Feb 8
From small quercons | Part Three: the last scratch.
Important news reaches our diarist, which could set off an intriguing turn of events.
ICYMI read “Part Two: more than a competition” here.
A tinny bell rings as the door slides open, letting the dust and bustle plume in.
“Hey hey!” a small mountain of fur and feathers chortles a greeting. “You’re overdue a visit; good to see you, Ayb.”
“Watcha, Bolby.” Our diary keeper pushes and slides the door back with a thunk, sealing the noise and heat outside. “Yer oughtta get that door fixed ya naw, Bolby. It can’t be good for bizzo.”
“Ach, business is just fine. You know I run a special establishment here. Curated clientele only. It takes something to be a noted patron of my wears. I can’t just be letting anyone into the esoteric secrets of Serra’s flora … Besides, there’s too much feasting to be done to be working too much!”
With that, Bolby chuckles, jumps, and seamlessly slumps into a ginormous cushion-chair on the floor. The edges puff out and wrap around Bolby as best they can, making rustling and crinkling noises as he wriggles into position. His extensive, flocculent outline now practically fills the width of a corridor leading to some doors further down. Shelves and cabinets fill the walls. Containers of all shapes, sizes, and colors fill the racks and sit on any spare surface.
A grin stretches across his fuzzy face to reveal his glinting, razor-sharp teeth. Usually, teeth like these would promote a gulp in most Serrans, but on Bolby, they seem to signal no harm.
“Do you want some tea? I’ve got a new teapot I want to try out.”
“Sure, I can take a little break from studying. Thanks.”
“Studying? Did you go back to school? I didn’t have you down as a dedicated follower of academia.”
“Ha. I am dedicated, Bolby, dedicated to the pursuit of glory in the Grand Tournament. That’s what this readdo is all about.”
Seemingly prophetically, a beam of light cuts in through the dust from outside and glints off the one unblemished corner of the small, blue-chrome device Ayb is gesturing with.
The thin, rectangular device has seen better days and many other days since. Scratches, dints, and dirt cover the frame. There’s a small crack in the holographic projection unit. It is fortunately small enough that only certain parts of specific projections become unreadable when in use.
“Well,” Bolby booms as he pulls his hugely huggable frame upright and heads to one of the doors down the corridor. “I’ll be honest,” he shouts from inside the first door, “I thought you’d found that thing on the street just now and were on your way to a scrappanic with it.”
“I mean, granted, it’s a bit beat up…”
Bolby pops his head back out of the door.
Despite rattling around in the back, he senses a self-conscious air beginning to dominate in the front of the shop. He emerges purposefully with an ornate, red teapot under his wing.
“Self-improvement comes in many guises, of course. Yet, never must you regard study as a duty but as an enviable opportunity to learn to know the liberating influence of beauty in the realm of the spirit for your own personal joy. And to the profit of the community to which your later works belong.” Bolby places the teapot on the counter and takes a step back. “That community, my friend, will be the whole of Serra. Every, single, hextrict. Every, single, Serran. Think on that. And to the tundra with anyone stuck up enough to care that much about material possessions, what gear you need, or the like.”
“It’s not as simple as that, though, is it? Us lot, we can’t just snappy-snap our digits.”
“But it is, though: food, drink, family, and friends. That is all we need.” Bolby’s pyramidal ears twitch a little, and he casts a brief glance out the window, “I miss the mothers and their festivities.”
“Listen, canna jus grab my granna’s dose and give the tea a skip for now?”
“Sure, friend. Not a problem. I’ll just need a minute to put it together, of course. How has she been keeping?”
Bolby starts gathering various vessels, pots, and bottles together from behind, under, and over the counter area. He works quickly and directly, pausing only to briefly sniff a few ingredients before eye-balling the measures into a single jar.
All of a sudden, the worn device flickers unprompted into action and projects its holographic display of information into the room just above the countertop. The information scrolls and skips wildly through pages of information and images; military history, blueprints, schematics, biographical information, and much more text besides.
“Wuza! Ah!” And with a thwack on the counter, the holo-display zips closed. “Hmpf.”
“Well then.” Bolby curls a smile. “You have been working hard. From what I could see there, you’ve managed to source all kinds of material. Some of that I have no idea what it is.”
“As I said, I’m…we are dedicated to the Grand Tournament.”
“I see that now. And I wasn’t going to share this information. It’s not because I didn’t want to; it’s just I’m not sure how accurate it is.” Bolby quickly peers out the window and scans the empty shop. “And I wouldn’t want to spread any misinformation and upset anyone.”
“What? Tell me what ya talking about before ya lose me in yer words.”
“It’s just a rumor. A fanciful half-truth floating on the wind. But. Rumour is. A prototype of the Personal Command Modules for the Grand Tournament is being rolled out soon. I don’t really know what this means or how it will affect Serrans. It’s worth considering that if I were someone as dedicated to competing in the Grand Tournament as some Serrans are, I would be doing my utmost to get involved in that testing.”
“What?!” A shrilling voice exclaimed. Ayb felt their heart begin to race with possibilities. They immediately felt more alert, more alive. “Where did ya hear this?!”
“I told you; just a little tattle rattling around the alleyway, a little bird song floating on the breeze. You know me. I talk to people and keep my ear to the ground. You probably shouldn’t trust something so third-hand, though.”
“B-b-but, ya must have more ya can tell me?”
“Not really. What’s more to tell?”
“Who do I speak to? Where should I go? When will it happen? What does it mean?” The words spill out in a hurry until they start merging into a lumpy mess. “Who will have access? How will it work? What does this mean for the start? Wh-Wh-Wh- H- …” The words were falling over themselves to be the first out of their mouth. Finally, the thought processes in their racing mind overtook the breath available to them in their lungs, stuttering them into a gasping silence.
Ayb is clearly thrilled and bemused at the same time. Trying to catch some air while calming their ricocheting thoughts. Their hands jitter, and their pulse pumps. They don’t know where to look. They are still trying to process the thought of actually being able to start competing, at least on some level, and albeit on a prototype system. But any practice will help deepen their knowledge and hone their skills.
Determination starts to flood their body. They are clenching their fists, turning their knuckles paler and paler.
Plonk.
Bolby puts a smooth, opaque, sealed capsule on the counter.
“I know someone as dedicated as you will figure it out.” Bolby paused, “not the capsule, of course; that’s for your gran. But the other stuff, about the Grand Tournament.”
“Humm. Yerr.” They silently waved their wrist over the payment sensor, pocket the capsule, and heave-slide the door open.
Outside, the market is bustling.
A crowded, chaotic maze of vendors and shoppers. The stalls and shops loom high on all sides, casting a patchwork of shadows across the congested square. The dust is kicked up so much that it forms a subtle, flowing pink mist floating around everything.
In the middle of the frantic mess, the higgledy-piggledy stalls make some room for a circular raised platform. A small band plays on it, adding a smooth soundtrack to the chatter and patter of the scene. Directly above the band, suspended a storey or two into the blushing air, a glitching pale blue and grey projection plays a silent film about love, loss, and revenge.
The open fires and grills glow and sizzle, adding to the heat and dust. Smells of different searing foods and roasted spices radiate out, wafting and weaving through the noise. To eat at the plethora of food and drink stalls would keep most Serrans full for weeks, and the variety would mean they would rarely have the same meal twice.
Groups of younger Serrans collect around their favorite snack bar to eat and chat. The odd dedicated seating area punctuates the shops, stalls, and stands. A mix of shapes and sizes: higher and lower, wider and narrower, large and small, all exist to accommodate most Serran body types as they mix together to trade stories, gossip, and laughs.
Ayb ventures forth, head down, muttering. Their pupils flit from side to side. They watch as one foot after the other sweeps forward through the dusty, pale-fuchsia ground beneath them. The occasional bump into another crowded Serran does nothing to deviate the arrowed march. A few Serrans emptily shout back in annoyance.
They ponder the opportunity to study with a prototype Personal Command Module that would take their training to the next level. It would help inform the rest of the family and their progressing roles in the team too. Starting early, ahead of many other competitors, would undoubtedly give them an advantage in the short term. Of course, many talented Serrans will quickly catch up, but if there is a marginal gain to be found, it is worth exploring.
Thud.
Ayb’s right shoulder feels a jolt and is instantly stopped in motion, set in stone. The shoulder is hanging mid-air as the rest of their body continues on, pushed by the velocity of their stride. The forward momentum quickly gives way under the pressure of the collision to a more pivoting trajectory, upward and to the right. Their whole body is now shifting, the right shoulder is loosened from its invisible restraint, and gravity begins to yank it down. The scuffed-up device has released itself from their left hand and is in the process of being slingshotted upward as their left arm is cast high alongside it. They see their foot in line with the backs of the people in front, it continues its curious rise towards the shoulders, then the heads. A powder of pink clouds up from the ground as they feel, for the briefest of moments at least, like they are in suspended animation entirely above the ground.
Thump.
In a flash, they hit the dust in a crumpled heap. Legs twisted over each other. Half their face covered in reddish-pink dirt and sand. Arms both flailing and trapped at the same time. Ribs crunching. Hip aching. Lungs wheezing. They catch a glimpse from the corner of their eye. The blue-grey reading device. Spinning, casting a lonely contrast against the hazy sky.
Clunk.
The device lands with a crunch just beside them. This could be the last scratch it can take.
“Watch yourself!” A sleek figure stands peering over the groaning body.
Who are we?
Our vision at Calystral is to unleash the potential of gamers. We are focusing on building games where the time and effort put in is rewarded with real value. Enhancing the players’ experience and empowering gamers to achieve more. In the process, we strive to overcome the technical limitations of Blockchain Technology and use its benefits to lift games to the next level. We would love to share these solutions with the community and other developers. Towards a better future of Gaming!
________________________________________
Join our journey:
