10-10-2015, 07:04 PM
Blitzball; what else would such a monolithic structure be created for?
Wakka saw the top of the stone arena, barely jutting out beyond the sloping landscape of short grass ahead. Eight—or nine—flags (Wakka didn’t actually take the time to count) highlighted the top of the circular amphitheater; all of them donned the same colors, which the Blitzballer presumed represented whatever realm he was in.
He harbored some remorse about abandoning Eileene, but like a leaf caught in a gust, the exhilaration of his old pastime simply carried him away; before he knew it, he was roaming the proximity of the stadium, pedaling his way through pedestrian traffic.
“Do you have what it takes to compete!? “ a man yelled from one of the commissary booths lined against the stadium’s exterior. His voice was raspy, and cracked, but he had the face of a man clinging onto middle-age.
Wakka stopped in his tracks. “You talking to me?” he asked, walking over to the booth.
“You have what it takes?” he repeated; a grin of jagged teeth opened up under his salt-and-pepper mustache.
Did he not see the sack Wakka carried over his shoulder? Or the emblem printed on his shoulder guard? Of course he balled. Best in Besaid.
Wakka chuckled. “The competition legit, ya?”
The man’s grin strengthened. “Oh, yes! Absolutely. Finest ‘cross the land.”
“What’s the teams?” Wakka questioned; unless this was a high-stake, pick-up game practice time and preparation were necessary. Even for someone as skilled as Wakka.
“No teams. Just tournament style.”
The Blitzballer furrowed a brow. “One-on-one, ya?” It had been a long time since he divulged head-to-head competition (and never in a stadium), but agreed: “I’m in.”
Wakka saw the top of the stone arena, barely jutting out beyond the sloping landscape of short grass ahead. Eight—or nine—flags (Wakka didn’t actually take the time to count) highlighted the top of the circular amphitheater; all of them donned the same colors, which the Blitzballer presumed represented whatever realm he was in.
He harbored some remorse about abandoning Eileene, but like a leaf caught in a gust, the exhilaration of his old pastime simply carried him away; before he knew it, he was roaming the proximity of the stadium, pedaling his way through pedestrian traffic.
“Do you have what it takes to compete!? “ a man yelled from one of the commissary booths lined against the stadium’s exterior. His voice was raspy, and cracked, but he had the face of a man clinging onto middle-age.
Wakka stopped in his tracks. “You talking to me?” he asked, walking over to the booth.
“You have what it takes?” he repeated; a grin of jagged teeth opened up under his salt-and-pepper mustache.
Did he not see the sack Wakka carried over his shoulder? Or the emblem printed on his shoulder guard? Of course he balled. Best in Besaid.
Wakka chuckled. “The competition legit, ya?”
The man’s grin strengthened. “Oh, yes! Absolutely. Finest ‘cross the land.”
“What’s the teams?” Wakka questioned; unless this was a high-stake, pick-up game practice time and preparation were necessary. Even for someone as skilled as Wakka.
“No teams. Just tournament style.”
The Blitzballer furrowed a brow. “One-on-one, ya?” It had been a long time since he divulged head-to-head competition (and never in a stadium), but agreed: “I’m in.”