Grey looked at the long line stretching out from the arena ahead of him, then craned his neck to look behind. If his judgement was accurate, and as a Blademaster of the Folk, it was, he was very close to the midpoint.
"This is absurd," he huffed. "Why are so many people eager to witness this… game," he almost spat the last word, as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. "The arena is a sacred place, reserved for the art of–OOF!"
He grunted more in surprise than pain as White's foot crashed down on top of his own. He looked at her, surprised, but she flicked her hair and turned away, ignoring his eyes. He looked down at the small flags she held tucked up her sleeves where she thought he wouldn't see them.
She was surprisingly enthusiastic about this event. As were many of the Folk, to be fair, if the line was anything to go by.
Despite the jovial, almost festival-like atmosphere that suffused the crowd, with laughing children, boisterous men and cheerful women of the Folk all engaged in banter and fun, Grey's mood continued to sour. Not even the pickled azure-sea-viper meat sold from a nearby stall brought a smile to his face, though he gnawed at it with vigour. The skewers were some of his favourite snacks, and immensely popular amongst the wolf-folk.
When they finally reached the front of the line, he was stunned to see they were asked to provide tickets. For a moment he panicked, only for White to produce two paper talismans from within her sleeve and hand them over.
Of course, his apprentice had invited him to this event, so it was reasonable for her to secure their entry, even though, as her master, it would normally be his responsibility.
He folded his hands into his sleeves and nodded to cover his momentary embarrassment, ignoring the slight shaking of White's shoulders as she laughed at him. Scowling, Grey stalked into the arena, only to find his apprentice had seized his sleeve. He turned to find her pointing to her left.
He raised his brows and she wordlessly handed him the paper talismans, which he scanned instantly.
"We have allocated seating?" he growled. "Whoever heard of such a thing?! I'm a master at the arena! I go where I please!"
A foot flashed down towards his own, but this time he was ready with a smooth step to the side. He grinned wolfishly, only for the smile to fade when he saw White glaring at him.
"Fine," he huffed, "lead the way."
All smiles once more, White pulled him by the sleeve towards their designated seat. When he saw that someone had gone ahead and carved the seat numbers straight into the tiered stone, Grey nearly lost his temper again. This was the Fang Palace Arena! One of the largest and oldest in the entire city! Which fool had decided to hack into these sacred benches with a chisel? He would shave their fur and run them bare-skinned through the nearest market!
Except… White was glaring at him again, so he settled down, but he wasn't happy about it.
At full capacity, well over twenty thousand of the Folk could cram into the Fang Palace, but that would usually only happen for high level duels between eighth and ninth swords. The only times he'd seen it completely full to bursting were for demonstration duels by blademasters. Yet, as he looked around, it seemed as if it was going to be completely packed for this event. Just what had been going on around Freehill?!
White seemed increasingly excited, bouncing in her seat as the arena continued to fill, while Grey took the time to examine the modifications that had been made to the field. It wasn't unusual for the terrain in the centre of the arena to be modified for battles, so that didn't offend him, but neither did he really understand the rectangular pit that had been sunken into the ground.
Just what on Pangera were they planning on doing? And why was it so popular?!
It took another twenty minutes for the arena to fill as Grey grew increasingly impatient and White increasingly excited.
Finally it seemed they were ready to begin when a sphere formed of some sort of magic appeared above the arena and a voice began to emerge from it.
"Uh… hello! My name is Peter Wittle."
"And I am Commentant, broadcasting pheromone to audible sound waves through the miracle of magic, here to bring you this exciting event, the first of its type here in the wonderful city of Freehill."
"Ladies, gentlemen and non-gender-specific types of Folk, I know there's a strong contingent of Frog-Folk in the audience, are you ready for some TUNNEL BALL?!"
The crowd of Folk, normally reserved and dignified in public settings, roared with appreciation, even White clapping loudly as she stamped her feet and grinned, eyes alight with excitement.
"We have some wonderful teams here who've really been tearing it up in the cultural exchange matches with the Colony and in the newly formed Freehill Amateur League. In a Tunnel Ball tradition, please make our teams welcome to the field."
"That's right, Commentant, I've been so excited to see the Folk develop their own style and methods of play in the lead-up to this event, and these two teams have each proven they are the cream of the crop in the local scene right now. Our first team to enter, please show your appreciation for the SPIRIT BLOSSOMS!"
Confused at what was happening, Grey looked to his student for guidance. Even though some members of the crowd were cheering uproariously in an uncouth display, she was merely clapping politely and with quiet grace. Grey nodded in satisfaction. Yes, this was how a proper Folk comported themselves in public. For a moment, he'd thought everyone had gone completely mad.
A team of ten Folk wearing matching pink on white uniforms embroidered with blossoms along the sleeves entered the arena. In two rows of five, they conducted themselves as warriors should, with fierce light in their eyes, straight backs and square shoulders.
Grey could practically feel the fighting spirit rising off them like steam, and he felt his interest pique, almost despite himself. Was there going to be a fight?
Before that question could be answered, the voices rang out from the sphere once more.
"A very skillful and determined group, the Spirit Blossoms. Teamwork and coordination are the hallmark of their play, and when we get right down to it, that's what Tunnel Ball is all about."
"Many would agree with you, Peter, but others would say skill and power are the hallmarks of a great team, and our next group is certainly a perfect example of that! Please welcome to the Arena, our second team for the event, the FLOWING STONE!"
Grey raised his hands to once again clap politely, only to recoil in shock as White leaped to her feet, flags in either hand.
"COME ON, THE STONE! LETS GOOOOOOO!!!!" she roared in a guttural warcry.
"White?!" Grey gasped.
-x-X-x-
Despite his attempts to calm his apprentice and have her explain just what she thought she was doing, he got nothing but irritated glares. When he tried, politely, to tap her on the arm to get her attention, she simply brushed him off.
His apprentice! Brushed him off!
There would be a reprimand for this behaviour, most definitely. Only… later. It looked as though she was… quite invested in the goings-on below and didn't want to be disturbed.
When both teams had entered, the Flowing Stone showing equal resolve and fighting spirit to the Blossoms, they leapt down into the pit below. For the next few minutes, the teams stretched, conferred with each other and seemingly ran through various drills while the two voices rang out overhead, discussing the upcoming match.
"We have an interesting matchup here, one of divergent styles. I'm keen to see if either one will be adopted by the developing Tunnel Ball community here in Freehill and become the dominant method, or if we will see something entirely new develop."
"Yes, Peter, the Blossoms are very much a space control team, utilising a familiar strategy to longtime Tunnel Ball fans but in a way rather unique to the Folk. The Flowing Stone, led by their dominant front-line trio of Claws, Thick-Hide and Spots, are what we in the know would call a charging team. Using their superior strength, they want to crack the centre line and force the opponent back, creating weakness in their foe's offence and opening passing lanes when attacking themselves."
"Indeed. Now for anyone in the audience who is new to Tunnel Ball, we will take a brief moment to explain the rules and aim of the game."
Grey was quite relieved to hear this, as everything the two individuals had been saying was going right over his head. So this 'game' involved carrying a vulnerable 'ball' from one's own defensive line and reaching the other side of the pit without it being broken. Play didn't stop until either the ball was broken, or the attacking team scored. Apparently there were limited opportunities where the 'umpire' could step in, most of them involving situations where the attacking team couldn't advance the ball but the defending team couldn't break it, such as if it was buried deep within the ground and neither team could achieve control over the mana needed to break it out.
Both sides had ten turns to attack, and whoever scored the highest total would win.
Upon hearing the rules, Grey simply didn't understand what the excitement was about. In what way was this more interesting than a duel between experts? Carrying a ball around? Trying to destroy it? Who cared?! Blademasters cultivated their dueling skills in order to triumph over the monsters and display the prowess of the Folk. What purpose did this foolish display serve?
Growing irritated all over again, he slumped in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. If he left now, he would never hear the end of it from White, so he might as well get settled and prepare to endure the rest of this farcical display.
"It looks as if the Blossoms have won the coin toss and elected to attack first."
"Attacking first is the default choice for teams with confidence. I like this show of strength from the Blossoms."
"Right you are, Commentant. Well, after all the build up, it's time to play, folks. As both teams take their formations on the mid-line, we are about to see some action. The ball is being carried by Spring, team captain for the Blossoms, and she is facing down the truly terrifying trio ready to crash through and hunt that ball."
"Here we go! The umpire signals the start of the match and… boom!"
The pit erupted in a dazzling burst of sword light, and the crowd roared as Grey leaned forward, his blademaster eyes seeing through the chaos perfectly. The second the round had started, both teams had drawn their blades, unleashing their techniques as fast as they could.
The back-line for the Blossoms, a duo from the life-blooming school, had created a large tree of pure energy that covered their ball handler, protecting her from harm while three others unleashed wily serpents that wove through the air, hunting for prey.
On the other hand, the vaunted front trio had executed competent quick-draw techniques, smashing their opponents with raw, unformed sword-light, putting them on the back foot. Pressing their advantage, they pushed forward, unleashing further rapid bursts, not letting their opponents get set.
"As expected, the Flowing Stone are pressing over the mid-line! Keeping their opponents under pressure, Claws, Thick-Hide and Spots are advancing!"
"The flanks are a different story. The Blossoms are executing their trademark strategy, harassing and hounding. Look at those serpents sweeping in and out. They can team up at a moment's notice and strike. The question is, when will Spring make her move. She is yet to take a single step—protected by the defensive formation, she is waiting for her moment to strike."
A dazzling clash of sword light continued as the more skilful fighters controlled their energy, arcing it up over the pit before raining it down amongst the opposing team. The advance of the dominant trio was halted for a moment, as the rest of their team was being pressed hard.
"We are seeing both formations starting to break down here, Commentant! Chaos could erupt at any moment!"
"I quite agree. Brilliant swordsmanship on display from both teams as we—goodness! Spring makes a pass!"
"I almost missed it! Caught in the mouth of a snake, the ball is moving forward and the Blossoms are streaking down the flanks! Remember, they must physically control the ball in order to score!
"Flicking the ball between snakes, a dazzling display of control and strategy. The Stone are regrouping, but can they track the ball?!"
"Another pass, and this one is DEEP. Spring is charging up the right unopposed! Will she get there?"
ROAR!
"An interception from Thick-hide smashes the ball to smithereens and ends the play! How did he get there?!"
"A brilliant read, he watched and waited, knowing the pass would come to the captain. Excellent patience, excellent presence of mind. Calm under pressure, that's the true spirit of a Tunnel Ball player!"
"WHOOOOOOO!!!!" White howled, pumping her fist with excitement. "GO STONE!"
Grey blinked.
Just what was he watching?
-x-X-x-
"Ten rounds in, we have reached the midpoint of the match, and things are really heating up here, folks. Tied at two all, both teams have shown great skill and strategy on both offence and defence. It's exciting to see just how quickly the Folk have adapted to the game, and as longtime watchers, I can tell you all that these are highly skilled teams. Commentant and myself have both been impressed by the level of the matches we've seen since we arrived, and this one is no exception. The reputation of the Folk is well deserved."
There were nods and smug faces all around the stadium as this 'Peter' stated the obvious. Of course they were excellent, they were the Folk, the finest duelists in the Dungeon.
"Certainly it's been impressive. These two teams could realistically compete in the third or fourth division in Anthome. A very high level for people who came to the game so recently."
Third or fourth division? Well, that didn't sit so well with the crowd.
"We emerge from the halftime break, and both teams are taking their positions on their respective sides of the field. What do you think we might see them change up in the second half, Commentant?"
"The Flowing Stone haven't been able to get their dominant, push-centric game going as much as they'd like in the first half. I wouldn't be shocked at all to see them play a wider front. Rather than concentrate their strength as they usually do, spread their power trio across the mid-line to help shore up the flanks, which have been suffering greatly from the Spirit Blossoms' creative and deceptively punishing attacks.
"As for the Blossoms, their offence has been good, but the defense is really being pushed hard. Plumtree and Snow-fur are really getting battered out there, and if they can't hold the line in the later rounds, I fear the Flowing Stone might run away with the score."
Indeed, Grey was in a similar mind to these supposed 'analysts' as he watched the battle unfold.
He shook himself. This was no battle, but a mere game. Trivial nonsense, not a true duel. Regardless, he concurred with their assessment. The Blossom team had held on so far, but their warriors were growing tired, fatigued. In truth, all of them were. The rounds had been gruelling, physically and mentally demanding as the two teams clashed repeatedly, forcing the competitors to push themselves. Yet the Flowing Stone were hitting harder, more viciously, and had more energy to spare.
Unless the Blossoms adjusted their strategy, he estimated they would struggle greatly in the final few rounds.
"The teams are lining up for the next round and… yes, yes I believe we see some shifts in formation. The Stone have indeed widened their front-line, but not by as much as I would have liked to have seen. A bit more width would really help them, I feel."
"Yes. We can also see the Blossoms have adopted a deeper formation, pulling their front back and setting their flanks even wider. I like this adaptation. More time to react in the centre, more space to work on the sides. This could give them the edge they need."
"Indeed, the greater width means the Stone really should be pushing wider still. I feel they will come to regret not being more bold with their formation change."
"We're about to find out! Here we go!"
Swords flashed, light exploded and the crowd roared. Unknowingly, Grey leaned forward ever so slightly in his seat.
Yes, he could see it unfolding just as he had predicted. The Stone were defending, holding the centre, but their flanks were not adequately protected. As before, the Blossoms were able to hold just long enough to get their passing game going, then launching themselves down the sides of the field in a sharp lunge towards the wall.
They displayed such fine control, using the light of their swords to shift the ball from side to side, flicking it at rapid speed. The Stone fought fiercely. They fell back, recovered their lines, lashed out with savage sword strokes, trying to tear down their enemies before they could get too close.
There was real skill on display and Grey was pleased to see it. A slight smile tugged at his lips, and warriors from half a dozen sword schools worked against and with each other, their techniques and control clear for all to see. It wasn't perfect, they were not blademasters, but still it was interesting to watch.
Again, the defenders tried to read the final pass, looking to intercept and destroy the ball. Spring made a daring run, cutting through the lines and drawing them towards her. The defence collapsed, sure that she would be the target, only to realise too late she was a decoy.
The ball sailed through the air at great speed, another of the Blossoms in perfect position to receive, only a few metres from the wall. But Claw had held back, clever enough not to be sucked into the distraction, and moved to block.
In a stunning display of skill and control, the Blossoms player used the flat of his blade to catch and control the ball, parrying it to his right.
Straight to his teammate.
The crowd erupted as the Blossoms scored, and even White begrudgingly clapped, unable to deny the brilliance of the play.
Grey stroked his muzzle. Who was that lad? He had excellent wrist control. Perhaps Grey should see if the young one was open to switching schools….
-x-X-x-
Were there a competition for the Ancient who is the most feared, there are several contenders that all of the cults would agree on, one of them being Tarriflyx the Hunger. Cultists of the Endless Feast tell hushed tales of those who have dreamed of the Ancient, so consumed with a bottomless, sucking hunger that they awaken to find they have gnawed on their own flesh to sate the craving.
More mouth than monster, legends tell of Tarriflyx's hunger being a palpable thing, an aura that drives all who come close to it to succumb to a mindless frenzy of consumption. For this reason, none who approached the Ancient ever survived, and those unfortunate enough to be nearby when it rose to the surface were unable to carry tales of the beast.
All our information regarding the Hunger comes from dreams, and they are dreaded, not welcomed.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
"A stunning display of skill, grit and ability here today, Commentant! This game has come right down to the wire, neither side willing to give an inch. Scores are tied at 4-4 and it is the Stone's final offensive possession. Are we about to see a tough-fought draw, or a glorious last-gasp victory?"
"I know which one the supporters of the Flowing Stone are hoping to see, Peter. This has been a wonderful contest that's shown the Folk have developed a real feel for the tactics and hard-hitting execution required to play this game. Will there be any last second adjustments to the formation of either team?
"It seems as if the Blossoms are sticking to the same look, but the Stone are changing things up! From the looks of it, they've formed a very dense centre."
"An interesting switchup at the last possible moment. Will it be enough to carry them in this possession? The referee signals the start of play, and the swords are out!"
Once again the light flashed as the players executed their Skills. Grey watched, his eyes seeing all as the two sides clashed. The contest had gone on long, and there was real fatigue weighing down the limbs of the combatants. Legs were heavy, shoulders burned, wrists ached. Executing the demanding sword Skills of the Folk in that condition was more than difficult. Controlling and manipulating the sword light required focus, flawless technique and a powerful will. Summoning any of those three while exhausted and on the brink of collapse, let alone all three, was the mark of a true warrior.
As expected, the execution of abilities was clumsy, the light didn't dance and weave as it had in the opening rounds. Instead, it was a slow, gruelling battle as both teams smashed into each other again and again, relying on spirit and grit more than skill and polish.
"The Blossoms are struggling to break through as the Stone seem to be employing a modified brick strategy! They're holding firm and pushing forward with nothing but dogged determination!"
"Determination is not only for the dog-Folk, Peter."
"I apologise if that was culturally insensitive! The trio of Claw, Thick-Hide and Spots are holding firm in the middle. Look at the grit! Look at the power! They're exhausted, folks, make no mistake!"
Indeed, it was looking less like a duel and more like a battlefield. Pushed to the limits of their strength, the two sides were barely able to conjure meaningful light at all, and the front lines had devolved into a brutal, up-close sword fight. Every time the Stone took a step forward, some of the crowd would cheer and scream. Every time the Blossoms pushed them back, the same would occur.
The ball was barely moving, and the audience could not have been louder, all desperately urging their side to summon just a tiny bit more energy.
"The Blossoms are trying to make strikes on the ball, but the defense is holding strong! The centre is gaining ground, and they've pushed over the midline! Anything could happen from here!"
At that moment, Spring, captain of the Blossoms, made a decision, one that Grey agreed with. Despite their superior teamwork and mobility, the Blossoms were in a losing position. The raw strength of the Stone was more of a factor this deep in the match, and it was proving impossible to hold the line. Her team had given their all, but Spring knew they wouldn't be able to hold much longer. She had no choice but to try and break the ball.
Leaping high, her blade flashing in the sun, Spring made a final, dazzling play.
Grey was on the edge of his seat as the crowd roared, his heart thumping in his chest as the blades clashed. It would all come down to these final moments, and he didn't want to miss a thing.
Spring, by far the best player on her team, danced like a true blademaster, hovering on the edge of life and death as her enemies closed in around her. Her sword never stopped moving, the light she summoned still under control despite the obvious exhaustion that plagued her.
The Flowing Stone didn't panic; they'd had to have known such a move was coming. In a bold move, their hard-hitting trio held their positions, dominating the centre and pushing forward faster now that Spring wasn't in place to anchor their opposing line.
It was down to the rest of the team to defend the ball, and they swarmed over Spring, not giving her the room she needed to move.
Even so, she held them off. The ball carrier fought defensively, always shifting, but her blade sought him out time and time again.
Eventually, someone had to make a mistake, and it was the ball carrier who slipped up first. The ground wasn't stable, and as they turned to avoid a striking blade, their heel was misplaced, causing them to fall.
Spring pounced on the opportunity, her blade lashing out in an instant, and the entire audience held their breath as they watched the stroke fall.
Light sprang from the sword's edge, curling outward to strike at the ball. White covered her eyes in despair, but Grey knew better. All eyes turned to the umpire, but they made no call, their flags staying down.
There hadn't been enough force to break the ball; it was marked, but still in one piece.
Realising his lucky escape, the ball carrier surged to his feet and lunged toward the wall, the entire crowd erupting in a frenzied roar.
"Go!"
"THE BALL, UMPIRE!"
"COME ONNNNN!!!"
The last outburst was from White, and she screamed her lungs out as the Stone ball carrier executed a final, stumbling dash and slammed awkwardly into the wall, ball in hand.
-x-X-x-
Of all the Ancients, it is perhaps Arconidem who is the most widely believed to actually exist, outside of the cults. The third stratum is a blighted place, filled with demons under the influence of the Demon God, making it easy to imagine some creature is down below, manipulating it all.
The Cult of the Red Truth was one of the few that spawned from an actual conversation with the Ancient when he rose to the surface, which makes him one of the Ancients we know the most about.
Arconidem is well known amongst his followers as a master of magic and weaver of spells. Despite his colossal size and remarkable strength, it is with his mind that the Ancient does most of his damage. Cultists tell of his disintegration spells, capable of destroying anything in their path, or the 'Wind of Annihilation' that broke down a mountain.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
We aren't religious, as a people.
That was what Grey had told Anthony when the ant had first spoken of this game to him, and the blademaster was now reminded of how the monster had replied.
Yet.
At the time, he had simply dismissed the words of the ant. Yet now, he wondered if perhaps he had not given the monster the consideration his statement had warranted.
"BOOOOOOO!!!!" Grey shouted. "Your ball manipulations are for cowards!"
"DECEPTIONS ARE FOR THE WEAK!" White bellowed, her usual demure demeanor nowhere to be found.
"Tensions are really heating up around the arena, Commentant. A lot of ill feeling towards the tactics employed by the representative team from the Colony. Do you think the crowd will have a negative impact on the Red Blitz's performance going forward?"
"Unlikely, Peter. This is a tier one team of professionals brought in from Anthome for this game, and they are as focused as Smithant at the forge. Despite the local crowd's distaste for the tactic, manipulating the ball is a perfectly valid strategy, and always has been. Indeed, the winners of the Mandible Cup in the last season, the Carapace Mirage, were masters of illusory methods and baffled their opponents."
Grey thumped back into his seat with a huff, his emotions fully in sync with White who sat next to him. The two of them had gone to many matches together since his first thrilling experience of the Flowing Stone against the Spirit Blossoms, and it had turned into something of a ritual for them, an activity that brought them closer as Master and Pupil. The more he saw of the game, the more Grey liked it. The strategic and tactical depth, the demands on both physical capability, endurance and skillful execution, the split-second decision making, the thorough preparation.
The enthusiastic roar of the crowd also helped to get the blood pumping.
Yet never before had he witnessed something as low and underhanded as what was taking place on the field right now.
The ants had created two balls!
Well, one of them was a hollow shell designed to mimic the reinforced stone the monster team had placed around the real ball, they hadn't actually had two balls on the field at the same time. But it was the principle of the thing!
Where was the honour in such a… base deception?
"It's time for the Flowing Stone to step up on offence once more. The scores are 4-2 as we reach the midpoint of the second half. The Stone will have two more attempts on offence after this one, and they'll need to score in all three and keep the Blitz scoreless in order to pull off an upset win. What do you think their chances are, Commentant?"
"Slim."
The ant sounded so smug about it too.
"The Blitz have been very effective on offence, and though they aren't a renowned defensive team, they've been able to contain their opponents reasonably well. It'll be difficult for the Flowing Stone to score, and even harder for them to keep a clean sheet from this point forward."
Encouraging chants and cheers broke out around the stadium as the Folk willed their team to victory, yet it didn't appear as if their hopes would be answered.
"Claw is trying to get through, but another crunching slam holds him in his tracks. That's a tier five Soldier he's grappling with, and she is strong, people, have no doubt. They grapple in the front lines, sword against mandible, jockeying for position, but they just aren't getting the penetration they need. The Blitz holds firm on the midline, and if we don't get some traction soon…"
"Yes, Peter, it looks like the Blitz are starting to break down their opponents' formation. We see the dashing runs, the in and out as the scouts look to break through and make a play on the ball. There's a delicate cut and thrust here, go too deep and you may just create an opening to let the opponent score.
"The backlines are clashing hard, spells against swooping sword-light, and I would have to give the edge here to the Stone, but is it going to matter?"
Grey tried to will his fellow Folk to victory, but his blademaster eyes weren't deceived. He could see the cracks forming in the lines. The monsters were fast and highly skilled. Once they moved in to grapple, it was hard for the Folk to keep them away, and if they managed to latch on, they were able to shift and manipulate the balance of their foes, not trying to score a decisive victory, but to create a momentary opportunity. If a single one of the Folk slipped, lost their footing or was tackled to the ground, another ant would shoot into the opening as if they'd known it was going to be there all along.
As he watched, it happened again. One of the ants gained the upper hand on the right flank of the Stone formation, and in a flash the Folk were crumbling. The front line shoved hard, keeping the strong trio occupied while nimble ants sliced into the backfield, hunting for the ball.
Despite heroic efforts from the Folk, they were unable to keep the grasping mandibles from cracking the ball, and Grey slumped back in his seat, disappointed. There would be no glorious triumph over the Colony today, as many had hoped. Even a draw seemed unlikely.
The human commentator was doing his best to be diplomatic, but it only put Grey in a worse mood.
"As in all things, experience matters. The Blitz have played hundreds of high-stakes games in front of huge crowds, they are comfortable playing Tunnel Ball in these demanding situations, and it can be seen in their execution. They've been clean with the ball and decisive without it. The Flowing Stone have improved rapidly, truly amazing progress in such a short amount of time, but they'll need to play more games before they can match up to the more experienced teams from the Colony."
It was true, experience mattered. Grey wasn't blind, he could see the fumbles, the missteps and momentary lapses in coordination. Every little mistake was pounced on by the ants, using a small opening to create a bigger one, pushing their opponents until they cracked.
He growled. Just because he understood it didn't mean he liked it. The dignity of the Folk was at stake! They were warriors renowned throughout the Dungeon!
"Maybe we should try and form a team of blademasters," he grumbled to himself.
White turned to him, eyes shining.
-x-X-x-
Zothoth who Feasts on Sanity is barely understood even by the Cult of Asylum, who worship them. More accurately known as 'the Cult of the Shattered Mind', since those who dream of Zothoth are usually unable to communicate what they saw upon waking. Or communicate anything at all, truth be told.
There are few legends of the Ancient, as they are known as a mind eater, a creature who consumes the very thoughts and consciousness of any who looks upon them.
A single entry in a recovered journal from the Rending makes reference to 'the plains of lost remembrance', where millions of broken, insane people wandered, gibbering and screaming. The cults believe this is where Zothoth reached the surface, and ate as they had never eaten before.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
Satrap Umizan rested in his underwater palace, well pleased with the report in front of him. With one hand resting on his belly, he let the other play down the page once more, indulging himself in the glorious numbers that filled the neat and orderly columns.
"Profits, wonderful profits," he purred.
Business with the Colony had been necessary to prevent the collapse of the commodities trade in the fourth, and he would have invested in this enterprise even if, Dungeon forbid, the Consortium had to trade at a loss. However, seeing such delicious, juicy profits filled him with a particular sense of glee. The margins weren't amazing, the blasted negotiator for the ants had made sure of that, but the volume more than made up for it.
"The trade mission was an enormous success," he grinned broadly.
His wife, reclining by his side, allowed herself a self-indulgent smile.
"Of course it was, my dear husband, did you think it could be anything less with me at the helm?"
In truth, he had been very concerned. Not because of his dear wife Eran, of course, but because of the ants. It had been a huge risk to expose them in the way they had, but somehow the alien, insect monsters had managed to endear themselves to many residents of the fourth stratum.
Yes, many deals had been struck, and now an absurd volume of trade items poured out of the Colony every day, landing straight into the hands of the Brathian Island Conglomerate, who were only too happy to take them to market.
"We are swimming in rich waters now, my wife," Umizan chuckled, extremely pleased with the outcome. "We may need to discuss our investment portfolio. There must be something we can do with all of this wealth."
Of course, he already had a few ideas. There were some lakes he would gladly pay for mining rights of, although scaling up the ship building capacity of the group would be a wise move. They were having to hire shipping for the absurd quantity of items they were moving, and the rates were usurious.
Just as the Satrap and his wife began the most pleasurable indulgence of husband and wife, discussing finances, there was a most rude knocking at the door of his study.
Umizan froze, hoping whoever it was would give up and go away. Etran frowned at him, but he shook his head stubbornly.
There were investments to discuss! Investments!
However, the person at the door, blast their fins to rot and scales to peel, continued to insistently knock. Eventually Umizan was forced to give up and call out.
"Who's there?" he demanded, irritably.
"Your brother, Marzban, can I come in?"
"Is it important?"
"Would I be here knocking if it wasn't?"
Grumbling to himself about uppity relatives, even if they were the head of his security, Umizan gestured for the ever-present guard to open the door. He scowled as his brother swam into the room.
"This had better be good," he snapped.
Marzban's brows rose, but he showed no other reaction to his sibling's poor mood.
"There's a public disturbance outside the palace. I thought you may be interested to see it for yourself."
"A public disturbance?" Umizan muttered.
His mind raced. Were people unhappy with his leadership? Had he not brought them great opportunity, wealth and prosperity? Had public sanitation run out of money? The meticulous ledgers in his head clicked and clacked as he rapidly sorted through them all. Unemployment was very low, public sanitation was generously funded, and the salary packages he provided to the members of the Conglomerate were well above market rate.
He was fine.
So what were they unhappy with?
"Can't you just tell me what's going on?" he asked.
Marzban shook his head.
"I honestly don't think so. You need to come and see."
Almost despite himself, Umizan found himself intrigued. Deciding that the discussion regarding the newfound wealth of the Conglomerate could indeed wait, he offered his hand to his wife, who took it gracefully, and swam out of his palace, honour guard in tow.
"They've been at it for hours," Marzban said, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Like what?"
"You'll see."
He heard the disturbance before he saw it. Vibrations and ripples in the water from a large, very animated crowd.
Shouldn't these people be working?
He swam higher and finally got a glimpse of what all the fuss was about.
A pit had been dug into the sea bed, and what appeared to be two teams of brathians were flinging water at each other in what appeared to be a brutal struggle without a point. He spotted the ball after a moment when an enterprising soldier thrust forward his palm, sending a needle-thin jet of water that curled around and shattered the ball, causing the watching crowd to erupt into cheers and shouting.
And the crowd… there had to be a thousand of them.
"They've been playing this… game for hours now," Marzban huffed, folding his arms across his chest. "And the crowd has only been getting larger. They learned it from the ants, apparently."
Umizan looked down at them, seeing it all. The players, the crowd, the enthusiasm, the joy and camaraderie.
"Do you smell that?" Umizan said.
Marzban frowned, sniffing.
"Smell what?"
Umizan grinned broadly.
"Money."
-x-X-x-
The Cult of the Hound live in fear of the being that they worship. Torra the Dread Dog is surrounded by such a blanketing aura of terror that there are only a handful of records of anyone even laying eyes on the Ancient.
At least, laying eyes on them and then being able to speak of the event afterwards.
Not the largest of the Ancients, nor the fastest, nevertheless the Cult does speak of the immense physical power the Ancient possesses. Fangs the size of trees, paws that drip with liquified screams, and a coat formed of wailing spirits. Torra is often described by the cultists as one of the deepest sleepers, among the last to wake. There have been several records of collective nightmares occurring across Pangera whenever the Dread Dog awakens, some sleepers drawn in to see something they would rather not.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
[What do you mean, 'exclusive rights?!']
[I am certain you know what these terms mean, Satrap Umizan.]
The monster, Diplomant, sat opposite of the Satrap and cleaned her antennae leisurely, unfussed by the wiles of the negotiators across the table.
Umizan tried to gentle his tone.
[Of course the Colony has the rights to monetise the game of Tunnel Ball; they invented it, after all. However, my proposal is to purchase those rights. I cannot imagine the Colony has any need for them, what would you even do with such a thing? By selling them to me, you will be able to unburden yourself of such a cumbersome property.]
Eran, his wife, stomped on his foot and Umizan smiled through the pain. Perhaps he was moving too fast. But he had to. The brathians of his Conglomerate were amongst the first to be exposed to the Colony and therefore among the first to be exposed to the game. If it spread far, then there would be dozens of people banging on the Colony's door, desperate to procure rights.
They could run leagues, sponsor teams, fill stadiums, sell tickets! The duelling arenas in the Silver City printed rivers of gold every year, and nobody could get a slice of the pie. If he were able to secure the rights to the game itself, then the Brathian Island Conglomerate would be able to sell licences all around the fourth stratum and collect money without even having to do anything!
[They aren't for sale,] Diplomant said promptly. [You can, if you wish, purchase a local licence to run an official league here amongst your own people. As part of the agreement, you will gain access to umpire training from the official Colony academy, guidelines and marketing materials, along with access to the Colony-run inter-league competitions and World Cup.]
She idly clacked her mandibles.
[Of course, we have already registered our trademarks at the office of every major nation and empire in the fourth stratum and above. It's only prudent.]
Umizan felt as if he were about to start vomiting blood.
The ants had already registered it everywhere and drawn up plans to exploit their intellectual property via licensing agreements?! That's what he wanted to do! This was going to be huge. He could smell it.
Eran picked up on his desperation and smoothly stepped in to cover for him, bringing her overwhelming powers of persuasion to bear.
[Of course, we would never dream of impinging upon the rights of the Colony. You are our valued trading partners, after all.]
That was a reminder to Umizan, and he blinked to show he had understood the message. Don't forget how profitable a partner the Colony is already. Ruining their goodwill for another deal would be like stabbing one side of his face to heal the other.
[Perhaps there is another way the Brathian Island Conglomerate can be of use in spreading your wonderful game,] she continued, pouring on the pressure. [We have proven to be wonderful partners and intermediaries, have we not? With us to negotiate on your behalf, you will be able to secure much better terms, and if we act as your liaisons, we will ensure that your trademark is enforced. So long as we are properly motivated, of course.]
An interesting ploy. Umizan tapped the table with his middle finger to show he approved of her decision. Even if they couldn't get the rights, if they were able to insert themselves as middlemen, then they could hugely profit nonetheless.
[That won't be necessary,] Diplomant replied. [We have a set fee structure, so there is no need to negotiate, which makes the need for intermediaries rather small.]
A set fee structure? In all the depths of the azure lakes, why? They should be ripping people off left and right! They could charge a fortune! In fact, maybe they were…
[Can we see the fees?] Eran asked, in lockstep with his own thinking.
[Of course.]
Another ant scuttled forward, the water-proof document held in their mandibles, which they placed on the table. Using a foreleg, Diplomant pushed it towards them.
[Here are the fees. I'm sure you'll agree they are more than reasonable.]
Umizan restrained himself from snatching up the paper as he inspected it. After a second, he slapped the page back down. Reasonable? They were pitifully cheap. In fact, the Colony was even promising to invest resources and labour in helping defray the costs of establishing a league! They'd be taking a loss!
So… so pitiful. It almost enraged him. They had the opportunity to roll in money! Why were they throwing it away?!
[Those fees relate to establishing your league. The licence has a two-year duration, during which the Colony will support you in the ways detailed in the fee structure,] Diplomant said.
Umizan raised a brow and Eran caught his intention immediately.
[Two year duration?] she said. [And what happens after that?]
The same ant returned with another sheet of paper that Diplomant slid over the table.
[Since you are a trusted partner of the Colony, I suppose I can let you see this. These are the proposed fees for the second two-year licence agreement.]
The Satrap glanced at the numbers, then threw back his head and laughed out loud. The fees would more than triple, and if he didn't miss his guess, the third licence agreement would be even worse. The ants were all too happy to give the game away for nothing, at first. They would let the brathian Conglomerates establish their own leagues, and everyone else, even lose a staggering amount of money building stadiums and training grounds and taking on logistical burdens.
In exchange, the game would spread like wildfire. Attracted by the cheap startup costs, people would race to monetise Tunnel Ball, along the guidelines the Colony had set. In two years, when it was popular and booming, the ants would return with a new agreement, very different from the first. What choice would anyone have? They had to sign it.
Then the ants themselves would have exclusive rights to interleague competition, and this… world cup? The best teams from around Pangera competing in a single tournament? It would be… massive. It would be… lucrative.
[You ants catch on quickly,] he chuckled
-x-X-x-
Nothing is known of Gon the Sightless Freak, not even how we came to know the Ancient's name. None have ever seen them, even in dreams. The few cultists who have dreamed of Gon report a world shrouded in darkness. A place without sight, or sound, or touch, or taste or smell.
We don't even know why the cultists have these visions. They have received no message from the Ancient, gained no wisdom or insight. All they have is blind eyes, tasteless tongues, deaf ears, useless noses and unfeeling hands.
The Freak will not be witnessed. In any way. By anyone.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
The golgari liked things to come in threes. The melding of minds was a tradition even older than their use of the second skin. From that unity flowed the formation of the triads, the master and students, the creation of the circles and the structure of golgari society around the world.
Perhaps this was why, Eran Thouris mused, they had decided to play with nine a side, rather than ten.
She sat, with Marzban and Irisod the Court Mage by her side, watching as young golgari, perhaps only a few months into wearing their stone flesh, shifted the ball back and forth, running and laughing while they played.
"It's interesting," Marzban mused, hand resting on his palm as he watched. "Look at the way they move it. I haven't seen our people do that."
Eran nodded thoughtfully.
There were many differences between the brathians and the golgari. Physically, the golgari were imposing figures, usually more than seven feet, with strength of limb beyond what most races were capable of. Despite being young, the youths were able to lift and carry the ball without difficulty. They would throw it, kick it, unafraid that the hard stone of the ball would break their bones or even abrade their flesh.
"The people of the stone have always been meatheaded. More brawn than brains," Irisod sniffed. "Our people must use more dignified methods."
"I think they would prefer the term 'rockheaded'," Marzban commented dryly. "And look, you can already see there's some shapers down there."
Indeed, working with magic was seen as a lesser profession amongst the golgari, preferring to venerate their warriors instead. Even so…
"The golgari shapers are literally the best manipulators of stone in the world," Marzban said, "I think Tunnel Ball might be right up their alley."
Indeed, as Eran watched, two boys who were clearly shapers in training were able to shape the stone with incredible precision, creating loops and curves to turn and throw the ball without having to touch it. Before long, they hardened the ball and started punting it about by creating pillars of rock to smack it around.
"Where did they even learn it from?" Eran wondered aloud. "We've only been here for a few hours. It can't have come from us. The Colony isn't welcome here, so it can't be from them. So who else is spreading this game?"
This particular trade mission had only just arrived on business from the Satrap. He'd decided to invest in some rare gemstone ventures within the Empire of Stone, and Eran had not long ago disembarked her ship, only to find that Tunnel Ball had even spread here, where hatred for the ants ran high. After Anthony had rocked an entire mountain, they really didn't like the Colony. They still bought a surprising amount of cheap, ant-produced goods, though.
"I think I might have an answer for you," Marzban said, nodding his head off to their right.
Eran turned to see some Folk emerging from a docked ship, blades in their hands and a stone ball carried between two of them.
They called out and the golgari cheered when they saw them coming. Before too long, they had a few small games going, blade light flashing as the balls bounced to and fro. Rather than a proper game of Tunnel Ball, it was almost as if they were playing an elaborate game of keepaway, as those without the ball tried to seize it, while those in possession tried to pass the ball around and keep it safe.
Without a proper field on which to play, this was as close an approximation to Tunnel Ball as they could make.
Although, the dock may not have been the best place for it. They ducked and wove through dense traffic and shipping crates, with more than a few close calls. The skill on display was honestly impressive, but it was only a matter of time before there was a serious accident. When the authorities finally shut them down, the players protested good-naturedly but gave way in the face of the furious guards.
Eran had one question on her mind. She turned to Marzban.
"The Folk are playing Tunnel Ball?" she demanded.
He shrugged.
"It would appear so. How else would they have the ball?"
"You know what this means?"
He frowned.
"I do."
"We can never lose to them," she insisted. "The dignity of our people must be upheld!"
"It's not going to be easy," Marzban muttered, stroking his chin as he considered the dire problem before them. "We play underwater. There's no way the furry Folk will ever agree to give us a home field advantage like that."
"We can make water wherever we play. I insist that the Tunnel Ball fields be moved to the surface."
"The ants have also made that point. The standard rules for interleague and international matches demand a dry field."
The very thought of having to sit and watch as a brathian team was defeated by the Folk was enough to make her fins stand on edge. They had the advantage in the duelling arenas, and they never let anyone hear the end of it. Something had to be done. The conglomerate would have to marshal all possible advantages as effectively as possible.
"I need to talk to the Satrap as soon as we return," she declared. "We need to invest heavily in our Tunnel Ball players. New practice grounds, coaching, Skill development and research. We must harness every edge we possibly can. Hire ants if that's what it takes. When the time comes, we will crush all opposition."
She thought of how well the golgari had seemed to take to the game. If it spread here as well, just how strong would their teams be? The thought only firmed her resolve even further. No matter what they had to spend, they would win.
Marzban nodded, sharing her determination.
"I believe my brother will agree wholeheartedly. He loves money a little less than he hates losing."
-x-X-x-
Many have debated the exact meaning of the name attached to Yolesh the Ever Dying. Is the Ancient some form of undead? Is it a boast to state how Yolesh cannot truly die? Does it have another meaning altogether?
Amongst the worshippers of Yolesh, there is no consensus, but there are a few prevalent views, the most common among them being that the aura of undeath that surrounds the Ancient is fuelled by its own life force. In that sense, Yolesh is always dying, burning its own life to maintain its power.
Whether that means the Ancient is destined to die, or if it can replace what it loses, we can only guess.
What is known, is where Yolesh surfaced during the Rending. The Valley of Eternal Mist is home to the undead to this day. No matter how many times they are killed, no matter how thoroughly, they still return. Perhaps an example of the true nature of Yolesh.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
The diplomats of the Colony had never imagined that their work would become so simple. The Folk were clamoring for teams to leave Anthome and tour their territories. Inquiries about visiting the home of Tunnel Ball had skyrocketed, with thousands expressing interest in seeing how the game was played by the creatures who'd created it. Cultural exchange and acceptance between the Colony and Folk, which had seemed so difficult at first, a project of decades, was accelerating by leaps and bounds every week.
The brathian had also caught the bug. From the most recent reports, the Brathian Island Conglomerate was paying for ant coaches and teams, even putting up a hefty fee to recruit a team of carvers to demonstrate the official construction methods for their own builders. News of the game was spreading along the shipping routes, causing other conglomerates to reach out, desperate not to be left behind by their competition.
It seemed like everywhere the Colony went, as long as Tunnel Ball was also there, they were welcomed with open arms. The conversations were easy, the compromises flowed smoothly, agreements were made, signed, sealed and delivered before the tea got cold.
Diplomant could not have been more pleased. What they had assumed would take them ten years would be done before twelve months had passed. All because of a training exercise the farmers liked to watch.
As she stood, looking over the edge of the flying ship rising above the shimmering sapphire waters of the fourth, she could only admit that her role was no longer to represent the Colony in international negotiations.
No, everything had changed.
Her role was to spread Tunnel Ball as far and as fast as an ant possibly could. If the locals were playing the game, then they would reach out to the Colony on their own. All the ants had to do was sit back and wait, sipping tea and eating cake.
It was simple. She hired ships and sent out Folk, brathian, golgari, ka'armodo, even a few bruan'chii, who had learned the game while serving in the battalions. They would play demonstration games, teach children and adults, organise matches between the locals. Over a few weeks, they would build interest, develop a following for the game, and inevitably conversations would turn to perhaps creating a proper field, organising regular games.
At this moment, the Colony would swoop in. You need a field? We will build it, free of charge. Would you like some training? Would you like to see an ant team play? Of course, we will happily sponsor your best team to tour the fourth stratum, we will do it every year!
After a month or two, she would turn up with her fellow diplomats. How do you feel about trade? Would you like to recognise the Colony as an independent, free nation of sapient creatures?
I'm afraid recognising our sovereignty and right to exist is a requirement of participation in the World Cup.
Wonderful to have your agreement in this matter. Let us toast with a fine cup of loose-leaf tea and scones.
It worked like one of the Silver City's magical clocks, as predictable as the turning of gears and the swing of a pendulum. An unprecedented level of diplomatic success. Reports from the spies within the Church of the Path said the priests' heads were spinning. Trying to unite the sapient races against the ants was almost impossible as the game opened doors left right and centre.
Not that they didn't have some success. They would need to be dealt with eventually, likely when the Eldest awoke. For now, Diplomant would, to borrow a human expression, make hay while the sun was shining.
However, of all the races, kingdoms, fiefdoms, free cities and islands to which she had spread the game, there was one that caused her some level of concern. The reputation of these people was such that she wondered if they would even be interested in Tunnel Ball. On some level, she was almost more worried if they did take an interest.
With a slight jolt, the flying ship bumped into the dock. The crew jumped about, yelling instructions, throwing ropes and tying things down, and soon enough it was time to alight. Along with her escorts, Diplomant skittered down the ramp, her eyes taking in the incredible view from the floating island in the sky.
She'd asked, of course, whether or not the locals had taken to the game, but all she'd heard back was that she would have to 'see it for herself'.
It didn't take long for her to see what her agent had meant.
"Ey? Eyyyyyy?! Are you fair dinkum mate?! The ball was in!"
"You wanna have a go, mate?! Caus' I'll go! I'm dyin' ta go!"
"Shut your pie holes, you drongos! Get your thick heads back in the game!"
"Ey?"
"Ey!"
"... Fine."
Cheering erupted as play got back underway.
"Come on, you good thing! Get 'em!"
"Ball? BALLLLLLLLL!!!!"
"Ump! Where's the flamin' call?!"
"Hey! I'm the umpire, not you! Shut your flamin' mouth!"
"Oh? You wanna have a go, then?"
"Eyyyy?"
"Eyyyy!"
Soon, two magpei, one in an official umpire's uniform, were grappling and fighting in the skies as play continued beneath them.
Diplomant clacked her mandibles slowly, unsure if she should be pleased, or in despair. Everywhere she looked on the outskirts of this one small town, they were playing Tunnel Ball, or fighting about Tunnel Ball, or both at the same time.
The magpei were legendary for their fiery tempers, impressive physical strength, shocking durability and recovery, and undying love for hitting each other.
It was entirely possible they would dominate the world of Tunnel Ball. It was built for them.
-x-X-x-
Far to the west of the lands claimed by the golgari, over the sunken ocean and beyond the Burning Islands, the vast area known as the Somnos Jungle lies.
Outside of the cults, there are few who remember the reason it is named so. The Legion, almost certainly, as they were the ones who named it, and perhaps the Walik tribes who live there still.
This is the place where Lerrewyn surfaced. According to legend, it was barren when she arose, but that was something she was more than capable of fixing. The trees, ferns, vines and flowers of that jungle sleep now, but they remember their master, even thousands of years later, when the original plants the Ancient created have died and rotted away.
When she wakes, the Jungle stirs to life, for it is part of her, even now.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
[You want me to… play… with this ball.]
Rassan'tep looked doubtfully at the stone sphere, perhaps a metre in diameter, that the ants had rolled into his chamber. He had hoped to be given an opportunity to see the ant, Anthony, again, or at least to engage with the golgari, Granin. As a fellow cultist, he was eager to see the progress of the potential Ancient, but it was proving to be difficult.
He shifted his weight, causing the golden jewelry that adorned his scaled limbs and back to chime most beautifully. Unknown to all but his Set'sulah, Ammon'sil, that particular chime was designed to signify confusion and wariness.
Like the trusted, spirit-bonded servant he was, Ammon'sil gave no indication he had received the message, but stepped forward smoothly.
[Rassan'tep is an honoured Elder among Ka'armodo. It is not suitable for one of his dignity to be… playing games in the dirt.]
The ant before them nodded their head understandingly. It was interesting to see these monsters slowly begin to adopt the mannerisms of other races. Particularly these… diplomatic ants. They were capable of communicating emotion in even the simplest of gestures in a way a ka'armodo could understand.
[We would not ask any ka'armodo, let alone an elder, to do something that lacked dignity. Other ka'armodo, including some elders, have participated before, some of them visiting the Colony, others who have decided to lie amongst us. The game we propose is a test of skill, reflexes, strategy, strength and endurance.]
Rassan'tep shook himself ever so slightly, once again setting his adornments to chime slowly. His faithful Set'sulah understood his meaning.
[Perhaps it would be polite to allow Rassan'tep to see the game in person before he was asked to commit to this favour for you.]
Trying to get in the good graces of the Colony was certainly not as easy as it used to be, and they were very insistent on this… game. Just what had happened since he last met them in the third stratum?
[Of course, we just happen to have a demonstration match underway nearby. Would you like to follow me?]
With a sweeping gesture of the antennae, the ant seemed to politely suggest they 'step this way'. When Rassan'tep unfolded his arms and began to move, the ant took that for the assent it was and turned to lead the way.
Rassan'tep followed while exchanging mental communications with his servants at a rapid pace. None of them had heard of this game before, which seemed odd, seeing as how the Colony was so insistent on it.
Determined not to be manipulated or taken advantage of, the ka'armodo resolved to be wary. As an elder, he had lived for centuries and refused to allow some ants who had only been alive a few years to get the better of him.
Moving through the fortress, they eventually came to a wide expanse of a chamber, in which the center had been sunken into the ground. Indeed, there was a game already underway, the players engaged in this… Tunnel Ball, but there was something shocking that seized Rassen'tep's attention.
Both teams shared the same composition, a ka'armodo elder and their set'sulah attendants. To think there were already elders who had sacrificed their dignity for this… spectacle! Just what had the Colony offered them?
Their guide turned back to face them.
[Here. I invite you to watch. If you have any questions at all, I am happy to provide all the answers that you wish.]
From their vantage point, it was easy to look down and see the details of the game. Rassan'tep turned to look over the rail, not entirely comfortable with what he was seeing.
It appeared to be a contest of magic. The Set'sulah, anchored by their bonded ka'armodo master, were engaged in a battle of wills, flinging spells at each other while also shielding and throwing up barriers to defend their own side. At first, he wondered if the ball were being entirely ignored by both sides, but on closer inspection, he could see it was actually the entire focus of both teams.
The barrage of spells was entirely designed to try and push the other team away from the sphere. One team was trying to advance, looking to create a wedge and drive into the foe's formation, while the other sought to absorb the pressure and hold the line.
[The play style adopted by your fellow ka'armodo has been most fascinating to us,] their host told them. [We ants play a more physical game, with charging, dashing and blocking being key elements of our strategy. On the other hand, teams formed of your people view it as an entirely mind-based exercise. I personally have seen several matches where neither side physically touched the ball.]
Well, of course. What need was there to touch the ball? The ka'armodo prided themselves on their magical superiority. Moving it with force, or wind, or stone, or any of a dozen other types of mana would suffice.
What Rassan'tep could see, and the ant couldn't, was the interplay between the ka'armodo and Set'sulah on both sides. The manipulation of energy, the rapid blitz of thoughts travelling between them, the deep, spiritual bond that all servants shared with their masters, and vice versa. Both teams waxed and waned, ebbed and flowed, their minds working in perfect harmony to create a beautiful song of mana and will.
Eventually, there was a breakthrough. A slight weakness in the defending team created an opening, and the attackers were quick to pounce. A pillar of stone speared out of the ground, punting the ball forward, while a surge of wind swept down from above, looking to divert the ball on a tricky angle and direct it to what Rassan'tep was told was the scoring zone, the enemy team's wall.
The defenders, cool under pressure, fell back rapidly while the attackers advanced, maintaining their finely tuned spiritual and mental harmony.
Further exchanges of spells followed as the one side sought to destroy the ball, while the other both defended it and attempted to move it close to the wall. Ultimately, the defending team was not able to recover in time, and the attackers managed to slip the ball through their defenses and score.
Both sides took a moment to collect themselves, then bowed to their opponents before walking back to their own sides. A dignified display, well-suited to the ka'armodo and their servants. Rassan'tep was pleased that at least they hadn't forgotten their people entirely.
For the next hour, they watched the match play out. Ammon'sil asked questions and made polite chatter with the ant guide, but Rassan'tep remained focused on the game. No matter how he thought of it, he simply couldn't understand what his fellow elders were doing down there.
When the game finally came to an end, one of the teams being declared the victor, both teams bowed once more, deeper this time, in a show of mutual respect.
[Well, what did you think of it?] their guide asked them, cleaning her antennae gently.
[I want to speak with them,] Rassan'tep announced suddenly, causing Ammon'sil to pause a moment, frowning.
Meetings between ka'armodo were formal, arranged affairs. This sort of spontaneous meeting, between three elders no less, was rare, to say the least.
[Of course you can,] the guide announced cheerfully. [I'll let them know.]
It didn't take long to arrange, and soon Rassan'tep was down on the ground level, his servants around him, their posture and expressions carefully schooled lest they shame him and themselves before their peers. When the ritual greetings and pleasantries had been exchanged, he was finally able to address the other ka'armodo and ask them his burning question.
[Why are you engaged in this activity?] he said. [What is it that motivates you to participate? I admit, it is not as… unseemly as I first thought when I heard of it, but I still don't understand why elders such as yourselves would… play… such a game.]
The other elders exchanged a brief glance before one turned toward him, folding her hands across her chest.
[There are several answers I could give,] the one who had named herself Holon'tep stated, [but I will give that which is most relevant to me. To better perfect the union between master and servant, this 'game' provides an excellent test. Our bond is tempered when we apply heat, and outside of battle, sufficient challenge can be difficult to find. By engaging in this game, I find that my Set'sulah and I are able to hone and sharpen our connection, root out the weaknesses that lie within us all and improve ourselves.]
The other ka'armodo nodded slightly, to indicate his profound agreement.
Rassan'tep frowned.
They wanted to improve their bond? There were hundreds of ways to do that, as ka'armodo had done ever since they had first joined themselves with the Set'sulah. How was this any better?
[I do not believe it is necessary to engage in such a thing as this to hone the bond I share with my servants,] he said, a little stiffly.
[You don't want to play?] Holon'tep said. She flicked her eyes to his Set'sulah, causing Ammon'sil to stand straighter. [I can understand why.]
Rassan'tep's eye twitched.
[What do you mean by that remark?] he invited her to explain.
Holon'tep kept her expression and thoughts completely smooth.
[It seems obvious that if we were to compete against each other, you would not emerge the victor.]
She was saying he would lose? That he and his servants would lose?!
He saw red.
[Those,] he stated, eyes narrowing to an unseemly degree, [are fighting words.]
Holon'tep smiled an ever-so-slightly too-broad smile.
[When shall we play?] she challenged him.
-x-X-x-
Legends say that Horgran the Butcher is sustained by slaughter, that the fields of death left in his wake are all that he needs to survive. The Hatchet Cult are… difficult to work with, even for a group accustomed to affiliating with the deranged and demented. Glorifying acts of butchery, they certainly know how to serve a good steak, obsessing over meat to an entirely unhealthy degree.
The Ancient they deify has no such concern for the thing he cuts apart. Those who dream of Horgran are swept into a whirlwind of red-stained metal and hunks of flesh.
The Iron Sands now stand in the place where the Ancient rose to the surface. Even now, blood still stains the ground there. Perhaps it always will.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
The nameless one looked down on her handiwork, pleased with the result. This carver had been working in a mine for three days straight. Obsessed with removing and sorting ores, she had evolved and mutated herself almost exclusively for this purpose. As a result, she had become able to smell rare minerals and her mandibles became excavation tools without peer, capable of shearing through stone and scooping out the precious metals within. She even had glands that modified her acid to attack stone and leave other minerals behind.
Despite being so productive in her allotted shift, she had become addicted to unearthing metals, refusing to rest, ignoring food, driving herself to the point of exhaustion. Luckily the nameless had been able to seize her before it was too late.
Now, the carver rested, tucked into an ant-shaped bed, covered by a knitted blanket with an image of the Eldest snoozing stitched into the middle. Her carapace gleamed from the wax and polish. Her antennae sparkled after being combed and treated, the fine hairs cleaned and treated to remove dirt and harmful oils, then nourished with a lotion of nameless design. Under one leg, the carver held a small toy version of Solant, the general looking cool and composed as always.
After this, the carver would think twice before defying the will of the Eldest. The shame would burn within her for weeks, driving her back to the torpor chambers as regular as clockwork. Rested and clear-thinking, her work would improve, and perhaps she would eventually realise that the Eldest's way was the correct way.
Disturbing to think she hadn't been able to appreciate such an obvious thing from the moment she was born. It was… almost heretical.
Nevertheless, the nameless had finished her task and soon it would be her time to rest. First, she must report the completion of her work.
Moving through tunnels of pure darkness, she ran with ease, following the twists and turns without a single misstep as she navigated her way through the Sanctum.
When she eventually found her way to the antechamber, she approached the acolyte of duty.
The Eldest rests, she signed.
Eight hours a day, the acolyte signed back.
They performed the eightfold genuflection with proper reverence before moving on to discuss the matter at hand.
The sleepless stone miner is sleepless no more, the nameless reported, to which the acolyte nodded, pleased.
This is pleasing to the Shadow. That one shows great promise and dedication, but must learn to follow the wisdom that has been placed in front of her. You have done well.
The nameless one nodded, well satisfied with the completion of her task.
Is there another duty for me to complete before I take my rest? she signed.
There is a gathering of the nameless who have achieved your rank taking place in the seventh hour. I advise you to attend.
A meeting? The nameless were a ruthlessly organised group and held rigorous meetings at the beginning of every shift, identifying targets, exposing areas of weakness and planning their future expansion. After all, as the Colony grew, so too did the demands on the Sanctum. However, something like this was most unusual, not least because rank was almost never brought up amongst them.
I take it the Shadow has called this gathering? the nameless one signed.
Indeed, the acolyte signed back.
That would explain it. The Shadow rarely called for a gathering of the nameless, but when she did, it was always a portent of change. The last time this had happened was when the humans had been brought in for training.
I will be there, she signed before turning away and scurrying out of the antechamber, making way for the next of the nameless to make her report.
Back into the pitch black passages of the Sanctum she went, exchanging short, silent greetings with her sisters as she passed them. There were many within the passages today, but that was only to be expected. The fourth had grown extremely busy for the nameless as the Colony's presence continued to grow in the stratum, requiring more and more of her sisters to relocate here to keep up with demand.
Complacency grew quickly amongst her siblings, the nameless was sad to admit. If they were not diligent, then sleeplessness would spread throughout the nest like a disease. Despite her best attempts to focus on her duty, the nameless one couldn't help but wonder what it was the Shadow had in store for them. As the founder of the order and most devoted follower of the Eldest, her word was law to the nameless, so whatever it was she asked, they would do. She had never steered them wrong, after all.
Fortunately, the nameless did not have to wait long. With less than an hour before her own shift would end and she would go to rest, the meeting began. In a solemn room adjoining the grand resting chamber where the nameless took their torpor, a gathering of the oldest and most senior of the order took place.
In the centre, a pool of shadow and darkness so complete as to be invisible even to the eyes of those who lived in shadow, yet as bright as a sun to their sense of darkness, the Shadow awaited.
-x-X-x-
Many assume that Perrianon of Blood and Horgran the Butcher are more similar than they are. Horgran is, from what we know, a beast of unfathomable strength and appetite for death, a creature of endless violence. Perrianon is not obsessed with blood, or the spilling of it. Perrianon IS blood.
By the very nature of their existence, all things bleed in the presence of the Ancient, running like a river, filling depressions in the earth, forming lakes, even oceans. There is wisdom amongst the worshippers of Perrianon, for their knowledge of medicine is perhaps the most advanced in the entire Dungeon. None have better understood the needs of the body, and the secrets locked away in blood.
Perranon rose to the surface in the depths of an ocean, having little contact with the continents and the kingdoms that lived there. That didn't mean they were unaware. Legends tell of the 'blood tide', when the seas turned red for weeks at a time, dyeing the beaches the dark shade of clotted blood.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
Many in the order may not realise, but it was the Shadow herself who invented the silent language employed by the nameless, and it was in this manner that she communicated with them. Limbs dancing gracefully in the darkness, she called them to attention.
Thank you for gathering here, she signed. I hope your work has gone well, and I will not keep you from your rest for long.
Of course not. The nameless soundlessly clacked their mandibles to show their amusement. If the Shadow were to encourage them to break one of the Eldest's commands, they would eat their own antennae.
I have called this meeting to ask something of you, the Shadow continued, though it is not a command, but something you must decide amongst yourselves.
This was interesting… and different. The nameless had a very narrow focus, and they dedicated their all to it. Making decisions among them was a process almost entirely centered around how to better carry out their function, yet somehow the nameless felt that the Shadow was asking something different of them. Something new.
Recently, the nameless participated in the battle of the heart, helping to tip the balance against the FILTHY AND DISGUSTING… ahem. I apologise for that outburst. Tip the balance against the Krath and secure a great victory for the Colony. This was the first time you were ever called on to use your abilities in battle rather than to fulfil your purpose.
That was true. The circumstances had been unique, requiring the secret shadow techniques of the nameless in order to help rescue the Eldest. Of course she and her sisters were more than willing to help save the Eldest, no matter the cost, and it just so happened that in doing so, they had helped secure the heart and win the day for the Colony, which they were also happy with. When the mission had been completed, the nameless had gone back to their regular work, vanishing into the darkness and slipping back into their roles alongside the rest of the Colony.
It wasn't something they had ever thought they would have to do again, outside of another emergency.
I have thought long and hard about this, but I cannot deny how effective the nameless were in that battle. It feels that it would be a shame to deprive the Colony, and the Eldest, of your talents in this field, but it is not something I wish to command you to do. The Sanctum was created for one purpose only, and you have fulfilled that purpose admirably.
Rare praise from the Shadow, and the nameless felt themselves well up with pride. At the same time, they understood what she was asking of them. Would the nameless allow themselves to be drawn into more conflicts and battle on behalf of the Colony? She could already tell it didn't sit right with all of them. They had honed their skills in order to ensure the will of the Eldest was respected, not to fight.
It would be some time before they were able to come to a conclusion regarding this matter, the nameless one could already tell.
The second issue I must raise is the spread of the Sanctum amongst the non-ant population. After the first humans were made nameless, we have had others taken in by the nameless, and their numbers only continue to grow, the Shadow went on. So far, it has not been a problem, but it is becoming clear that some sort of standard procedures must be put in place to welcome and train these new members. It seems clear now that as we grow, the number of irregulars who join us will also grow. It is best that we be ready.
This was also sensible. The nameless looked amongst each other, nodding in agreement. So far, any non-ant who had joined the Sanctum had been inducted and trained in a very ad-hoc manner. The Brood Tenders amongst the nameless had protested vigorously, but it had seemed wasteful to try and create a full curriculum for only a few students.
Now it seemed as if 'a few students' would continue to balloon into 'a steady trickle of applicants', and from there, who knew?
With a few final gestures, the Shadow departed, leaving them behind, doubtless to return to the side of the Eldest and keep them safe. Left behind, the nameless signed amongst themselves, giving their initial thoughts and impressions about what had been discussed.
Tired and needing to rest, the nameless one excused herself and made her way to the grand resting chamber. After genuflecting, she gladly took her place on the waiting segment, letting her thoughts grow still as she wondered just what lay in store for the Sanctum of Sleep.
-x-X-x-
Alongside Carriflare, Kygar the Storm Bringer is agreed to most likely be an elemental that has reached the pinnacle of evolution. A creature of storm, lightning and wind, Kygar is a destructive entity by its nature, yet those who dream of the Ancient amongst the Cloud cult speak of the wisdom and temperament possessed by him.
Kygar is patient at times, boiling with fury at others. Like the skies he personifies, the Ancient is both friend and foe, clear and nourishing one day, an engine of destruction and chaos the next.
When he awakens, the site at which he rose is known to have arisen erupts with lightning storms, pillars of crackling energy rising into the sky and starting a season of hurricanes and storms that lasts for a year.
-Excerpt from 'Collective Wisdom of the Cults' by Granin Lazus
"I really wish you would stop contacting me to work for you," Cobalt grunted.
The nameless one began to sign, but the carver just waved it away.
"I don't understand your signs and I don't want to. I've barely been forgiven for betraying my sister, and it certainly doesn't look good that I keep getting pulled into your projects."
The nameless one cleaned her antennae.
"We don't require you to keep it a secret from her anymore. In fact, if you want to invite Tungstant to work on these projects with you, we would welcome her involvement."
Cobalt snapped her mandibles irritably.
"No thank you. Only one of us needs to be pulled into your murky schemes."
The nameless had developed a certain gesture, a tumbling of the antennae that they used to mimic a human rolling their eyes. She deployed it here.
"We are solely concerned with enforcing the edicts of the Eldest. Is that… a bad thing in your eyes?"
There was something to the nameless one's scent that caused alarm bells to ring in Cobalt's head.
"Not at all," she replied quickly. "We all love and respect the Eldest. Anyway, the work is pretty much done. It was… a little suspicious how quickly you were able to gather the necessary materials—but I'm not complaining! It's all… uh… done. I'm going home."
"We thank you for your expertise. Thanks to you, the design has come together beautifully. Also, I believe you have been working for fourteen hours now."
Cobalt froze.
"Why… why would you say that?"
"It's just an observation."
"How are you so sure it's been that long since I woke up?"
"... Do you want me to answer that question?"
"I do not."
"Enjoy your rest."
Again, Cobalt froze for a brief moment before she went on her way. She would be escorted through the secret tunnels and brought back to the regular side of the mountain fortress before too long, there to rejoin her sister who probably knew exactly where she'd been, but wouldn't mention it.
Turn off the lights, the nameless one signed.
With Cobalt gone, there was no longer any need to have the construction site illuminated; after all, every worker was one of the nameless. In a blink, everything was shrouded in darkness, just the way they liked it.
It would take a little time before this new area of the Sanctum was ritually made pure. There could be not the slightest hint of pheromones, not the tiniest glint of reflected light, nor any sound at all, and though the work was mostly done, it was too much to ask anyone to build in total silence.
Though they would, of course, do their best.
It hadn't been a small job, and as always, the construction had to be conducted in total secrecy. The new compound had been constructed adjoining the main Sanctum within the mountain nest in the fourth, a new space in which they would conduct the business the Shadow had given them.
In fact, if the nameless one wasn't mistaken, that work was now due to begin. After all, there was no time like the present.
Again, through the darkness the nameless one went, scuttling through the chambers and passages until she came to the deepest room, right in the heart of the new complex.
Therein, she saw them.
Youths. Human, golgari, Folk, brathian. All blindfolded, standing barefoot on the newly hewn floor, while the nameless watched over them. Orphans all, they had reached out to the nameless, and the nameless had responded. Brought from the territories of the Colony in the second and fourth strata, they had been adapted to the mana at this depth before they had been allowed to come here, within the Sanctum, to begin their education.
That is, of course, if they really wanted it. The Sanctum of Sleep would never force anyone to join their ranks, yet they would not turn anyone away who truly wished to serve.
The youths waited, silent and unmoving, feeling their surroundings, the air on their skin, the faint sounds in their ears. Despite the strange surroundings and conditions, they showed no fear, unmoved by the ants who moved around them, sending eddies through the air and brushing their antennae against their clothes.
A greeting, of sorts. Also a test. If one was not comfortable in the shadows, then this was not where they belonged. Yet the nameless had chosen well, or perhaps the children had, for they did not flinch, showing that they were indeed in the right place.
Hours ticked by until finally the nameless moved on to the next stage. Before long, the children were climbing up the walls, using the prepared footholds to hang from the horizontal bars set into the roof. Most didn't last long, falling onto the padding placed below. After a time of rest, they climbed again.
The nameless one watched it take place, the first training of these new nameless, and was struck once again by the wisdom of the Eldest. When they had spoken, the Eldest had said that all must rest eight hours a day, and the nameless one had believed that they had been speaking to the ants.
Now, she watched as many of the races of the world were inducted into the Sanctum of Sleep, and realised that her thinking had been too narrow.
ALL must rest eight hours a day. What she saw here, in this chamber, was just the beginning. Eventually, everyone would know the wisdom of the Eldest. Everyone.
It was just a matter of time.
-x-X-x-