The Starfighter Invitation

20 alt

Character creation is a time suck of epic proportions.

Disconcerting as I’d found the naked-me aspect of the Core Unit character creator, it had at least given me a starting point. Proving Ground offered me an empty room and no premade characters to use as a template, just a series of selection boxes and sliders.

The [Species] drop-down held only the not-a-species choice of [Humanoid], which produced a kind of skeletal stick-figure surrounded by a shadow suggestion of flesh.

I sat there, reading through the options, then decided I’d make Kaz, which was going to be an interesting process in itself. I’d played Kazerin Fel through half a dozen games, and he’d been Hume, Night Elf, Chiss, Sylvari, Miqo’te, and Rithari. All humanoid, and useful for fast, dextrous character classes, but I didn’t really have a set image of Kaz otherwise.

There were at least some details I could start with before worrying about the fine points. Where possible, Kaz was tall, fit, and on the skinny side. He’d been blue, green, even covered in fur, but I decided that when human he had black hair and light brown skin. I gave him strong, narrow hands, and lean features with an aquiline nose, then thought about things like claws and pointed ears, but in the end settled on making his eyebrows fine and sharply-slanting. The result was almost Fae: a touch of difference to fit a fantasy-themed game.

I hesitated at the [Reproductive Characteristics] options. It was easy enough to start by picking [Set 2], but MMOs usually didn’t give you genitals, and I’d never had to think about Kaz' penis size. I remembered Python-Bro, shuddered, and left Kaz at the default.

Then, because I’d already spent an hour of game-time making Kazerin Fel, I quickly entered his name and selected [Confirm].

Kaz disappeared, and my bodiless viewpoint shifted to the shadow of an arch of pale grey stone. On one side a massive door stood, barely visible in the bright contrast of sunlight and sky from the opposite direction. Scent—must and damp overlaid by a green note of sap—and the roar of water made their presence felt, but fell away as the camera zipped out into the sunlight, rising as it did so to give a rapidly diminishing view of a castle with a dominant central tower, surrounded by bridges and waterfalls. It receded into the distance, until only the sparkle of a purplish crystal at the top of the central tower marked its location from a distant point on top of a great circular wall.

My viewpoint paused atop the wall, then dropped rapidly down to a double ring of buildings at the outside base of the wall, and passed through a shingled roof to a basic bedroom, occupied by a sleeping and still naked Kazerin Fel.

The shadowed ceiling seemed to be painted with griffins. Blinking muzzily, I lifted a hand toward painted wings, but then looked at the hand instead. Long fingers, short nails, and skin a different tone than I was used to. I found myself glancing to my right, to find the source of that stranger’s hand, but I was alone, and those strong fingers belonged to me.

Sitting up, standing, taking tentative steps, all brought a sharp sense of dislocation. Much longer legs than I was used to, and the way stepping worked felt both looser and more constrained. And the [Reproductive Characteristics] were definitely a new experience.

My grand prestige adventure as Kazerin Fel started out with me briefly checking out his equipment, until the recollection that Dio watched my Challenges made me cringe. I looked around for some clothes instead.

The room—like the buildings I’d glimpsed—did not look particularly modern. There were no light fixtures: what light there was leaked through window shutters. Beside the bed was a small table, and a single chair over which was draped black, brown and cream clothing. The only other thing I could see in the room was a mat of braided straw, a door, and that shuttered window.

Forgetting the clothing, I opened the shutters wide, giving the occupants of a balcony opposite a fine view of my bare chest. I quickly stepped back, covering my pecs, and then laughed. Ridiculous!

The chuckle came out deep and unfamiliar, and I pushed the shutters closed before spending some quality time saying: "Kazerin Fel" and "Greetings" and anything else that came into my mind. My words, my way of speaking, but in the baritone register I’d chosen from the character creation options. Being a different variety of human was a bigger adjustment than being a cat had been.

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.

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?"

"My Cyke told me that, unless the description says otherwise, Challenges are always pain muted. That sounded nice and reassuring when I was signing up for this thing."

"Muted doesn’t necessarily mean none, right?"

"Even if it did, that guy was bitten in half. You’re gonna feel that." He lifted the sword he was carrying and looked at it dubiously, but then shrugged. "I ain’t backing down, but I’m def going to vet my next Challenge to skip any biting. And also ropes. They seriously expect us to just climb down this?"

"There’s a ladder over there," I said, pointing.

"Ace!" The player started off immediately, but glanced back to add: "Here’s a tip—not all the Challengers are players. Gotta remember to stay in character."

With a cheerful wave, he strode away. I looked back to the ground below. In my own body, I’d be reasonably confident with a rope climb so long as there was a wall to brace against, and Kaz’s sterling muscle tone should surely make the whole thing easier. Besides, if I wanted to win, I was going to have to take calculated risks. Not to mention the ladder was closer to the half-a-body than these ropes.

Dropping my spear down first, I hefted the rope, and just did it.

Kaz’s heart was pounding by the time I reached the bottom, and it was with tingling, sweating hands that I snatched up the spear. That had taken more concentration than I’d expected, for while Kaz had had grip strength to spare, he was heavier and the wrong size, and I wasn’t really used to these oversized arms and legs.

Wondering whether it would be a better strategy to create a very strong, fit version of me for these physical Challenges, I started off to the next wall. My plan was simple: move as quickly as I could while remaining quiet and alert, and hope for the best.

Low-level dread really puts a blemish on a nice woodland walk. The trip to the next wall involved gentle breezes, birdsong, a ton of interesting greenery, and rustling. So much rustling.

The few times I glimpsed the source of the sounds, it was a flash of something small and grey, departing rapidly. Rabbits, perhaps. Or hares. I took that idea as a good sign, and figured that if there were small animals around to run away from me, there likely wasn’t something larger about.

Having thought of that, I really should have noticed when the rustling and birdsong faded away. Distracted again by my recently-acquired balls, perhaps. In any case, that same silence made it possible to hear the merest hint of sound behind me.

I whirled, lifting the spear and slashing it in an only partly panicked arc. This proved to be a not-bad tactic, sending the fine specimen of fang and claws behind me dancing backward out of range.

Not anything from Earth, though the combination of limb length and fur colour reminded me oddly of a sloth. An upright sloth with a large, rounded head split by a Cheshire grin. Probably not bring enough to bite a person in half, but limb-severing seemed more than possible.

I jabbed the spear at it, hoping that the threat would send it scurrying, but it merely blinked at me, and then feinted in turn. I reacted to the snatching motion with a step back, spear-tip waving wildly, then hastily set my feet and firmed my grip.

The combat sloth bounded to my right—so quick!—and I whirled to try to meet it, but it had already leapt again, straight at me. I didn’t manage to orient the spear point-forward, but raised it across my face.

Combat sloth was around the size of a ten year-old child, but the impact still overset me. It raked at my stomach with its hind legs, the thickness of my clothing only partially protecting me. I’d be yelling about the sensation of being sliced if I wasn’t busy yelling from shock and fear and close proximity of teeth to my face.

The spear—and my arm—saved me having my face bitten off. Or perhaps my throat torn out. And the weight difference gave my flailing some purpose, allowing me to fling the thing off me. I floundered to my knees, the length of Kaz’s legs making grace impossible, and slashed futilely with the spear. Combat sloth danced easily out of reach, and then bounded to my left.

Fearing a repeat manoeuvre, I hurried to angle the shaft of the spear as a deterrent, grounding the heavy end beside my knee.

Combat sloth was not deterred, or perhaps had sprung before I managed to bring the spear up. I tried to turn, shifted barely far enough to glimpse the leap, and was slammed sideways, the spear wrenched out of my hold. Rolling, I tried to get to hands and knees as claws caught at my side.

The thing moaned. I was too busy scrabbling out of reach to process the sound immediately. When it was followed by a whimper I collected myself enough to glance back, and then my whole body went limp with relief. Combat sloth had speared itself in the stomach.

Wary of any recovery, I stayed poised to react, but the sloth showed no interest in me. It lay on its side, panting and fumbling at the shaft buried in its belly.

Stupid to feel awful for a thing that had been trying to gut me moments ago. But it was in pain, and I had done that to it—or it had done it to itself, and it wasn’t real, but anyway.

I grabbed the spear and pulled it out of the thing’s stomach, conjuring a whiff of bowel. Combat sloth writhed, clutching at the red-lipped slit and making a sound impossible not to compare to sobbing. Gritting my teeth, I moved the tip of the spear to the combat sloth’s throat, and pushed back down, forcing myself not to close my eyes until it had stopped moving.

Then I spent some quality time vomiting.

Feeling less than adventurous, I washed my mouth out, and put some distance between me and the body before examining the welts and scratches down my stomach and arms. They stung, and a few were leaking sluggishly, but weren’t dangerous—unless this supposedly pain-muted game offered up poison with a side-order of infection. I spared a little of my water on them, and walked on.

"Hey, hello," my ear tube whispered, almost before I heard someone away to my right. A red-headed man had called out, and the ear tube had translated.

I lifted my free hand in greeting. "Hi."

"What happened to you?"

"Uh, a local meat-eater."

"Following?" The man looked quickly back toward the outer wall.

"No." I lifted my spear, then felt embarrassed, as if I’d been boasting. "It’s not the only thing about, though."

"Too true. At least we’re nearly at the next wall: perhaps you could keep a watch to our left, and I’ll do the same to our right, and we’ll both remember to pay attention to things coming up behind us?"

"Sounds like a plan. I’m Kazerin."

"Faltor. Let’s get on—we’ll be far more vulnerable if it gets dark. And I’m already regretting my choice of weapons." He touched his hand to a series of knives sheathed in a kind of bandolier across his chest. "I can throw these things more or less accurately, but they’re not ideal for penetrating a thick hide."

We pressed on, postponing further conversation in favour of caution. The next wall loomed large ahead of us, surface picked out in light and shadow by the lowering sun. It was a multi-tiered structure, and I spotted arches to inner chambers—on the level a good eight metres above the ground.

There were no convenient stairs, ladders, or ropes, but the lowest tier was at least not perfectly smooth. Faltor and I, with a little boosting and hauling, managed it quite quickly, and this time I was glad of Kaz’s long limbs.

"The thing I saw could probably climb this too," I remarked, sitting on the edge to survey the way I had come, and the line of the great outer wall.

"The staging points are supposedly protected by the power of the place," Faltor said, checking over his knives. "Once we’re inside there’s water and food. Fruit trees, apparently, though what kind of condition they’re in left so long unattended I couldn’t guess."

"Feather beds and hot showers are unlikely as well, I guess," I said, sighing as I climbed to my feet. At least I’d be able to log out to get away from the stinging aches the combat sloth had left me.

The nearest arch was only a short walk away, and I started toward it, saying to Faltor as he followed: "The staging area isn’t necessarily just inside—there might be more to come."

"Yes."

He sounded short of breath, and I started to look back at him, then stumbled, pushed forward and a little upward by a blow to my back. Something twisted, and came free, and then Kaz’s long legs went away, and I dropped to my knees, then fell forward.

I didn’t manage a lot of coherent thought. Everything went grey and distant, and I didn’t even have the wherewithal to struggle, could only watch as a hand came into my fading field of vision, and lifted my spear away.