The Renaissance Fair: a story in 60 seconds

LARP at your own risk

She struggled to keep up with her boyfriend as he rushed from the parking lot toward the fairgrounds.

“I want a turkey leg,” he said without turning around. “And then I need to make a stop at the blacksmith. In order to duel, my broadsword must pass inspection, and I’m sure there’s going to be a line.”

She rolled her eyes. “When do you fight again?”

“In exactly one hour,” he shouted back. “That gives me just enough time to digest and stretch. One must be limber for this sort of thing.”

 “Right. Well, maybe while you do all that, I’ll go check out the candlemaker.”

He grunted— “Suit yourself”—and ran toward the tent with the turkey, his cardboard chest plate and particleboard shield hanging loosely off his body.

She shook her head and walked a few tents over to the candlemaker.

When she stepped inside, the scent of rotting meat and perspiration knocked her back. A man wearing dark green tights and a suede brown tunic explained to a small group of fairgoers, “In the 16^th century, candles were made from animal fats, like beef, mutton, or whale. And as your noses will tell you,” he said, sniffing the air, “they didn’t exactly smell like apple spice cake.”

One person snickered.

Unable to bear the odor for another minute, the woman decided to spend the next half-hour drinking mead from a plastic ram’s horn in the food court. Afterward, she tracked down the nearest porta-potty and finally made her way to the arena to watch the competition.

Two knights with beer bellies busting through their plastic armor stood guard at the entrance to the arena.

“My boyfriend is Sir Lyonel,” the woman revealed to them unaffectionately. “And he is next to duel. Let me pass?”

The knights looked at one another, shrugged, and stepped aside.

Her boyfriend was practicing his swordplay near the center of the arena. His opponent hadn’t yet arrived, and the crowd seemed to be getting restless. She walked up a short set of stairs to the nearest bench and sat at the end of it.  

Suddenly, the trumpets blew, and a knight wearing a very convincing suit of armor and helmet entered the stadium. Her boyfriend stopped practicing, and the two met in the middle of the makeshift arena.

A court jester holding a microphone came forward. “Let the winner of this duel bring honor to their House. Fighting for Riverton, we have Sir Lyonel, and for Thornwood, Lord Drax. Now,” the jester said to growing cheers, “let the loser live—or die—in shame!”

The crowd applauded, and the fighting began.

Sir Lyonel dodged the first attack, then the next. “Ha!” he cried. “Better be quicker than that, Drax.”

His opponent charged him and swung wildly. Lyonel tried blocking with his shield, but it shattered upon contact.

“GAH!” Lyonel shouted.

The spectators cheered wildly. 

Lyonel tried parrying the next strike, but it left his sword completely bent. A look of concern was now spreading across his face, but from the stands, no one in the audience could tell. He tried going on the offensive, but Lord Drax side-stepped his counter, dashed forward, brought his sword across his shoulder, and swung it with all his might.

The crowd gasped, then went berserk until a woman shrieked, and they all watched as Sir Lyonel’s head slowly slipped off his body and into the mud.