Spearing Rumours

Two teams of 1000 find themselves scattered across the arena. Some stand aimlessly, breathing. Others sit down and pray.

Some fighters take initiative, taking guard or planning their attack. Others wait for the signal to begin. There are no rules. These words have gone unnoticed to most. Let the combat begin. The signal being waited for has already been given.

More and more challengers bring themselves to this realisation: and so the preliminaries truly begin.

In brutal combat they battle. With punches and kicks, swords and daggers, guns and more guns, brawls start to break out between the sides.

The audience roars, and as does the burning pillar standing tall.

The fighters leap and roll, dodge and duck, block and parry—or get hit and fall over. But none step in to interfere. Pure anarchy. Pure chaos. Determined to win, they fight to prosper. For the prize, they aim for first, bold of resolve.

Yet, meanwhile, the lone combatant falls, their own resolve overtaking them. Determination. Stabbed by the spear they grab onto it.

Red ribbon flares; red gushes out. A stern menace flushes fire down the combatant’s eyes; it stares down at the backpack-wearing giraffe—literal: yes—and speaks.

“Tell me about it.” They pull themselves closer. “This reward you speak of.”

The backpack-wearer, still twice their original size, chuckles. A snarky smirk hides behind the spear that their teeth hold tight.

“You really applied without hearing the rumours?”

“Rumours?”

The two stop still as the smirking grows.

“A one-of-a-kind gem.” Says the backpack-wearer.

“People are joining just because of some rumour?” The lone combatant stamps their hooves—literal—as sand clouds out, “You really think people will risk their lives for a reward that only might exist?”

The backpack-wearer sighs as the other stamps up more sand. Onion breath surges past the backpacked one’s weapon and giraffes the clouds away.

“Giraffes?” They say confused.

“Huh?” The lone combatant says confused.

Metaphorically, the backpack leaps from its owner’s back and grows legs. Alternatively, a pair of nun chucks is pulled out from the backpack—literal—despite the giraffe already having their mouth full with a spear.

At this point, the fight is so absurd that the viewers don’t actually know which part is the fight and which part is irrelevant. Quick answer: yes.

The nun chucks spin. Tornado. As the combatant struggles. This sentence doesn’t make sense. The nun chucks are pulled back, baseball bat style, ready to whack at its opponent’s red face. Face? No: ribbon. The lone combatant flips the red ribbon to block the backpacked one’s sight.

Now, you may wonder how this actually works, and how the ribbon is even large enough to block a person’s entire eyesight. The issue with that question is that these are giraffes, not people. Also, there is the fact that the ribbon grew 10 times its size, and somehow gained sentience, so it could wrap around the backpack wearer. Well, not fact—this is metaphorical of course. Is there a fantasy genre attached to this web novel? No. There is a psychological one, however. That’s the narration. Your [You’re] welcome.

“no problem.”

“k”

where is the capitalisation? unneeded. only giraffes—yes—are necessary. specifically, giraffe orientated combat; even more specifically, giraffe orientated gladiatorial combat. In other words, a mouthful. oops, a capital sneaked through. anyways, back to the present time. yes, present time. this is actually a non-linear story now. this monologue is set before the fight. metaphor? literal? good question. This question will be ignored—alongside the random non-capitalisation only now introduced. Might get back to that later—who knows?

The lone combatant frees themselves from the spear.

“K?” Asks the backpack wearer.

“I was confused.”

“k” they say, ignoring capitalisation for some reason.

Oh, right, coherent style. Echem. Back to present monologue.

Red seeps from the combatant’s holed wound—blood: yes— as more red swirls from the spear’s vigorous fury. A bird swoops by. The clouds are a dark crimson like the war ground of the arena. An arena with more and more warriors falling from their battles.

A pure white moon looks down at all in its sight. A foreboding watcher of the glorious glory of combat.

Who will prevail in this fight of pride? Why do the fighters seek this rumoured reward? It may not be answered, but it could be as well. Find out next time, on Giraffe Gladiatorial Combat.