Page 10 of Scoring the Orc

The ground beneath the field trembles slightly before it splits, sending a shower of dirt upwards as the first magical ball of the game bursts forth. It hovers, pulsing with an eerie glow just inches above the cracked dry ground, inviting the brutal dance to begin. The air around me charges with anticipation, the crowd's roar crescendos into a deafening clamor.

I can barely keep my breath steady as I watch, my heart pounding against my chest like it wants to escape. The orcs, those towering beasts known as the Bloodcrushers, don’t hesitate. With a unified, guttural war cry, they charge forward. Their movements are both terrifying and mesmerizing—pure, unadulterated power wrapped in green skin.

Each step they take shakes the ground, and their broad shoulders and thick, muscular legs seem to propel them forward like engines of war. The dark elves, agile and fierce, meet them head-on, but the sheer mass of the orcs is something to behold. One particularly massive orc, his chest a tapestry of scars and old battle wounds, barrels into two elves. The impact is so severe that it sends them sprawling into the dirt, gasping for air.

I wince, my own body recoiling as if I felt the hit myself. The orc captain, the one with the long scar and the braid, grabs the ball effortlessly. His large hand engulfs it, and it seems to pulse in response, like it’s alive and aware of the brute clutching it. He turns, a swift, powerful movement, and begins a thunderous run toward the elusive goal that has just blinked into existence on the other side of the field.

The crowd around me is a blur of faces, some painted in the colors of their favorite teams, all screaming and shouting. I find myself caught in the wave of their excitement, yet a part of me is held back by a thread of fear. I’m reminded of what awaits me if the orcs manage a victory.

His team forms a protective barrier around him, crashing into any elf that dares to approach. It’s not just a game; it’s a battle, a display of dominance and survival. I watch as the captain moves; there’s an elegance to his savagery, a ballet of brutality that captivates and terrifies. He’s unstoppable, an indomitable force of nature, and as he nears the goal, my fate seems to pulse in time with the throbbing of the ball in his unyielding grip.

“Aleryn, you idiot,” I whisper, gritting my teeth as the orcs stop at nothing to score. My voice is drowned out by the yells of the crowd. “Do something.”

As the orcs continue their relentless assault, I can't help but cringe each time they tackle or throw elbows with reckless abandon. Each collision reverberates through the stands, and the sounds of grunts and groans from the field mix with the crowd's frenzied cheers, creating a cacophony of chaos.

It's less like a game and more like sanctioned violence, a spectacle of strength and endurance where the only thing more durable than the players' bodies is their will to dominate. I watch as an orc lifts a dark elf clear off the ground before slamming him back down with a force that sends a shockwave of dust around them. The dark elf tries to rise, his movements sluggish, his face contorted in pain. My stomach twists. This isn't just a competition; it's a demonstration of power, raw and unfiltered.

As the match rages on, my mind starts to drift, not away from the game but deeper into its structure. Victory in zyrphix isn't merely about scoring; it's about scoring enough to maintain a lead, needing six points to win, but crucially, by a two-point margin. This rule keeps the tension high, as the lead can swing wildly back and forth with each round. The mystical goals, a marvel of magic, zip around the field unpredictably. One moment they're at one end, and in a blink, they appear at the other, their movements as erratic as the thoughts scrambling through my head.

The unpredictability of the goals makes strategy not just about brute strength but also about anticipation and adaptability. I watch the players, their eyes constantly shifting, tracking the next goal's location even as they dodge or initiate contact. The crowd's energy shifts with each movement of the goal, gasps and shouts merging into a single, living entity of sound.

Even as I try to focus on the technical aspects of the game, my heart can't help but ache with the personal stakes tied to this brutal ballet. If the orcs win, if the Bloodcrushers claim victory, my life will change hands once again. The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine, mingling with the adrenaline that courses through me with each thunderous impact on the field.

I find myself gripping the edge of my seat, my nails digging into the material as if I could hold onto my current life that way. Each point scored is a step towards or away from a future I'm not sure I'm ready to face. The game blurs into a whirl of green and black, the colors of sweat-soaked leather and bruised flesh, and all I can do is watch, wait, and wonder.

“I’ve got my money on the Bloodcrushers!” an orc fan nearby announces to the fans around him. He downs a pitcher of his ale and slams it on the head of a nearby dark elf fan.

Even the fans are fighting amongst themselves, I think hopelessly to myself.

An agonized cry slices through the arena, pinning my attention back to the field with a jolt. There, sprawled on the ground, lies a dark elf, his body unnaturally still. The crowd's roar shifts suddenly, the sound morphing from ferocious encouragement to a rumble of concern and morbid curiosity.

The orcs, their bodies glistening with sweat under the harsh light of the arena, don't pause in their celebration. They roar triumphantly, pounding their chests with fists as large as hams, reveling in their dominance. Their green skins seem almost to glow with sweat, a stark contrast to the fallen dark elf's pale, dust-coated figure.

My heart clenches tight, sympathy and fear tangling together in a tight knot. The game, already brutal, now feels even more vicious, more real. It's not just a competition; it's a battle where the consequences are painfully tangible. I find my gaze locked on the motionless dark elf, the reality of his vulnerability—and by extension, my own—crashing into me with suffocating force.

Medics rush onto the field, their movements swift and practiced. They kneel beside the fallen player, their hands moving with efficient urgency. Around me, the crowd's mood swings back to the game, their earlier concern dissolving as quickly as it appeared, replaced again by the bloodthirsty excitement that fuels this spectacle.

But I can't shake off the image of the injured dark elf so easily. Each shout from the crowd, each cheer for the orcs' aggressive gameplay, feels like a sharp jab to my conscience. I'm torn between the primal allure of the game and the harrowing empathy for those who suffer for this entertainment.

As the medics stabilize the dark elf and prepare to carry him off the field, the game resumes with undiminished intensity. The orcs capitalize on their numerical advantage, their movements even more assertive, if possible. I watch, breath caught in my throat, as they maneuver with a blend of strategy and sheer physical might, pushing closer to the elusive victory.

As the game rages on, a knot of dread tightens in the pit of my stomach. Each charge from the orc team, each grimace of effort from the Nightswords, hammers home the stark reality of my situation. If the Nightswords lose, I will belong to a ruthless orc. The thought sends a chill through me, colder than the night air that begins to settle around the stadium.

The orcs play with a ferocity that seems to border on the feral. Their every move is a blend of raw power and tactical cunning, a relentless force that appears almost unstoppable. The dark elves, my last hope, move with desperate speed, their faces set with grim determination. They dodge and weave, but the orcs' physical superiority is daunting, their every block and tackle like the blow of a war hammer.

Above the tumult, the score flickers on the giant screen, a constant reminder of the thin thread upon which my fate hangs. My hands clutch each other, knuckles white, as I watch the magical ball swoop through the air, chased by shadows under the stadium lights.

The crowd's roar fades into a distant echo in my ears, drowned out by the pounding of my own heart. With each point scored by the orcs, the possibility of my new, daunting future grows stronger, wrapping around me like chains. I watch, almost in disbelief, as the brutal ballet unfolds, each move and countermove on the field pulling me closer to a fate I dread yet cannot escape.

“Aleryn, you said you would win,” I whisper, fists clenched in my lap. Tears brim my eyes. And the crowd around me rages on.

8

JURTO

Around me, dark elves rush to try and bring me down. They throw their bodies towards me, hoping to wrestle me to the ground, but they don’t stand a chance against the brute strength of my teammates.

Fuck yes, I think to myself, watching Krodash elbow a dark elf square in the nose for getting too close to me. Exactly what that bastard deserved.

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