The Festival of Four Corners (Titho, B.G. Tempos)

[mechacake]

11:09 AM, Left Village

Beck placed the 1000 Belli note onto the surface of the table, and the festival official handed him a Den Den Mushi, complete with the mark of the festival on it's shell. Upon looking back, all Beck could see was the long queue of entrants behind him- the pirate directly behind Beck gave him an annoyed glare.

"Yer all set, sir! Feel free to grab some of the free food an' booze to entrants, and the festival will begin at exactly noon today, so you got somethin' like an hour to eat an' drink yer fill. Ya'll will get another run-down of the rules before the contest starts, but we'll keep ya updated via Den Den Mushi on who's got the pieces! Any questions?"

"Ah, no but-"

"Goodbye and good luck now!"

Bacardi was pushed off the queue by the impatient man behind him. As Bacardi grunted in annoyance he was given a much more angrier look from the man who'd pushed him, which he didn't meet. Frankly, it didn't seem worth the time to even bother with this guy.

Bacardi headed to the large tent just by the registration queue. Laughter, singing, and excited energy filled every corner of the area, as the long wooden tables were filled with plates and platters of delicious cuisine from all of the Blues. Crews of pirates stuffed themselves with meat and fueled themselves with tankards of grog.

Being something of a connoisseur, Bacardi immediately eyed the bars at each end of the tented area, and made his way to the closest one.

"Hi, do you have a whiskey or a good wine or a-"

The bald, oafish man behind the bar spoke in a low voice.

"We got beer, grog or mead."

"You don't even have a-"

"We got beer, grog or mead, sir."

Bacardi sighed.

"I'll take a mead."

"Very well, sir," said the man as he filled a tankard with the mead, which Beck then begrudgingly sipped.

"You don't even have rum? We're pirates for god's sake!"

Just as he was about to leave the bar, Bacardi noticed something at his feet- an oddly decorated flute...

[pepsi]

-- CHAPTER 1 // THE FESTIVAL OF FOUR CORNERS

He enjoyed all the chanting, all the singing, and he didn't feel sleepy at all. Humans around those shores were all so happy, and cheery; it reminded him of his homeland. Spying every once in a while, he'd listen to the songs, try to memorize for the future, and go back inside.
His flute had been sitting on that stool for quite a while now; an empty beer mug, in correspondance with the stool, was the only evidence that someone had been sitting there at some point but was nowhere to be found. One man, trying to reach his buddies and bring them yet another round of beer, bumped against the stool; the flute shot clean off the thing, landing at the feet of the first person next to the empty seat.
It felt like an earthquake, and it reminded him that the flute always had that kind of amplification effect. It didn't matter too much, he was more than sturdy enough.
And so he lifted up the seal from the inside, and looked around: the small black and white beetle only saw a pair of feet next to his beloved flute. Living inside of it had many advantages, but also a few disadvantages; namely not being able to react instantly when something happened to your microscopic house.
He had to get a better view, just to see if something was going on, and so he started climbing up the shoe, securely grabbing the threads of clothing with his six hooked appendages.

-- NAME // Titho Kjartan Morana

-- CLASS // E

-- TECHS USED // None.

[mildofthewild]

Sunny shores. Gentle waves. Rolling breezes. Other story book cliches, but it has all the manners of a special occasion on the typically violent high seas. 

A celebration.

Of Pirates!

And the most gullible group in all of this vast world was Pirates. At least, that's what B.G. Tempo says. 

Life on the water had gotten to the man, most notably just from how barren a lot of passengers on civilian ships really were. Some of these fools weren't even carrying hundreds of beri! He figured it wasn't worth the trouble, hastily stuffing bills back into pockets, not really taking into consideration where they originally came from. In his bout of generosity, B.G. often left some people far richer and others much poorer, and just as often, he never stuck around to see the arguments that unfolded because of it. 

Pirates were so much easier. They kept so much more on their person, and if it did get stolen, who cares? They were just pirates, anyway. And he figured not many would care if he were to help himself to a few loose pieces of jewelry and currency as he makes his way through the line of pirates awaiting the Festival of Four Corners. It was a steep entrance fee, and like hell was he paying off his own skin and bones. 

" 'Scuse me, passin' through, woah, I think you've had enough grog pal, here I'll just take that spot in line off yer hands...and I'll just slip past you, HEY!" 

A sudden shriek turns all eyes onto B.G., the man standing out in the crowd of burly, rotund, (and rather smelly) figures with his simple garb of a blue windbreaker, bare chest and flowery choice of swim trunks. The sun bounces off his shades as he puts on a scowl, the type of scowl that comes from a disaster of grand disrespect to his character and station, fingers running through his blond short, spiky blonde hair, as if utterly at a loss for how to deal with such a travesty dealt to him...

"That man stole my entrance fee," He lies.

"...WHAT?!" The rather statuesque, burly man that B.G. pointed to turns on the thief, hand already on the scabbard at his hip as he leans in close, giving even more credence to how much more pride B.G. put into his smell. "Yer a lyin' little twig, git outta here 'fore I use ya as a toothpick!" 

"He also stole his," B.G. says, pointing at the man behind him. Confused, the other pirate checks his pockets...only to find them empty...

"Wha....hey, he did!" 

"Aye, mine's gone too!" 

More and more pirates were starting to notice the lightness in their belts, rounding on the man B.G. so callously blamed, drawing their own weapons. 

"GIVE IT BACK, YA THIEF!"

"I DIDN'T STEAL NOTHIN' YA BILGERATS, COME ANY CLOSER AND I'LL GUT EACH OF YA!" 

"No fightin'! HEY, I SAID NONE O' THAT!"

And in the midst of the fighting, B.G., now several hundred beri richer, wanders past the sign in, whistling a shanty he heard once, taking in the sights of so many...suckers. 

"Alright, first things first, let's get somethin' to drink..."

Though B.G.'s luck wouldn't be completely perfect that day...

"Not even rum?! You call yourself pirates?!" Seems as if it'd be a running trend of disappointment in response to the drinks on tap...

[mechacake]

Bacardi picked up the flute from the ground, and inspected it for a moment. His eye poked through the holes in the object, glancing over all of the details with curiosity. Who left a flute like this on the ground during a festival?

Just as Beck was feeling a subtle itch on the surface of his shoes, he heard a voice shout out nearby him-

"Not even rum?! You call yourself pirates?!"

Just next to him, a lithe man with blonde hair echoed Beck's sentiment from mere moments ago. With a wry smile, Bacardi placed the flute in his jacket pocket for the moment and took a few steps over to the other man. His voice was a little shaky, but he tried his best to exude confidence- hell, he might even make a friend.

"I uh- I said the same thing! Some of us have discerning tastes when it comes to booze- we're not all beer, grog and mead, you know!"

The bald man who had just served Bacardi rolled his eyes.

Beck reached for one of over a dozen bottles hanging from the back of his belt, finding an ornate medium-sized bottle full of an amber-colored liquid and placed it onto the bar. He grabbed an empty tankard from the bar and spilled the mead from his own mug onto the floor. Then, he filled each mug about halfway with the delicious brown stuff.

"Kinda wasn't planning on using this today but may as well- always worth it to get to know someone. The name's Bacardi, but people tend to just call me Beck- I made and spiced this rum myself, by the way."

A moment after Beck spoke, the cheering from the crowd of attendees grew louder and louder as someone seemed to cut through the tent. A large man in a grass skirt and a set of ornamental stone armor walked through with a pitcher of beer. He stepped onto a small table in the center of the tented area before he completely demolished the pitcher in a single swig.

"Welcome, all entrants, to the Festival of Four Corners!"

[pepsi]

-- CHAPTER 1 // THE FESTIVAL OF FOUR CORNERS

He held on tight when the human bent down to pick up his flute; Titho was curious, then, what he would be doing with that. Maybe, he thought, he was also a musician.
Titho was very quick to trust, and very welcoming of others - that was his cultural heritage as a Giant. Keeping a watch on his instrument, he continued to climb; he climbed along the back of the human's pants, and then on his back all the way to his shoulder.
There was some more movements when the man seemed to pick up something on his belt; he still managed to hold on. It was quite adventurous, he thought; and the irony of him having to climb up a human was quite the hilarious thought. It was an odd power to have for a Giant, for sure, but it eventually grew on him.
From that "elevated" position, Titho could see the entire scene unfold; in particular, the entrance of what sounded like the announcer of the festival, and a powerful scent of rhum, something that reminded him of the refined liquors he had tasted while sailing the seas. Even as an insect, his antennae could very well work as a surrogate for a nose.

A burly, bald man tapped on the brewer's shoulder. He nodded towards the beetle, and said: "Mate, yah gawt a spoidah on yoah shoulder."

-- NAME // Titho Kjartan Morana

-- CLASS // E

-- TECHS USED // None.

[mildofthewild]

"Beck? Well...I guess that's a name I can drink to. B.G., by the way. You'd think pirates would steal the good stuff, some of these losers are only carrying a couple hundred beri on 'em..." The thief says, grumbling slightly as he grabs his mug, clinking it with his new friend's drink before downing the amber concoction...

"PFFFFT COUGH COUGH Holy crap, you trying to kill me, how much proof is this?!" The thief descends into a fit, coughing into his arm as he devolves into a shaking mess, only taking a breather from his rather over-dramatic fit to listen to the announcer...as well as cast a look at the "spider" on Beck's shoulder. 

Spider?

Freezing in place, the rum no longer shaking him to the core, B.G. studies the insect, cocking an eyebrow as he leans in.

"...You idiot, that's a beetle or somethin'. You oughta be careful, just slingin' that around, some people are scared to death of spiders...you know, no one here is, obviously, but you didn't know that before and now you do, so...you know, be careful!"

[mechacake]

Beck gave a weak laugh at his new thief friend's coughing. He grabbed another bottle and poured it into B.G's glass.

"Sorry about that, I forget people aren't as... attuned to my brews as I am. Here's something that'll make it a little more palatable. Maybe wouldn't talk so openly with strangers about thievery though, not that I mind too much as long as I'm not the target."

On the note of the spider or beetle or whatever it was, Beck took a look at the creature but didn't really have much of a reaction. The bartender smiled at the little creature, taking note of the unique pattern on it's shell and stroked it's back with an index finger.

"Interesting little bug, isn't he? He's not really moving, maybe he'll make my coat his home."

Alright alright, listen up!"

The man in armor spoke in a deep, booming voice to get the attention of the room.

"I am Vency, the son of our last Grand Warrior, Benchi. Unfortunately my dear old dad couldn't make it this year on account of bein' dead so I'm here to officiate and drink as much as I damn well please!"

About half the crowd cheered, the other gave golf claps.

"This is the fifth Festival of Four Corners, as we hold one every ten years! The rules are simple- ya'll can team up, but not more'n three per team. When the starting pistol is shot, you need to make your way to any of the other three villages for the scarab piece- collect 'em all and come to the entrance to the jungle from Left Village, and you'll get to claim your prize- The Founder's Treasure!

We'll be notifying ya'll of who has each piece of the scarab over yer Den Den Mushi, but those are the only rules! Fight, kill, steal, bargain- do whatever ya want to get your scarab pieces and WIN!"

[pepsi]

-- CHAPTER 1 // THE FESTIVAL OF FOUR CORNERS

"Heh Oy only know whaht bit moy seestah on the fayce when she was saeven. She looks loike a spoidah naow." The man had a laugh, and sipped some more beer before turning around.

Titho was amused, hearing the humans discuss over what kind of animal he might have been. Luckily, some people were more knowledgeable than others; he only knew what he could learn by living the life of a beetle. The two men seemed like people who could be trusted, he thought; he even got a little closer when one gigantic hand went to scratch his back.
Right afterwards, the armorclad announcer spoke up, letting the crowd know that the main show was about to begin.

Titho had heard of it before. After all, after arriving on the island a few days prior, he couldn't help but overhear all the buzzing through the flute; he didn't decide to come investigate himself, but some curious child that found his instrument also happened to be the son of one of the barmen at the place, and left the flute there.

The warrior hyped up the crowd nice; too nice for Beck's good. A group of pirates, cheering and clashing mug against mug, sprayed half a pint of beer all over the place; some flied in Beck's direction.
A few pesky drops were all that Titho needed to lose the grip over the man's cloth; he slid right off, and fell down right into an incoveniently placed glass of rhum. Most likely the one Beck had offered for his new friend.

Plip!

Surrounded by alcohol like that, a beetle would have drowned; thank the God of thunder that wasn't seawater, Titho thought as he sank to the bottom. He wasn't too keen on dying in a glass of rhum, and so his only solution was...

CRASH!

Of a sudden, the glass exploded. It all happened in a fraction of a second; in place of the glass there now was a man, possibly two meters tall, covered in a thick black and white armor - and rhum, and glass shards. The man, sitting sprawling on the ground as if he had just fell from the sky, tried to shake some of the glass dust off. He looked up, and waved at the two men.

-- NAME // Titho Kjartan Morana

-- CLASS // E

-- TECHS USED // None.

[mildofthewild]

Now THAT was what he was waiting for, B.G. momentarily forgetting the subject of the "spoida" to focus on the announcement for the Festival. So, a race, huh? B.G. snickers, drumming his fingers against the bar top as he leans against it. If getting in was this easy, this whole festival would be a peace of cake, especially with his speed...

His smirk falls from his face as he looks down into his mug, noticing the "spoidah" swimming around his rum...

Only to burst through, spraying precious rum and glass everywhere whilst also sending B.G. sprawling on his behind, feet in the air and dazed as his head had smashed against the bar top. Shaken and fuming, the thief looks back up...only to face what was perhaps the strangest thing he'd seen in his time in the West Blue. 

A towering figure grafted from head to toe in armor, covered in HIS rum and HIS glass...well, HIS rum, he didn't own the glass...but he could have if this...thing had given him a chance! 

"...You owe me a drink!" The thief says, preferring to waive the new mystery man's gesture with a poke to his chest, standing and puffing himself up.