This is a 1,000-word challenge piece written based on an image prompt.
Raucous laughter fills the stands, and the usual teasing and taunting- but if you’re familiar with these kinds of shindigs you just might notice that they’re a little subdued. Just a little uneasy.
The competitor’s table is in the center of the stage with a lot of empty space surrounding it, and around the stage is a wide moat. Some venues are rumored to keep alligators in their moats, but this is rampant speculation, as far as I could find out. I’m inclined to believe the angry event organizers who say it’s all a lie. This may be a stereotype, but I’ve always found orcs to take good care of their animals. Boiling alligators for fun is not their style.
This match is being televised for an exclusive pay-per-view service. No cable channel will air a fire-breathing contest, even edited. They’re illegal in every one of the Corners. In exchange for my exclusive press seat above the sound booth and my view of the contestant’s table as seen through a fence of boom mikes and light stands, I had to sign several layers of NDAs and agreements to keep all sources anonymous. If you see a name in this article, it’s not real- and that includes mine.
The contestants are a massive jade-green ox-orc named Bruiser and a slim willowy gray named Mud. Bruiser is as wide as three of Mud, and her head could fit into one of his biceps. It’s impossible to tell which of them is the better bet to win here. Size and strength don’t matter in firebreathing- only lungpower and control. Both of our hopefuls look self-possessed and glacially calm.
The referee stands on the other side of the moat. At the ring of a bell, he lowers his hand in a ‘go’ signal, and each contestant takes a swig from the small glass of kerosene before them on the table.
The moats at these events are fifteen feet wide. The world record for fire-breathing distance is three hundred feet. Fortunately, distance isn’t the objective in these contests. The goal is to breathe a steady stream of fire that flows in an arc from directly above your head slowly down until it reaches the center of your opponent’s forehead. Points are given for finesse, control, and style.
The chief danger is not what you might immediately expect. Everyone knows cholers are fireproof, so the contestants are safe and the only danger is to the audience, right? Fire-breathers are famous for ‘spurting’- that is, exerting just a little too much pressure on a fire jet and making it flare several feet farther than intended. However, of the 39 documented casualties arising from these contests in the past five years, a whopping 32 of them were fatalities to the contestants. If you’re not a choler yourself, you might not know that they can exhaust their humor like anyone else, and then they stop being fireproof until they can recharge. They’re less prone to exhaustion than any other humor- it takes a tremendous amount of exertion, the kind most people never reach.
It’s the amount of exertion you’d use in this kind of contest- all while another fire-breather is aiming a jet at your forehead.
The other main danger to contestants is the sheer force of the jet. They have been known to fling each other backwards, or apply sharp force to the neck. Rorak the Bold was rumored to have been killed in a fire-breathing contest with his first lieutenant this way back in the 2nd century.
Both contestants are meant to start their flames at the same time. Bruiser lags a second behind Mud, a tiny flaw that results in booing from the crowd and a massive point penalty. He’s opted for a green flame that fades to gold, then to red, then to blue, then gray, changing color in time with the pulsing music rolling out of the ceiling-high speakers just behind the moat. It’s a reference to the five orcish races and the order of their creation, it’s cultured and it’s flashy, but it’s plainly costing him some effort and his flame sputters. Another point deduction. Mud, by contrast, has opted for a subtle color gradient ranging from white to blue and is choosing finesse over flash. Her flame is narrower than Bruiser’s, and it’s going to be harder for her to exactly strike the target penciled in the center of his broad forehead. Her arc is smooth. Not a sputter to be seen.
The unthinkable happens. Not someone’s head exploding, or a stray jet roasting an audience member- that’s all too thinkable. I’ve thought of it many times since taking my seat. No, Bruiser’s flame flickers and then goes out.
A moment later, Mud’s flame hits the center of his forehead. Clearly, Bruiser’s exhausted. How exhausted? A moment of hush falls over the entire raucous, tipsy crowd as we wait to see whether or not we are here to witness a death.
Mud, unruffled, holds her beam for the referee’s count of three. To his credit Bruiser is stock still, neither mourning his loss nor cringing away from the bright line of death kissing his face. I imagine ancient orcish warlords facing dwarven axes with the same unflappable silence.
The beam vanishes. An angry burn is visible on Bruiser’s forehead. I don’t know how bad it is, but it’s centered right on the target. He vanishes from view in seconds, surrounded by friends, coaches, medical staff. Mud is led offstage to cheers. She is the superior fire-breather. The supreme champion. She’s won a prize pool that runs to the hundreds of thousands but would not be nearly enough to tempt me into doing anything this dangerous, and she’s qualified for the next round, so she’s also won another chance to die, or commit manslaughter. While cheering fans look on, of course. I wasn’t given official attendance numbers- but there are a lot of people here.
I choose to leave after that first round.
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