Keeping in line with the recent sports discussion a section of Fresser's Gourmet Guide to Glorantha discusses sporting events he witnessed during his travels.
My Dearest Felicitus,
How are you? It is funny that you should mention sports in your last letter. What was the context again? Oh yes, Moonson's decision to ban broo baiting. Hardly qualifies as a sport does it? What was the reason again? I believe it was the high incidence of disease related death among the spectators due to exposure to disease spirits. As I was saying it's funny you should mention sports. During my long exile from Glamour I have had many opportunities to observe local sports. Some were couth and refined, well as much as any sport can be, while others were pretty much indistinguishable from battle. The game known as Trollball springs to mind here. Although I was never much of a follower of sports back in Glamour I must admit to having developed a fondness for them in my exile, particularly when, as it usually is, gambling is involved. You might say that my peripatetic lifestyle is an advantage in this as my curse never allows me to be anywhere long enough to actually access the skill of local athletes or teams. More often than not I'm forced to flee a settlement with my creditors in hot pursuit. Fortunately since the pair of groratorans Moonson sent me as bodyguards have been attending me most pursuit has gone from hot to tepid or even cold. Unfortunately my name has become the proverbial mud in many betting communities. Of course I'm not likely to revisit any of them soon so time may erase some of those hostile memories. As I had written above I have witnessed a fair number of sporting or athletic events in the communities I have visited. Let me describe some of them to you.
In Jillaro of course horse racing is a sacred pastime. The Jillarens offend their more traditional minded Dara Happan neighbours by not only allowing female riders but also requiring them to race in the nude and bareback! This is of course in commemoration of the goddess Hwarin Dalthippan who legend tells us once raced her husband Ingkot Axe-and-a-Half in such a state of undress. I was told that females have an advantage over male riders that eunuchs might share. It is quite an exhilarating, and even erotic sight to see naked riders racing along the track urging their mighty steeds on. The Jillarens breed some of the finest and fastest horses to be found in all of Glorantha. While I was there the big excitement was that a Grazer youth had recently arrived to participate in the races. He had ridden an absolutely magnificent Goldeneyes horse up to the city's gates and demanded to participate. He claimed one of his people's great spirits had sent him to race for the glory of the Grazer nation. The talk around town was that he had almost balked when he learned that he would have to race in the nude but eventually he did race. And won easily. Unfortunately he didn't participate in the one race I saw. To this race I attribute my growing fondness of sporting events and unfortunately my new addiction to gambling as well. The race was exhilarating and much to my amazement I choose to place a wager on the winner. Purely by accident I assure you.
In Alkoth, this was years ago when I still had Moonson's favour, during one of His progressions I saw a footrace. Like everything associated with that vile place it was a pretty gruesome event. I can't recall exactly what the race commemorated, something about some primordial Alkothi hero who chased a foe around the circumference of the city in full armour. This foe was unarmoured and tradition has it that the hero managed to run him down and slay him while in full armour. Every decade I believe they hold a re-enactment of this event to honour one of their kings, can't remember which one, in which a captured enemy of the city is offered his freedom if he can beat a chosen Alkothi in such a race. The foe is allowed no weapons and can only wear a tunic while the chosen Alkothi is decked out in full armour and heavily armed. The unlucky foe has to run three times around the city and if he does this while eluding his pursuer he is given his freedom. This occurrence is considered to be a bad omen and brings shame on the House of the Alkothi hero. You would think that considering the sacred significance of this event that the Alkothi would half-starve and beat the selected foe but not them. I innocently asked one of our hosts that very question and he gave me a scathing look and explained that actually they put the selected foe through a vigorous training regimen to make sure that he is fleet of foot and in excellent physical condition. The day of the race was hot and humid, the foe was sleek, young and fit and the hero was your typical Alkothi, muscular, dark, brooding, bearded and armed to the teeth and wearing heavy scale armour. You know me and that despite my girth I am actually quite strong. Well I would not have wanted to wear all that metal, especially not in that heat. I sat with Moonson in a special stand erected for him and Moonson was given the honour of starting the race. The male inhabitants of the city were arranged in a ring around the city leaving a narrow space for the runners. Moonson dropped the sacred cloth traditionally striped in red, green and black and the race was on. The foe was allowed a head start that was counted out by one hundred beats on a huge drum said to be covered with the skin of a dead god. All you could hear were the slow beats of the drum and the sound of the runner's footsteps. Once the count of one hundred was reached the hero set off in pursuit with a howl. Once he had started running the crowd began howling and beating on shields with m aces or fists. I could just see the foe and he visibly faltered when this deafening uproar started. Then he came to his senses and redoubled his efforts. This looked to me to be a mistake as the hero was following him with slow steady strides. Apparently it is bad form to strike at the foe from behind as he passed the hero but this didn't stop the foe from slowing down so as to not pass him. One circuit and the hero was still running along sweat pouring off his body. The foe's face was frozen in a rictus of terror and I could tell already he wasn't going to make it. The howling and beating on shields seemed to visibly slow him. It may have been a magical effect or more likely it was simple terror. He made the second circumference and was almost finished the third one when the end came. He had just passed the review stand we were on with the finish line only meters away with no sign of the hero anywhere. The foe had a look of desperate unbelieving triumph on his face as he thought he was actually going to win his freedom when the crowd howled even louder than before. He turned to look behind him and screamed as he saw the hero come racing up. He visibly faltered losing precious seconds he couldn't spare before putting on a burst of speed. By then it was too late, the hero raced up behind him only centimeters from the finish line with a visible effort and crushed his skull with a single blow of his mace. The foe fell to the ground and after hitting him again to make sure he was dead the hero fell across his body, also dead. The crowd went wild and we learned later that this was a perfectly acceptable result. His House received as much glory as it would have had he survived.
Among the primitive Balazarings I was witness to an interesting game of skill. It involves a hoop, about the length of a grown man's arm across made of some flexible wood. This has four cross pieces that divide the area of the circle into nine areas of different sizes. The cross pieces bordering the different areas are coloured with daubs of different coloured paint and this hoop is rolled across a leveled area at various speeds. Balazarings of various ages then attempt to throw javelins or darts through the hoop. Contestants score different point totals depending on which area their missile goes through. They score additional points if they declare which area they are targeting beforehand. More points are scored the farther away you stand from the target or the faster it is rolling. I witnessed a master of the javelin hit her declared targets nine times out of ten at a range close to a javelin's maximum while it was rolling at considerable speed. My groratorans decided to show off by shooting arrows at the hoops but this only served to infuriate the Balazarings as they do not use bows in this contest. It took all my diplomatic abilities to defuse the situation.
While in Sartar I found myself among a fugitive colony of durulz, or as they are more vulgarly referred to, ducks. These fugitives from Lunar vengeance were all set to kill me as a spy when I informed them that I was in exile and not about to attempt currying favour by turning them in. I managed to relax them enough for them to allow me to stay among them for the two days I can remain anywhere. They seem an inherently comical race but the bounty put on their heads by the occupying Lunar administration has made them more tragicomical. Despite their woes I observed their young engaged in some sort of water sport played with a ball by two teams. Teams scored points for getting the ball into the opposing team's floating goal. As much of the action took place underwater I missed most of the excitement. They also told me that they played a game using large rounded stones on the ice in the winter time which involved sliding these stones along the ice into a target. They also play another team game on the ice with sticks and a small log cross-section which involves a lot of fighting and something called "slap-shooting". Both of these sports remain very hard for me to visualize.
I also observed some human Sartarites playing a team sport which used sticks something like a shepherd's crook with nets on the end with the crook. Played on a large cleared fallow field two teams competed to throw a small ball into the opposing team's goal, two posts with a cross piece hung with a net, using their sticks. The exciting part of this contest was that many of the players could fly. Apparently there are very complicated rules governing where you can and cannot fly as well as how high. The goalie for example is not allowed to fly at all and must use his stick to defend with. The players were not adverse to using their sticks on opponents.either and at times the game looked more like a battle. Followers of Belvara, an aspect of Ernalda dedicated to healing, look after the contenders as followers of Chalana Arroy apparently refuse to get involved in such frivolity. At least a half dozen players in the game I witnessed had to seek the services of a healer.
Finally I must tell you about a game I saw played in Prax by two tribes of baboons. These are sentient beings who are much larger than normal baboons. The two tribes had met at a waterhole I had stopped at. They disagreed about who should get possession of the waterhole, oddly there were no natives present. After much posturing, chest beating and whooping these simians finally decided to play a game whose name I cannot transcribe. Something like Baaroosh? Anyway this game involved the carcass of a young impala the baboons slew just for this purpose. An old baboon shaman traced out a large circle many paces across and the males of the two tribes formed into two teams facing across the circle from each other. At a signal from the two leading shamans the two teams began fighting and wrestling for possession of the impala. They were allowed to punch and gouge but they couldn't use their teeth for anything but carrying the impala. Nor could they swallow the carcass. Any winning piece had to be limb, head or torso sized at least. Whenever one of them managed to grab hold of the impala they would attempt to drag it across the circle. Their team mates would try and block the opposing players while the opposing team fought for possession. All the while the females, young and elders of the tribes would jump and howl for their tribes members. After a lengthy and bloody contest one team finally managed to drag part of a leg off the field and the other tribe was forced to tuck their stubby tails between their legs, pick up their possession and slink off into the desert.
Truly a wondrous world we live in, Felicitus.
I hope this missive finds you well.
Yours,
Fresser.
Oliver
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