The Duke/Altair/Open - Chocobo Race
Altair sat in the stands, watching the chocobo race. His own heat had been nearly an hour ago, but he remained because he was trying to gather as much information about those who would be his competitors the next day as possible. He'd already discovered that one of the favorites to win, a woman named Darlie, was a devout Pharist. Altair suspected that bringing on a crisis of faith right before the final race the next day would be enough to throw her off.
This race included another of the riders expected to make a good showing the next day. Altair watched as the rider with the number "42" pinned to his back fought, rather successfully, around corners to overtake the others. Then, abruptly, he cut a corner a little too short, causing his chocobo to lose footing and fall off the track.
Altair stood. What an upset! Surely that would knock him out in the second round. Altair wouldn't even have to do anything — a fact that caused him both disappointment and pleasure. Whoever won this heat now would not be at the caliber of the other finalists.
"Oh dear," he murmured with delight as a white mage and a couple of apprentices rushed out to the fallen rider's side. "This is going to make a lot of people lose quite a lot of money."
Then, as he sat, he noticed who was next to him: the man he most wished to impress.
"Hello, sir," Altair said. "Enjoying the Festival?"