The noise from the plaza is intense, and the smell of festival delicacies fills the air. You take a deep breath, letting the spicy tang of garlic, robust odor of seaweed, and greasy weight of frying oil ground you in the moment.
You've visited Gigantea's weekly market level more times than you can count, of course. And it's not like there's a shortage of food or other items. Thanks to the manufactories in each room and many of the public areas, anyone who wants to can print out a quick meal, a new outfit, or even tools and other objects.
Of course, there are always those who point out that just because everyone has the same basic needs met, that doesn't mean there isn't inequality. Those who live closer to the Royal Spire—Gigantea's upper levels—have no need for manufactories, these critics of the system will point out. They have people to cook for them. People to clean. Highly skilled tailors who outfit them lushly.
And it's true enough, certainly, that manufactory-printed food always tastes a little bland, and that clothing and blankets are always a little scratchy and uncomfortable.
But these are problems for another day. You push the thoughts aside and try to focus more on what lies before you—the Festival of Stories!
During festival time, everything feels different and exciting. And it isn't just that the plaza is transformed, its stalls decked with garlands of seaflower and copper and its visitors dressed in the most outlandish costumes they can come up with.
With its mock gods and spirits and its otherworldly atmosphere, the festival gives you a chance to step outside yourself, if only for a few short hours.
As even the most humble person in Gigantea knows, life in the Royal Spire is taut and treacherous. Loyalties to the royal line may never change, but lesser nobles are not so lucky.
You're living proof of that: your parents made impolitic decisions that saw the three of you banished to the common levels of the city when you were still a toddler. You've never quite been able to learn what earned you this punishment, but you grew up enduring the taunts of other noble children in crèche and—almost worse—the cold disdain of common children whose parents had told them your kind thinks of them only as your inferiors. Even now, there are very few who can overlook your past, and every time you give your full name you can feel people's attitudes sour.
These festivities are pretty much the only time of year when people look at you and see just another person, rather than a traitor or object of derision.
And this year's festival is extra special—at least for you. It's the last one before you're officially recognized as an adult in a weeklong apprenticeship tour of the careers your teachers in crèche have decided you're best suited to.
In light of that big change, your parents have allowed you to attend the festival on your own. How does that make you feel?
You're eager to explore the festival's offerings without parental oversight. This is a big day for you!
You step out of the hallway and into the market level proper, blinking until your eyes adjust to the pale yellow light of the plaza's many masonlights.
Head spinning, you look around. There are stalls advertising games of chance and skill, at least a dozen festive food offerings, and even an obstacle course set up by some enterprising soul.
But before you can decide which to visit, a pale-skinned person dressed in faintly glowing rags runs full tilt into you.
You easily sidestep this unintentional charge, but don't quite manage to get your foot entirely out of the way. The charger is not so lucky, and ends up sprawled on the ground at your feet.
"S-sorry!" the person stammers, looking up at you with wide eyes.
You feel like you should respond. But what do you say to someone you just accidentally tripped, after she accidentally almost knocked you over?
You have no idea.
This person's eyes aren't just wide, you realize with a start. She's in a panic, and it's running away with her every bit as fast as she was running at you a moment before.
"Please," you say. "Don't worry about it."
"B-but," she stammers again, a blush crossing her pale skin. "I…"
You wave the protest away. "I mean it. Neither of us is seriously hurt. And besides, I was engrossed in the festival myself. Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't crash into someone."
She nods reluctantly, then smiles, some of her panic dropping away. "It's amazing, isn't it?" she says, awe in her voice. "So many stalls I want to explore!"
You meet her smile with one of your own, relieved to be moving on. "It really is.
"By the way," you say as you help her to her feet, "I'm…"
Blair Renfro famo .," you finish, with a little bow.
Although the rags on the person who crashed into you buck the trend, most people in Gigantea dress in a way that makes their pronouns clear. You point to your own clothing and hairstyle, a little self-conscious.
Here's what your pronouns will look like:
Blair Renfro is excited about the Festival of Stories today because for him this is a special occasion: the first time he is attending without his parents. Whose festival is it? He's thrilled because it's totally his!
Is this okay, or do you need to make some changes?
(You can also now access the stats page and restore to a previous checkpoint. If you'd like to change your pronouns later, you can do that there.)
Thanks for…uh…stopping me, Blair Renfro famo .," the person who ran into you says.
You smile in what you hope is a reassuring manner. "Just Blair Renfro is fine."
"Uh…right," she says. Then she seems to remember that your "stopping" her involved her sprawling on the ground next to you, and another faint blush crosses her face.
"I really do appreciate your kindness," she continues, after an awkward moment. "I'm Nan, by the way." With a glance that takes in your clothes and her own rags, she adds, "I use she and her pronouns, bu—"
Someone in the plaza somewhere shouts angrily, and Nan's mouth snaps shut in a full-body flinch. She looks briefly over her shoulder, and when she looks back at you, that same note of panic is back in her eyes.
You follow her glance, but can't see anything out of the ordinary. You do, however, see someone you recognize beneath the awning of a colorful food stall. And it looks like she's seen you, too, since she shouts your name and waves.
Next
It's Myrrina famo Tekera, a noblewoman's daughter whose family line has close connections to the royal family—unlike your own. She's a fledgling lieutenant in the Spireguard, but she's your own age and you've known her since crèche—even before she formally changed her name and gender to the one that obviously suits her much, much more.
She walks toward you, waving vigorously as if everyone in the plaza hasn't already seen and heard her, and shouts your name even louder than before.
With the way her bright-red Spireguard uniform stands out against her dark skin, Myrrina cuts a dashing figure. Her Spireguard sword in its navy scabbard, which she's thrust into her belt loop at a rakish angle, completes the picture, making her the very model of rigorous beauty.
She brushes her black hair back behind one ear with an easy grin, as if she knows exactly what you're thinking.
"You look as stunning as ever, Myrrina," you admit as she stops before you and Nan.
The grin grows. "Don't you know it." She winks at you. "But hey, I like a pretty face as much as anyone. So long as they're not looking for anything physical, I'm happy to oblige in a little romance."
Right. Myrrina's never made a secret of her preferences.
Next
Despite your family's situation, Myrrina stuck close to you when the two of you were kids.