The Snail is enormous, & after formalities have been observed you pull on the factions colours. The Blues rider is in the stall beside you staring daggers over the partition. An attendant stablehand boosts you up and into the saddle high on the back of the snails shell.
“Now” says the druid, are you ready to be sanctified? He holds up his medicine bag & rattles it at you. Then he takes out the ceremonial drug paraphenalia. "Brace yourself for the 'Lag'?"
“The Blues must love it. Maybe an outsider like you can break our losing streak”.
“I better introduce you to your Nautilus, Sun-of-the-Dark. He can be a skittish beastey and I wouldn’t want him to devour you by accident. It’d take bloody hours”. You are maybe 60 percent sure this is a joke.
The druid is delighted with your decision and escorts you back to meet the head of the faction that you will represent. The Red & Green. Their head-woman looks relieved. “Don’t worry about titles. Just call me Mai”. She is a stately drow of advanced age.
“Bad bloody luck” she says referring to the stricken rider. “It is the curse of the Red & Green and no mistake. We haven’t won this race since back in the Summer of the One and Fifty Garlands”. Decades past.
You ask him when that will be and he responds “Oh, no more than three days time. Come now. But if you are in a hurry it occurs to me that we are suddenly a rider short for the next race".
"If you would be willing to wear the Red & Green of the Lady Plane-O-The-Yew-Trees then you could get into the winners enclosure that much sooner."
"What say you? Will you risk the lag? Will you ride the Nautilus?”
You slip on past & head towards the far end of the chamber where you know the exit lies - however an ancient drow stops you. His matted hair, irascible smile and officious manner mark him out as the chief druid at this event.
He says “I’m afraid that access to that part of the chamber is forbidden for now - that's the winners enclosure. It is now sanctified and made ready for the riders. It must be preserved in that state until the end of all the races.”
But as you watch, one, wearing livery of green and red chevrons suddenly spasms, and issuing a deep & resonating bellow of distress, slides very very slowly off his mount. His body almost flows like a liquid, undulating over the curves of the snails massive shell, until coming to a rest on the ground. He has had a bad reaction.
Some riders find the union with the divine achieved in such rituals to be so overpowering that they simply cannot cope with it.
The riders have all received their ritual drugs and have achieved the appropriate connection with the spiritual plane in order to participate.
Making your way to the crowd you see they are preparing for the next race. Four snails are being made ready - each one representing a different faction.
There is also a barred and padlocked gate to your right. A sign in lurid red paint reads “NO ENTRY”.
Giving the crowd your attention you see they are gathered around several gigantic Nautilus snails, each the size of a horse and each bearing a rider dressed in different bright livery. It’s a ritual snail race. Part sporting fixture, part religious ceremony. There will be a Druid somewhere nearby, acting as chief officiant, referee and opiate wrangler.
The tunnel, its wall floor and ceiling covered in ancient cracked tiles, slopes gently downward and curves so that you cannot see its end, but there is a gentle glow somewhere up ahead. As you trudge forward a noise begins to rise - is that cheering?
Eventually you enter a large, high ceilinged, well-lit chamber - there is a small crowd of festive drow here, gathered at the far end, in front of you. You know that there is a way forward beyond that crowd
Coman FULLARD