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[Banickle]

The Forty-Seventh Day of Spring, Five Hundred and Thirteen Years After the Valterrian

[Banickle]

Fame! Glory! And a petching glass trophy with the title of Champion engraved upon it! These were the things that were at stake on this particular day of the Form and Fitness Festival, and every last competitor, currently gathered around the base of the gleaming marble stage in the center of Gideon's Arena, knew it to be true as they gazed out upon the thousands of adoring attendees! It was the third and final day of the festival. The health-centric demonstrations of the last few days were slowly winding down, just as the oft-contested powerlifting bouts were nearly put to rest. The results of those particular proceedings would be announced - gods willing - at the awards ceremony in a few bells time. However, right here, right now, the event that most were eagerly awaiting - some, since the twelfth bell on the very first day - was finally here! As hundreds of perfectly-sculpted, overly-oiled, scantily-clad specimens readied themselves, the Master of Ceremonies, Champion Aerus Thre, took to the stage. He would spend the next ten - perhaps twenty, maybe even thirty - chimes reviewing the rules and regulations of the event. Most in attendance already knew what was to come, however, there were always those naïve young bloods, as well as the fresh-faced foreigners who needed a review. So be it. It gave the professionals a little more time to primp and pump. Every chime counted at this point, for these last few sets could easily mean the difference between coming in first or four-hundred and fortieth. So, as Aerus rattled on, so did the slate and steel plates of the body builders equipment. Even now, just moments away from taking the stage, many of the competitors worked their physiques as hard as they could, pushing their bodies to the limit, but leaving just enough time to cool down for their matches. There was nothing worse than passing out just as the posedown began. It had happened in the past and, more than likely, would happen again today, but, to be perfectly honest, it made for a far more compelling competition, as fan favorites literally toppled themselves, having suffered from a lack of restraint, as well as air to the brain. But this was the Form and Fitness Festival at its best! This was what kept the crowds coming back for more! Fame! Glory! And Akalak males, being Akalak males, in nothing more than a leather thong!

[Vanator]

The Drykas surveyed the competitors around him. Akalak with a smattering of others, all preening like teenage girls to primp and pump themselves up to unnatural hunkiness. Vanator's gaze darted back to the two other Drykas men, his eyes accusing, wondering how he let them talk him into this competition. He felt ridiculous. Part of Vanator's role at Sanctuary was to help the staff maintain physical fitness, so he was compelled to keep his body in shape as an example, and, for his age, the broad-shouldered Denusk's body was in very good form. But this was almost maniacal. One could identify those Riverians for whom this was an obsession, hulking masses of statuesque physiques somehow inflated to almost grotesque proportions.

Vanator had refused the slathering of oil until Earak, one of the 'fitness-freak' Drykas insisted that he would be the one to look silly without it. The younger, leaner Drykas handed Van a dumbell. "A few more curls, Van." The older horseman rolled his eyes and complied, working a little more pump into each bicep. Van had gone through a specialized workout earlier in an attempt to get his muscles primed and bulging for the competition. Van had been impressed when the exercises were done, the thick knotted, vein-laced muscles of his upper body and arms cut and defined, biceps and triceps, shoulders and pecs and even the ripples of his abdomen more visible and rigid. His legs, too, showed more contour in the strong muscles wrapped around his thighs and calves, all now glistening with a coating of fine oil.

After performing a few repetitions of lifting the dumbell overhead to touch off his triceps, Van dropped the heavy implement. "I am as big as I am going to get Earak!" Van craned his neck to the side, the vertebrae popping as he did. The Denusk chose to wear a gree loin cloth, similar to what the Drykas wore on the hottest days. It was sufficient to cover his loins and his arse, for the most part, but left his hips exposed.

"I will find a way to repay you for this." Van play snarled at his companion. "Just remember what I told you to do when you get up there." Earak replied with an ornery grin.

[Banickle]

Every year, the coordinators of the festival select a new artistic director in an effort to keep the show fresh and compelling, for there is truly nothing worse than watching hundreds of pumped up competitors simply strut across the stage, one at a time, for hours on end. That was how the first festival went down, many years ago, and, as a result, the attendance the following year was far from spectacular, for fear that it would be the same boring show. No matter how diehard of a fan you are in the physical form, there comes a moment when enough muscle is actually enough muscle. There is only so much flexing - and grunting - an audience can take before the competitors start to look - and sound - very much the same. Therefore, since that second lackluster year, each director has done their best to take the competition in a new and exciting direction. Who could forget the year the competitors were painted to look like marble statues? There was also the year that they were asked to appear in the buff. Now that was a memorable show. However, there was also the year that the director thought it would be a good idea to have the competitors mimic the gods and goddesses. To this day, patrons are still debating whether or not the bolt of lightening that nearly destroyed the stage was a mere coincidence or a targeted response from the deities themselves. This years theme, loosely nicknamed We Shall Overcome, came about, in part, because of the Djed Storms of 512. The current director felt it was the perfect place and time to show just how resilient the people of Mizahar are through the most challenging of times. So with drums rumbling and cymbals clashing, the epic battle of man versus nature was underway. The first group of competitors to enter the stage, were members of the lightweight class. Mostly a mix of humans and sub-humans, a handful of Akalak youths were presented as well. As the group moved across the stage with prop spears and shields in hand, pretending to be a scouting team surveying the Sea of Grass, the faux storm gradually grew in its intensity. Fighting to maintain their footing, the competitors worked their way across the stage, flexing and posing and pushing their physiques to the limit against the forces of nature. This went on for roughly thirty chimes, until the party finally completed its journey from one end of the stage to the other. Next up would be the middleweight class - Vanator's class - who would demonstrate to the audience the precautions taken to secure the city of Riverfall. Sizable slabs of stone and satchels of sand would be this groups props, giving them just a little something extra to show off their strength and form. What the men did with these tools was entirely up to them, as long as they showed off their muscles in an artistic fashion and remained within the framework of the story being told. "Ya ready, old man?" Earak questioned Vanator as he hefted a rather large sack over his left shoulder. "It's time to show 'em what we got!" he beamed as he made his way for the stage.

[Vanator]

Vanator shot the younger Drykas man a mock scowl, which melted into a grin and a wink. He looked at the props set up near the back steps to the stage, watching other humans and a few young Akalak about his size grabbing up sand bags and hunks of rock. Van selected a sizeable stone slab. He could give Sanctuary credit for the strength required to lift it. There had been many stone blocks and beams of wood lifted over the past few seasons as the facility's repairs and construction continued. Bending at his knees, Vanator gripped the slab at either end, lifting it with a short huff.

"Step out of the way boy, and let this old man show you how its done." He joked in a strained voice, having to laugh at himself. The veteran Drykas carried the flat rock up the steps and out onto the stage to join the others in his class. Finding an open space, Vanator spread his feet apart, a bit wider than shoulder length. He was holding the stone in front of him, his glistening shoulders and arms already bulging with the weight. Van tightened his stomach, bent his knees slightly, then with a blast of a breath he heaved the stone up, ducked his head under it, and rested it across his broad shoulders.

The slab steadied, balanced across his back, Vanator bent slightly under its weight. His thighs bulged as the pillars of his legs were firmly planted. Then, after a few deep breaths, Van attempted to lift the slab over his head. The stone wavered, the Drykas not quite getting the balance, and he had to lower it back across his shoulders. Gritting his teeth, he checked is grip on the slab, then tried to hoist it up again. Van stood up straight, the large rock hovered over his head, the musculature of his forearms, upper arms and torso popped out in chiseled contours as the man breath out it short, strong bursts. His arms began to quiver, and the Drykas lowered the stone carefully, allowing it to drop the last several inches. When it hit the stage floor, is split in two.

Looking around, Van saw the others still posing with their props. Peering down at the broken slab, he got an idea.