But it was time to stop being amazed by myself, and go off to be amazing. Or, very likely, die trying. First step, again, was getting dressed.
Other than a pair of worn but polished boots, the clothing seemed to be new. Loose trousers, a shirt, and a sleeveless, thigh-length jacket or coat, all in a cloth so thick it approached canvas. Long knitted socks, and a pair of loose underpants with strings to hold them about the waist and thighs, and a beribboned flap at the front to remind me that my [Reproductive Characteristics] would let me pee standing up.
The last item in the clothing pile was particularly odd. A flexible strip of leather formed into a circle, and only recently stitched together by the looks of it. A narrow oval of silver and a little brass tube were attached to the leather circle, and I could not for the life of me work out what this was for until I spotted a tiny picture of an ear etched into the tube. I checked the silver oval, and found an etched eye.
Okay, some kind of headgear? I crowned myself cautiously, arranging tube and oval over ear and eye respectively, but there was no obvious change, except a rising sensation of foolishness. I opened the shutters again—finding the balcony opposite empty this time—and gazed down at the street to see whether anyone else was wearing leather headbands.
There were plenty of people about, and most of them dressed a good deal more colourfully than I was. Bright blues and yellows, soft pinks and pale greens. The only circlets were made of flowers, and I guessed that this was festival garb.
All the colour brought into focus a woman dressed in the same black, brown and cream as me, and—yes—wearing a leather headband with incongruous attachments. She caused a little ripple as she walked along the curving street, with people turning to study her, or point, or occasionally wave.
As she passed by my window, I heard a woman below say something in another language, the tone of voice obviously encouraging.
"Best of luck, Challenger!" whispered the tube in my ear.
I did my best imitation of a scalded cat, leaping sideways, and then falling over, because Kaz’s legs took some getting used to. I sat rubbing a bruised knee and hoped that I adjusted to my size before I had to do anything more important than get dressed.
After double-checking the room in case I’d missed anything important, I bravely opened the door and followed a bland corridor to a stair down. Here a man sitting behind a table nodded at me, and spoke incomprehensibly.
"Had your rest, Challenger?" whispered the brass tube resting against my ear. "Best of luck to you then. Left out of the main door here, and you can’t miss the nearest stair up."
"Thank you," I replied, and nodded briefly to emphasise the words, since the man wasn’t wearing one of the headbands.
Outside, people Looked at me, and smiled, or whispered to each other, or helpfully pointed further down the street, while I discovered that I was Tall. I’d chosen that, of course, but it was such a strange sensation to walk between little clusters of people and not feel in danger of an elbow to the face. My new plumbing was also a source of mild distraction, although thankfully in a non-reactive way.
The tube whispered words of encouragement, and I smiled in acknowledgement, before wondering how much roleplaying I wanted to get into. Would Kaz smile his thanks? Or was he the sort to stalk along, grim-faced, with neither reason nor inclination to offer up a quick, placating smile?
Did I even want Kaz to be anyone other than Taia wearing a bodysuit?
A painted canvas rescued me from existential analysis, and the function of the silver oval became clear as two images in the familiar Latin alphabet superimposed themselves over the bright blue strokes of an unknown script.
Tederan
Commencement
I wondered if Ryzonart had invented an entire language for the game, and why they didn’t just have all the signs read in whatever language players, had selected during setup. A new language might add to the sense of being in a different place, but it would make conversation-focused Challenges a good deal more difficult.
The sign was strung up above a pavilion-sized tent. Beyond the tent a stair ran sideways up the wall I’d seen in the opening cutscene. That looked even bigger from down below, at least four stories fashioned from enormous blocks of the palest yellow stone, all fit so precisely together there didn’t seem to be any need for mortar.
Not comfortable with the continued attention of the crowd, I strode briskly to the tent, noticing that two of those clustered around its entrance were wearing the same headband arrangement as mine, although they were dressed in the festival colours.
"Good morning," I said, experimentally.
A short woman with tiny pink flowers tucked into her cloud of brown hair smiled back at me, and spoke in words I didn’t understand.
"Almost good afternoon, Challenger!" whispered my earpiece. "Are you ready to choose your weapon?"
"I am," I replied, gravely.
She stepped aside, gesturing me into the tent, which was impressively stocked with an array of blades, bows and blunt instruments. No firearms, which didn’t surprise me, and it wasn’t as if I’d ever used a gun any more than anything else here. I hadn’t even studied martial arts in order to live up to stereotypes.
I picked up a spear that had parts of the shaft wrapped in leather, testing my grip. Having a staff almost as tall as Kaz, one end pointy, the other bound with iron, could be useful for more than combat.
"This will do," I told the woman, who smiled and handed me a satchel made of a coarse cloth.
"A water flask, and a little dried food," the translator told me. "While there is meant to be sufficient forage in the Proving Ground, it never hurts to have some certainty."
"Thank you," I said, following her as she led the way back out of the tent. In response she gestured toward the base of the nearby stair.
"Luck to you, Challenger. You must reach the next staging area before midnight."
I nodded, and set out, wondering at what point the game concluded after a new ruler was found, and if the winner would get to come back for celebrations and political machination.
Feeling entirely conspicuous, I slipped the satchel’s strap over my head and climbed the enormously tall stair. My palms were sweating, which I found very strange, since I didn’t usually get sweaty hands. Kaz must, even though Kaz hadn’t ever physically existed before just now. Were sweaty palms were a randomly generated attribute, or had I somehow made a choice to have them?
Reaching the top of the wall—a seemingly endless crenelated path, with a barely visible curve—I had my second view out over the concentric rings of the Proving Ground. I couldn’t even see the central castle—only a suggestion of a purple glint—and tried to estimate how long it would take to walk, what kind of obstacles were in the way, and the best route to getting there. No stairs down, but there were a few knotted ropes, and off to my right a rope ladder descending to a patchy woodland. Another wall, lower than this one, rose just above the trees, maybe a kilometre away. The next staging area.
It would look to be a straightforward walk, if not for the body. I could just see him, a man in the uniform of the Challengers, in the direction of the ladder. Well, the top half of him, anyway. A streak of blood and entrails suggested the direction where the rest of him might be found.
"Fuck-ing hell," said someone to my left.
I glanced at a powerfully-built man with a vertical shock of black hair, and fantastic spirals of emerald apparently etched into deep brown skin. "Not keen to be eaten?"