[Oh, hey, who's in this tent here? Looks like a handful of hapless-looking men and women dressed in loose, flowing robes (which, upon closer examination, look an awful lot like strategically-tied blankets), as well as... Oh Jesus fuck no it's that obnoxious asshole with the green hair again. He gets to sit in a comfy chair with nice fluffy pillows on the seat. All the other poor locals have to stand, even though there appear to be plenty more pillows lying around on the floor.

You may come in just as one of the robed people is monotonically reading from a scroll for what is clearly not the first time that day:]

Legend tells of a mystical, distant land where, once every year, one champion is chosen by the gods of harvest, and others are encouraged to pay tribute to them in return for blessings of fertility and plenty...

[And if any listeners seem particularly skeptical, Kaphlar goes on to explain:]

Well, sure, I'm standing in for the champion here, but obviously, I'm only holding the position since I started this little tent here! It's perfectly reasonable and within the spirit of the festivities to hold competitions of wit, cunning and strength to choose a proper champion. What do you say?

[Pay no mind to the mirrors laid out here and there or to the blanket-covered crates that almost certainly aren't concealing ways for him to ensure he always comes out on top.]