table. He had never really seen their kind before, only hearing about them from childhood stories from his family who were all fairly well travelled. He himself had only been travelling inside of Garund, not adventuring far from home for too long. It took a lot of convincing for his mother to let him adventure this far. His eyes squinted while in thought on trying to remember anything about their race. They were small things, but size does not mean you should underestimate someone. He knew that all too well. Once he got beaten at a simple race by a speedy goblin. Sure he could book it, but this little goblin really made him look bad.
Green eyes looked at the chicken bones they were messing with across the space in front of them. What did they mean? Was this being some kind of Oracle or Harrower? He contemplated for a moment or two before looking at Garin inquisitively. This man was well travelled, surely he had some bits of information to offer. And he wasn't entirely so sure he should just approach the amphibian, they looked very deep into what they were doing. Bjorn would feel bad if he messed them up by interrupting.
“What do you think they are doing?” His big head nodded in the Gripplis direction. “Looks interesting and I need to slow the hell down anyways, I’m starting to feel very full. Maybe I should say hi?” He chuckled, pushing his banana leaf plate away as the universal signal of I’m done. Bjorn leaned back in his chair to stretch, belly pudging out slightly under his armor. Large arms unfurled allowing him to really feel that good stretch. He tilted his head back slightly, ensuring he wasn't about to pop someone in the mouth from a simple stretch.
Tilting back down so all chair legs were on the ground, Bjorn glanced at the other end where the two, very large looking half orcs sat. They almost looked big enough to be full blooded, perhaps they were. He had been around their kind before, enough to have picked up their language even. But he was a bit further away and it seemed like they were trying to be quiet. The enviornment was fairly loud, everyone hootin and hollarin. Almost comedically, his ears turned to maybe catch a glimpse of what they were saying, he was not exactly being subtle about it. If there was anything to know about Bjorn, he loved to butt into everyones business, moreso especially if they seemed to be trying to hide it. Worst case, the pair would notice and tell him to buzz off. Best case, they tell him to comeover and join in.
The festive drums rolled loudly, making it hard for the catfolk to hear her acquaintance.
At Bjorn’s comment on the food Garion shrugged, ”Sure, it all looks nice but I can’t help but feel like a sheep, being fattened up before…well, you know. What happens to sheep.” He glanced around the Zenj Garden, as if expecting a butcher to suddenly appear.
None did.
Instead Bjorn found himself attracted to the grippli. Not only were they a novelty of themselves, but the bones were interesting. The catfolk had run into any number of fortune tellers, Harrow deck dealers and soothsayers during their time with the family caravan. Many had been hucksters of course, simple charlatans telling marks what they wanted to hear but some had been true seers. Capable of seeing the threads of fate. What would assume that the Mtihani would only attract the best, right?
Bjorn looked as closely as he could at the collection of chicken, fish and…rabbit (?) bones for anything he recognized. It didn’t look like any fortune telling the catfolk had seen before. Instead it simply looked like a set of circles and squares, laid on top of each other. Bjorn cold not make heads of tails of the bone laid out on the banana leaf but maybe it was the grease and bits of gristle that threw him off.
Garin looked over at the grippli and clearly couldn’t make heads or tails of the shapes either. ”Who knows? Some sort of good luck ritual? The grippli are strange folk, they live deep in the jungle and don’t deal with outsiders much. They have a reputation for stealing, but I think that is just talk. Supposed to be great trackers and such, no match for them in the jungle. Following signs and all that. Wouldn’t know, I stick to the rivers. Gods only know what you’ll find among the trees.” The Bloodcover trader picked at a some friend beans before finally trying one. He made a grimace. ”Still, nothing wrong with saying hello. This whole feast is about making friends and stuff. All a lie, of course. We’ll be at each other’s throats once the Games begin.” he seemed unfazed by this rather bleak prediction.
Meanwhile Bjorn was pricking his ears toward the half-orcs near bye. He had picked up more than a smattering of orc years ago, from the caravan guards and such. Not always the most chatty people, but helpful enough as far as it went. It was difficult to hear over the roaring fires and general frivolity but Bjorn’s ears could make out most of it.
One of the half-orcs was older, covered with scars and burns which seems too regular and even to be random residue of battle. Ritualistic, perhaps? The younger one was leaner, stronger, with bigger tusks and made Bjorn wonder if he was full blooded. That wasn’t too rare in the Expanse and wasn’t viewed with distaste like in Avistan. Still, everyone knew orcs had a temper. Whatever the case, these seemed to be arguing about something.
”All of this! They act as if nothing is happening outside! As if there is no approaching…” The younger orc says, looking around with obvious displeasure. [b]”And all of this food, they could have fed a hundred villages with it.”
The older half-orc shrugs, shoulders rolling easily, ”They do. Nantambu is one of the Great Cities there is no danger here, and they treat the villages better then most. This is a special event, Kozban.”
Kozban shakes his head, ”I am sorry Elder, but it seems so…wasteful, especially when-” They cut off, looking at Bjorn suddenly, black eyes penetrating.
Raising his voice and using Common Kpzban says roughly, ”Do you have a problem with us, eh? Or do you always eavesdrop on your neigbors?”
The older half-orc frowns and, using the same language, ’Pardon my friend, he is a bit temperamental…” He trails off, staring hard at Bjorn, hard enough that the catfolk’s fur rises on the back of his neck. The half-orc sniffs the air, face hardening. Still, when he speaks his words are soft enough, "Again, forgive Koban. He means nothing by it, just so many strangers put us on edge.”
Koban frowns and then sniffs the air too. A strange look comes into his eyes, fixing on Bjorn, surprise mixed with....concern? But he says instead, voice grudging, ”Yes, forgive me. It is all the noise, and food. So much..” Bjorn gets the sense the two half-orcs desperately wish to speak privately …about him.
Bjorn considered the what Garin had to say about the Grippli. His eyes focusing on the beings wet looking hands going back and forth across the table with all the bones. While he was intrigued, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to interrupt what was going on just yet. That seemed almost rude, which is ironic considering he was also evesdropping on the orcs. Who did notice and confronted him, not much to his surprise. He was being pretty obvious about what he was doing.
Leaning in towards the Half-Orcs, he nodded. “I apologize, I was merely intrigued by your conversation. You both seemed a little stressed in your body language. I wasn’t sure if something had happened and I should be aware, or if you had a disagreement. I unfortunately bear the ‘I stick my nose in everyones business’ badge.” He replied in their guttural low language. Chuckling to lighten the mood, he also pointed at his chest like there was a small plaque there. Continuing on after a quick pause, “I couldn’t help but hear your concern though. For..something. If you don’t want to elaborate, that is your business. But know I would have tried to help if I had it within my power to.” As the fur along his neck began to prickle up, he felt uncomfortable. It was an odd sensation, not a lot actually makes him feel uncomfortable.
He didn’t say anything more, allowing the pair to leave if they so wished. His hand was rubbing at the back of his neck, his eyes a little glazed over in thought. Trying to determine what made him feel this way.
The orcs seem surprised when Bjorn talks in their own language but it doesn’t seem to put them at ease. Instead it seems to make them more wary than ever. They lean back on their benches, eyeing the catfolk as if he was some sort of dangerous animal.
”You think we need your help?” The younger half-orc says dismissively, ”Ҡағылған” The last word is clearly Orc but not one that Bjorn knows.
The older half-orc gestures sharply at this and mutters, ”Silence, Kozban.” he uses the inflection of an elder speaking to a child, a harsh thing in orc. The young half-orc shrinks at this, shoulders dipping.
The older half-orc turns his full attention to Bjorn, ”There is no problem, stranger. Please, forgive our intrusion.”
Before we can say more, one of the sloshed gnomes breaks in, ”Yeah! Quite yer fightin’, this is a happy occasion. Look at the food! This is ‘bout getting yer fill before the Games start.” He wildly waves a full tankard of some sort of spiced rice drink. Bjorn’s sharp nose can only tell one thing. It is very, very strong.
The two half-orcs take the chance to take their leave, retreating to a different table. Bjorn can’t help but notice that they glance over at her a few times as they whisper to each other. Strange.
The gnomes get back to serious drinking, toasting the city, the Games, the athletes, the birds, sun and anything else they can think of.
Bjorn is curious, but lets it go. He doesn’t want to stir the pot even more and potentially cause any big drama. Before his thoughts could get too far, one of the Gnomes popped out of nowhere. He can’t help but smirk and forget about the Orcs for the time being. He waves over for a tankard himself and toasts with the gnomes a few times. After a little bit longer, and a few tankards later, he plops himself next to the Grippli. With a large gulp of his tankard, he sets it down on the wooden table and turns his full body towards the small being. ”Hey, what were you doing with the bones earlier? I’m really curious. Was it some kind of ritual to give you good luck?” He asks, hopeful that the frog man knows how to speak common.
Bjorn notes that this time, Garin follows him over, clearly more interested in the grippli then her quasi argument with the half-orcs (or the drunken revelry of the gnomes). The frog-like being ignores her for a moment, still intent on the geometric shapes laid out on the banana leaf. The catfolk gets the idea that the grippli is not being rude, instead they are merely engrossed.
When she speaks however, they seem startled, rising out of their reverie.
Garin replies first, commenting, "Just looks like bones to me."
The grippli looks at them both with large, wet eyes. They swallow (which is quite a process for a being with a mouth nearly large enough to inhale a small human child). Their skin is a soft green-ish yellow, seemingly perfectly smooth. Their clothes are not much to speak of, just a simple belt with many pouches hanging down.
When they speak, their voice is a wet sound croak, perfectly understand but heavy with some exotic accent.
"It is not ritual. Ritual for foolish people who believe gods care." They shake their wide head in obvious distaste for such things. Instead they point at the bones, "This is...how to say....numbers." There is a pause as they search for the right phrase and then their eyes lit up.
"Math. A math challenge, you understand? The task is to make a square with the same area as circle, yes? Very difficult. Maybe impossible." They sound delighted at the prospect of an impossible mathematical puzzle. After a moment they let out a little gurgle and adds, "Apologies. I am unused to strangers. My name is gtoukekan."
The name sounds like a weird combination of swallowing, gargling and croaking to Bjorn, utterly unpronounceable.
"You are here for Mtihani, yes? First time?" The frog looks solemn, "Very important, much to win."
Bjorn was careful to not allow his orange tabbied fur touch the Gripplis skin, fearful he may get stuck and have to really pull some out to get away. They were a unique individual, but he was intrigued. Math they say. Bjorn was never any good at it, his mother tried teaching him, but he really only understood so far as to use it in some castings but not enough to really understand it.
”Oh I do wish I could help. I myself am not very good at it. Garin? You seem like you may be good at math.” With a hand gesturing to the problem at the table he smirked. ”With you being a trader and all that. Must know more than me.” While he probably knew as much as Garin, being from a merchant family himself, he was curious what the man had to say, if anything.
“Oh! Nice to meet you, Gtou-” He fumbled over the strange name at first, not wanting to offend, but instead offering a possible solution to his future inability to say this name. “Can I call you Gtou or do you have a nickname you prefer? My name is Bjorn.” Normally he would offer a paw to shake, but in this case, he was still worried about his fur getting stuck and it pulling out so he refrained.
”I am, first time for me. Garins been here before though. What about you?” His furred head shook up and down in agreement to Gtou’s statement about how important it was. While he really had no idea just how difficult the games may be, he felt excitement about them. Even now, that anticipation anxiety made his fingers tingle and his heart race. He was eager to see what awaits him. The anxiety reminded him of his childhood, never knowing where their family was going, if they would stumble into trouble, or even if they would meet a kind stranger who also had strange goods to trade.
Garin peers at the bony shapes for a long moment, eyes squinting in the festive firelight. He moves his fingers a bit, cocks his head and then nods gravely in deep understanding. The trader turns to Bjorn and says, confidently ”No idea. I can barely count to ten, twenty if I take off my shoes. Sorry, friend.” He adds to the grippli who seems unsurprised, if a trifle disappointed.
”I have found this before, among others.” The frog-man offers, politely, as if defending them. ”Numbers…not major part of lives. Very strange.”
When Bjorn mentions a nickname (or something else he can pronounce) the grippli seems unaffected, ”Names not very important. People….Grippli people,” The frog-man says the word with obvious dislike, ’Not use names often. Small group, name not really required among so few.” Bjorn isn’t sure he agrees but then again, he isn’t a frogman. ’More important is who someone is. Not what they call themself.”
The mathematician's bulbous eyes lit up as they speak of the Mtihani. ”Never before. Not many of my people have entered. Three hundred and thirteen Mtihani so far, less than one hundred have come. As far as records go, not all lists survive.” They say this very quickly, voice rasping. They look at Garin, ”You return after failure? Why?”
The trader looks surprised at the question and shrugs, ”Why not? It is a thrill, beats watching my goods rot in the rain. Besides, you never know what you might win. There are ways to win without winning, you know?”
The grippli seems puzzled by this and turns their gaze to Bjorn, ”What say you? I come to win, to prove myself in the eyes of others. To show myself as worthy. No greater proof than the Mtihani, yes?” They say this almost as if to convince themself of something, but then they go on.
”Why you enter? Dangerous to enter Mtihani, everyone knows this. Small odds of victory.” The frog pauses, looks around and says, ”One out of one hundred and ten.” They say this like the punchline to a joke.
The cat laughs pretty heartily at Garin, fully expecting a decent answer about the numbers and math. Bjorn nodded towards the Grippli in agreement. The most he had to do with numbers was count the gold at his hip. And sometimes he counted how long he can hold his breath. One never knew when they would need to be under water for an extended period of time.
There was a striking of surprise at the mention of how long the Mtihani had been going for. He had heard about it all his life, yet he failed to remember hearing how long it had been running for. Dilated pupils looked around, just like how there weren’t any other catfolk around, there weren’t any other Gripplis.
He was eager to hear a little more about Garin when the frog asks why he returns. When he replies, Bjorn couldn’t help but ask, ”Did you win anything last time you were here?” Surely, he would return if he got something good out of this last time.
Bjorn places a clawed paw onto his chin and scratches it gently, thinking harder than he should have to put together an answer. ”Well to be honest, I want to win as well. I was the runt of my family, coddled my whole life. All because I was smaller than my siblings at that age. Once I showed signs of inheriting our family bloodline from my Mother, they got even more cautious with me. Like I was going to hurt myself if I dared to cast a spell.” He paused to scoff then continued. ”So I want to win to prove to my family that I am not the small orange kitten I was nearly 30 years ago... I don’t know if you know much about catfolk…but we have large families. Ours travelled in a large caravan.” He looks almost sad while he talks about his family. This was his first big outing without any of them.
”I don’t know what the prize is, but I think I’m more for the glory of winning. And as you said ; Show myself as worthy. There aren’t exactly many catfolk around either.” He looked to Garin briefly then back to Gtou.
”Do you know what the prize is this year? I can't help but be curious.” He adds, his green eyes having lit up once he changed to the topic of the prize. Magic weapons are cool, but he relies so much on his claws he has never really thought to use anything else.
Garin shakes his head, ”Nothing official. Only the top places get prizes, or those with connections. Still, like I said, you can win outside of it. Made some friends, some good contacts in the city. This is where I found out about an old temple worth exploring, enough to make a season of profit. Nantambu is a hells of a place, and the Games make you a minor celebrity.”
The others seem a bit awkward when Bjorn lays out his history, clearly unsure what to say. Gtou adds, voice obviously musing internally, ’So strange, these families. Outsiders talk about them so much. Must be important.”
Garin laughs when Bjorn admits he has not idea what the top level reward is for the Mthani. ’You came all this way without knowing?” He laughs loud enough to get the priestess to glower at him, but the little trader ignores them. ”Amazing. Maybe you cats look before you leap, eh?” He shakes his heads at his little joke.
Gtou breaks in, ”The top prize is always same. An item from Magaambya, whatever the winner wishes. Items of great power there, old and strong. Enough to change world, maybe?” The frogman considers this for a moment, ”Maybe even something to solve math problem?” He touches the bone square with a rubbery finger, somewhat sadly.
Any further talk is halted when there a sudden silence descended over the previously noise crowd. All three of them look up and see Kwamena Yeboah has stood up, pushing back his bench at the high platform with a clatter. The huge Mwangi native towers over the crowd, gleaming in the bright firelight and the final rays of the dying sunset. The light played off the bangles on his powerful arms, seemingly to flash to molten gold and silver, the jewels leaping to life. Even his skin seemed to shine and glow, every muscle defined.
The former champion spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome, teeth nearly as bright as the jewelry.
”Welcome, friends, strangers, travelers from distant lands. It is my great honor to welcome you to the Mtihani!” Kwamena threw his huge hands upwards at this. The great festival fires roared as well, suddenly shooting up into towering columns of swirling flames. They shifted colors as they grew, changing to brilliant blue, green and amethyst. From the skies tent thousand shooting stars appeared as well, streaking across the velvet jungle sky in a dazzling net of criss crossing lights.
Yeboah laughed at this, a rolling roar that mingled with the crackling flames and sizzling meteors. It faded even as the display did.
”Yes, a great honor. I once won great fame and glory here, and it has been a privilege of helping birth this year’s Games.” He nodded, ”But I did not do this alone. I would also like to honor some of the others who made this all possible.”
He waves a hand at the seat of assembled arbiters. ”Master Teleayo of the Hued Market and Glasswork’s Guild!” A stocky man stood and bowed, colorful robes spilling down his chest partly hid by a bushy beard.
”Mistress Jummai of the Peacock Houses!” A tall Ekujae elf stood up, wearing simple but elegant robes of white and gold. A decorative gold mask covered the top half of her face, leaving only the lower paint halved revealed. She bowed shortly.
’And finally Elder Chelsoshi of the Magaambya and the Learned Ones.” A nondescript man takes to his feet, wearing basic common clothes. A short trimmed beard covers a wrinkled, aged face. The only thing of note is a long necklace of beads around his neck, glass of every color, winking in the firelight.
”Fellow Arbiters, we honor you. Tonight, and all nights, would fail without you.” Yeboah said grandly, and bowed low to them. Many in the audience clapped and a few, Bjorn guessed locals, stood and bowed as well.
This finished, the Laughing Tower turned back to the assembled crowd. ’I only have two things left to say, a relief to those with full stomachs and weary backsides.” he laughed, ’One day we will get cushioned benches!” Some laughter from the crowd.
”First, the Oath of the Mthani. And then,” His eyes twinkled, ”I shall reveal the first challenge, which will begin tomorrow at mid-day.” This set off a tidal wave of whispers, mutterings and outright gasps from the crowd. Clearly this was unexpected.
That creeping feeling of embarrassment crawled up furred ears causing them to feel hot. Bjorn grinned through it, not wanting to hint at his embarrassed feeling for not even knowing what the prize was. He really didn’t care, well he did care, but it wasn’t the first thing he wanted for winning the competition. It was the glory, the recognition and respect.
As Kwamena stood and began speaking, Bjorn was sitting tall, listening intently. He let the words sink in, eyes flickering each to the people announced. Mental notes being made on who each of them were, in case he may need to speak with any of them. It would certainly be more embarrassing to not know their names than it would be to not know the prize.
Bjorn felt his heart begin to pick up in his chest. Was it anxiety or was it merely anticipation excitement. He liked to think it was the latter. Anxiety had no place here, it would clog up his thoughts. The last time his anxiety took over, he had gained a new scar. Better to let instincts guide you than thoughts sometimes.
He looked to the others at his table, curious to see their expressions and reactions to what Kwamena said. In a hushed tone he asked both Gtou and Garin, ”Is this abnormal? Do we usually learn about the games the night before?”
Garin shrugged, ”It isn’t so much the news. They change it up, some events are surprised, for others the preparation is part of the challenge. It’s more that this is sudden. Last time there was nearly a week of parties and such before the real events started. Wonder why they are in a hurry?”
Up front, Kwamena Yeboah seemed unbothered by the minor commotion and went on, deep voice easy to hear even over the tumult. ”Bring forth the Urn!”
From a shadowy nook, a man places an elegant vase on the table in front of Yeboah. It looks brand new, shiny ebony ceramic gleaming in the firelight. Decorated with strange geometric symbols , it has a wide belly but a very narrow neck at the top, creating a tight funnel.
’For those news to the Mthani, the Oath is a key part of the event.” Yeboah rumbles, gesturing toward the container. ”It is simple enough however. Every competitor is given a token, to which they speak their name and the Oath. They then place it in the Urn, which it resides as a testament of both their participation and their honor. If an athlete breaks their oath, the token will reveal it.”
His face turns stern, ’Twelve times the Urn has been broken,and twelve times an athlete has been found violating the oath. A most serious crime with grave consequences. I pray to all the Gods that this year will not mark thirteen.”
A moment of silence meets this until the huge man goes on, ”Ther servers are bringing around the tokens now. Please take one.”
A number of servants pass through the crowd offering trays of small glass orbs to every competitor. All are identical spheres of perfectly smooth clear glass with a tiny chip of stone in the center. It feels cool and heavy in Bjorn’s paw when he selects one.
”The Oath is thus,” Kwamena says when everyone has an orb, ”In the name of all competitors, I promise that we shall take part in the Mthani, respecting and abiding by the rules that govern them, in the true spirit of sportsmanship, for the glory of sport and the honour of ourselves, this city and all who watch them.”
This sinks in and then Yeboah goes on, ”Now, to the real news.” One hundred and ten faces turn to him with unbridled expressions of fascination. The first event! The air grows utterly still, the only noise being the slow crackle of the fires, the distant night calls of jungle birds and the muted heartbeats of every soul in the Zenj Garden. Yeboah grins, clearly enjoying the moment, stretching it out until the sensation is almost painful.
Then he breaks it saying, ”The first event. You will climb Young Jatembe!”
Young Jatembe? Bjorn had no idea what that meant. He knew that in some ancient mythic past a great wizard named Old-Mage Jatembe was said to have founded the Magaambya and thus the city of Nantambu. But that had been in ancient times, thousands and thousands of years ago. Who…or what…was Young Jatembe?
Clearly many others the same question, but Bjorn seems many confused faces. Still, a few clearly know what it is, because many of the locals give a knowing smirk and nod to themselves. At his side, Bjorn can see Garin has no idea what Young Jatembe is.
”Tomorow at mid-day, be present at Young Jatembe and the Mthani will begin! And now, good night and rest well. You will need your strength!” And with that they are dismissed into the dark jungle night.
As the cool glass orb hits his paws, he swirled it around carefully, inspecting it. Intriguing. He had no idea what it could be off the top of his head. Perhaps its was magical to some extent. Closing his eyes he focused his energy onto it, hoping to gather some more information.
As the man continued on, Bjorn could feel his head tilting in curiosity. What was this Young Jatembe? When his eyes wandered around and saw a mix of confusion and understanding, he looked to Gtou. ”Gtou, do you know what this is? I don’t mind climbing, but…it seems that I’m not the only one who has no idea what this Young Jatembe is.”
His claws flexed involuntarily, as he thought about climbing. Growing up he tried to climb every opportunity he got. He wasn’t allowed to do it, which made him want to do it even more; like most children. As they travelled to different towns, the ginger furred cat was always climbing the sides of houses to the roofs so he could feel powerful and large. It always resulted in him being scolded and punished for disobeying his mother though. It was worth it to him at that age, and he taught himself how to climb better as he grew older.
Bjorn waited until a line began to form to set the orb in the Urn.
Bjorn has seen quite a few magical items during his life. While his family did not specialize in them, they traded in small arcana knick-knacks when they offered themselves. Such things made good trade goods, often being light and valuable. Still, the catfolk has never seen anything like this orb before and could make heads or tails of it. All he knows is that Nantambu is famous for its glass works, and all of their wares fetch high prices across Garund, and further.
Gtou looks surprised when Bjorn asks about the challenge. The frogman shakes their head, ”No idea. Not from this city. Who knows? Will find out tomorrow, if not sooner. People talk.”
They certainly did. An informal line began to queue up as people made for the Urn and awaited their turn. Every person seemed to treat the experience differently. Some proudly announced their name, oath and a whole other list of promises to the whole crowd. Others stuck simply with what was instructed while others merely whispered to their orb before dropping it in. All was silently overseen by Mistress Jummai, watching from behind her mask.
While people waited, they talked. All mixed up again, Bjorn found himself behind a rather regally dressed young Mwangi man wearing a feathered cape and carrying an enameled walking stick. Around him is a small knot of what can only be described as lackeys. His voice is rich and rolling, but he is speaking in Polyglot, the local Mawangi language, that Bjorn does not know.
But then he seems to catch Bjorn’s eye, his face turning slightly. He smirks and turns away, back to his group. Shifting to accent Common he says, ”It really is a shame they did not pass the new regulations. They really are letting anyone enter the Mthani these days, outsiders and jungle trash out of the green.” His friends laugh and nod their heads, a few stealing a disdainful glance at Bjorn or Gtou.
Bjorn waits his turn in line politely, not drawing much attention to himself. At least that is what he thought he was doing. He clasped the orb in his hand running the pad of his fingers over the smooth glass.
The seemingly rich individual that was in front of him eyed him in such a way it made his hairs begin to stand on edge. He knew better than to pick a fight, however, once the man made a comment about himself and his new friend Gtou; it was game over. “Gods, don’t let me make a fool of myself.” He whispered in his own tongue to himself a little grumpily.
Closing the gap between himself and the stranger, he stood taller, crossing his arms over his chest, to which he puffed out instinctually. The orb was still in hand as he did so. ”Hello friend, I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say something to me and my friend Gtou here?” His voice was friendly at first, but he made sure to bare some of his teeth as he spoke. Flashing the gold of his canines. He didn’t take his eyes off the man, though he did keep in mind where his lackeys seemed to go.
Bjorn drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height. He might not be quite as large as Kwamena Yeboah but the catfolk is much bigger than the rather spindly man in front of him. His frightening appearance is heightened by the golden teeth and the barely sheathed claws in his massive paws.
The man quails for a moment, eyes growing wide, knees buckling slightly at the sight. He staggers back a step, bumping into a portly dwarf waiting in line. There is real fear in the man’s gaze, as if he expected Bhorn to pounce on him and tear him apart, like some wild tiger of the jungle. His lackeys also give way, with one actually swooning to the ground in a lump of colorful robes.
There is a general commotion in line at this, people grumbling or pushing back. Bjorn’s interlocutor ignores this however and recovers, standing back up to his own (lesser) height. Still obviously fearful, he puts on a brave mask.
”As if I, Maafa Mwitui would have anything to say to you.” Maafa forced a laugh, which sounded rather hollow in the night air. Still he went on, ”Do not overstep your station, outsider. The Mthani may still be open to all, but that doesn’t give you leave to speak to me. Mind your tongue or others will do it for you.” He doesn’t even look at Gtou, who observes all of this wordlessly, wet eyes staring weirdly.
Maafa Mwitui, along with the rest of his group give Bjorn a (wary) smirk and then turns back toward the front where the line is slowly moving toward the Urn.
The young noble (for surely he is) mutters something in Polyglot to his friends and a few laugh, nervously.
A little snicker crept out of the large cat as the smaller man stumbled back into someone. He recovered, but Bjorn made sure he knew that he was laughing at him. He was surprised the man could still find his voice through all of this. Being able to scare this Maafa Mwitui was more than enough for him, so he backed down. Not wanting to draw any unfavorable attention to himself, or to his companions. Slowly, the fur on his neck and back began to lay down flat as he let the tension wash away.
He continued to wait patiently in line, looking to Gtou and Garin occasionally as they waddled up to the Urn.
There is no further disturbance in the informal line, either from Maafa and his cronies or Bjorn and his new-found friends. They move forward until Bjorn is confronted with the gleaming Urn, under the watchful gaze of Mistress Jummai, who seems to say little and see everything. Bjorn token seems to grow heavy in his hand as he readies himself to place it in.
After Bjron, Gtou and Garin all place their tokens in the Urn, they leave the Zenj Garden. The festive firelight behind them gives the path back to the city a strange distorted quality, of shifting shadows. The gravel of the path seems very loud, crunching under one hundred and ten set of feet (not that every competitor has two feet, Bjorn is sure he saw some sort of centaur competitor).
Gtou excuses himself at a seemingly random spot along the path. The little frogman gurgles slightly and does a strange bow, ”Goodbye. Tomorrow we meet again, gods willing.” With no further words he vanishes into the wild jungle undergrowth, melting into it as silent as any hunting animal. Garin gives him a long look and then turns to Bjorn, ”Strange fellow. Is he camping or something? Also, not one for long good byes.”
The jungle fades away soon however, as they enter the outskirts of Nantambu. Isolated homesteads surrounded by farming plots or tropical orchards fill the landscape, orderly yet still somewhat wild. Twice Bjorn sees jungle deer leap away at their presence, moving silently through the fields. The air is filled with the rich scent of dark earth, wet and fecund. Overhead bats circle, thick as small clouds among the boughs.
Nanatambu has no walls, instead relying on magic and canals for defense. Ahead lay the outer most of these important shipping channels, that carry so much traffic to and from the city. Indeed even the locals often use them for transport and in the better districts more people travel by water then on land. It is the canals that feed the famed marketplaces of Nanatambu, and allow their export trade.
At night however, the canal is dark and quiet, water lapping ever so slightly. An old arching bridge over it is lit by a few magical glass spheres that glow dimly. Bjorn and Garin are about to cross it when a figure emerges from the shadows near the bridge. The catfolk nearly jumps out of her skin when the figure shouts, ’Ah, Garin! We meet again!”
Her friend seems surprised but recovers quickly, face flushing in the night light. Bjorn sees confusion, surprise and more than a bit of embarrassment flicker across his face. Still, he puts on a smile saying, ”Ah, Objeala! You wasted no time in tracking me down, I see.”
The figure steps closer and Bjorn can see a middle-aged Mwangi man appear, wearing rather nice clothes and a wide smile. ”Anything for a friend, yes? It has been too long, Garin. Too long!” he reaches with a hug which Garin reluctantly returns.
Still grinning he turns to Bjorn and says, ”And who is this mountain? I hope a new competitor for the Mthani? Always like to see what the Games bring in, new blood as it were.”