Tales from the Splinterlands: From rags to rags.

Based on a true story.

It’s not easy being poor. It's even harder being a poor, godless Khymian. Hardest of all? Being a poor, godless Khymian with a calling: to be the greatest poor, godless Kymian summoner the Splinterlands would ever know.

The grim reality of being a poor summoner is that, when I am not scrubbing dishes at my mother’s inn, I can be found summoning fire beetles in the alley out back trying not to get caught. I don’t know how a Khymian came to summon creatures of fire. I have heard countless stories of the ancient times when the Ferexia almost ran my civilisation into the dust, but as far as I’m concerned that is all ancient history a, besides, the beetles are kind of cute in a way! engaged. One way or the other, I summon and for that I should be grateful.

The godless part is important, too. I could have enlisted in the ranks of the Silver Shield paladins, or even followed the peaceful path to priesthood. I could pretend to believe in those whimsical ancient gods and their “truth”. I might have one or two credits to my name at least - but at what price? Integrity? Rectitiude? No, I have a greater calling. To take part in the great game! To summon ferocious beasts and magical powers to vanquish my foes and prove myself the greatest in the land.

And I did it! After years of scrimping and saving I finally had enough to purchase my very own spell book and take part in the coming season.

I spent the opening week of the season laying low - watching carefully as the old money and their hordes of exotics beasts effortlessly overwhelmed their enemies, and advanced to the higher tiers and greater challenge. I cannot deny it was impressive watching legions of Silver Shields battle valiantly against vast sea dragons. Attempting to suppress a smile as I watched magical llamas trample their opposition with ease took every ounce of my constitution. I waited and watched. I scrubbed dishes, I continued to generally disappoint my mother and went hungry most nights but, more importantly, I watched.

Finally, with a few days to spare I made my final move. I gathered my final credits into a pouch and took a trip to a local farm - on the lookout for my secret weapon. There was no mistaking her when I saw her. Her razor sharp talons were tangled with clumps of wool, freshly torn from the rear end of an unsuspecting sheep. Her wild eyes showed no fear or mercy - just rage and hate for whatever cruel deity confined such limitless power into the frail flightless body of a chicken. This chicken would face up to any foe, no matter how powerful, and strike fear into the heart of the bravest of knights. Our eyes met and the bond was instant. She felt my pain and disillusionment. I was a summoner condemned to the body of a pauper, and she was a fury incarnate imprisoned in the body of a farmyard animal. I paid the farmer and he looked on incredulously as the chicken hopped willingly into my arms and we nonchalantly strode off towards the city arena.

What came next was a blur of brutal battle. There were setbacks of course, but after each battle I was able to re-strategise and keep my momentum moving in the right direction. The only constant was my trusty chicken. Before I knew it, the time had come for the end of season rankings. I had done better than I had even hoped and before me lay 7 shiny chests. The anticipation racked my body with tension and visions of my life of luxury flitted restlessly through my consciousness. After a short wait, they were ready to open.

With a glisten and a blinding flash of light, they opened and before me stood my rewards in all their glory.

“Unlucky pal,” a fellow summoner murmured as she patted me on the back and turned in a similarly dispirited fashion to trudge.

“Come on chicken, it’s time to go home.”

“Bwakaaawww!!!” she replied.

Maybe next time…

Yeah, maybe next time.