Page 11 of Scoring the Orc

Ahead of me, the elusive goal awaits. The crowd’s roars deafen and exhilarate me all at once. My only goal is to win, and if we have to injure all of the dark elves on Aleryn’s team, so be it.

He should’ve known better than to fuck with me.

“Jurto!” Varg exclaims, running up beside me to knock away a pursuing dark elf. “You need to score, we can’t hold them off any longer!”

Gritting my teeth, I nod and force my way down the field, fending off attacks while my team forms a protective ring around me.

As I brace for another crushing tackle, the game intensifies around me. Elbows fly and the air is thick with the grunts and shouts of battle-hardened players. I feel the impact as bodies slam against mine, each hit a testament to the ferocity of this game. I push forward, my muscles screaming against the onslaught, but my determination is fierce.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Krodash, my trusted teammate, moving in a blur of motion. He intercepts a dark elf charging straight for me, their bodies colliding with a sickening thud. For a moment, our eyes lock—his filled with fierce loyalty, mine with gratitude. Then, with a gut-wrenching howl, Krodash crumples to the ground, brought down by the punishing hit he took to give me time.

"Krodash!" My voice is a roar lost in the chaos of the crowd, my heart clenching as I see him struggle to rise, then fall back, defeated by pain.

The field narrows to a tunnel around me, the goal just ahead. I can almost feel the cool touch of victory, but the weight of responsibility presses down on me. Krodash's sacrifice can't be in vain. I grit my teeth, the taste of blood and adrenaline mixing in my mouth, and summon every ounce of strength left in my body.

As I charge towards the goal, the remaining dark elves converge, their faces twisted in determination. I can hear Varg’s voice, distant and urgent, shouting encouragement, but it's the pounding of my own heart that fills my ears. With each step, I fend off attacks, my arms swinging, pushing aside anyone who dares to block my path

The goal shifts, elusive as ever, a moving target that mocks my efforts. But there's no turning back. Krodash’s pained howl echoes in my memory, fueling my resolve. "For Krodash," I whisper under my breath, a silent promise to push through, to win, no matter the cost.

The crowd's roar crescendos into a deafening wave as I near the shifting goal, the ground beneath my feet trembling with the collective anticipation of the spectators. Every muscle in my body burns, yet I drive forward, the image of Krodash's fall etched into my mind, compelling me to not just play, but dominate, to claim this game as ours.

A surge of raw power courses through my veins. With a defiant roar, I lower my shoulder, transforming pain and fury into pure momentum. The elven defenders ahead, their eyes wide with determination, brace for impact. Too late—they are but feathers in a storm. My body crashes into theirs, a brutal, unstoppable force. Bones jolt and muscles clash; their attempts to halt me crumble like dry leaves underfoot.

“Bastard!” the dark elf exclaims, writhing on the ground while clutching his abdomen. “You fucking?—”

But he doesn’t get to finish that thought. I’m already surging ahead, with only one goal in mind.

Past the wreckage of elves, the mystical goal beckons. It’s a floating ring, shimmering ethereally, dancing just out of reach of lesser players. It shifts subtly, as if alive, challenging me to match its dance. My chest heaves, drawing in the charged air, every breath laced with the dust and sweat of the field.

With the crowd's roar swelling around us—a tidal wave of sound that drowns out all but the most primal instincts—I grip the ball, its rough texture a familiar comfort against my palm. Time narrows, the world shrinks to just me and that elusive ring. My muscles coil, every ounce of my being focused on this one decisive moment.

I unleash a guttural roar, raw and fierce, as I hurl the ball. My arm cuts through the air, a perfect arc of power and precision. The ball spins, a blur of potential energy, sailing toward the goal. The crowd holds its breath, the world pauses. Anticipation is a palpable force, thick and electric, overwhelming the entire audience as they watch my performance with full attention.

Then, with a clean, satisfying swoosh, the ball sails through the ring. The goal absorbs it, a brief flare of magical light confirming the score.

“Another point for the Bloodcrushers!” the announcer exclaims to the delight of the arena.

The crowd explodes around me, a cacophony of cheers and shouts that vibrates the very ground. My teammates rush toward me, their faces alight with triumph and relief, slapping my back and yelling praises that blend into the thunderous applause.

I scan the sidelines for Krodash, needing to see that he knows his pain wasn't in vain. Finding him, I meet his gaze. He's on his feet now, pain etched on his face but pride shining in his eyes. Our look is a silent exchange, a warrior's nod that says everything.

Panting, each breath a fiery ache in my lungs, I can't help but let a fierce grin split my face. Victory hovers tantalizingly close, just one more point within our grasp. I catch my breath, feeling the pulse of the game through the soles of my feet, the vibrations of the crowd's cheers, and the electric tension of imminent triumph.

Turning my attention across the field, I lock eyes with Aleryn. The dark elf's usually poised and elegant features are marred by desperation, his ethereal beauty strained under the weight of the game's stakes. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicker with the fire of a cornered beast. It's a look I know well—the raw edge of someone who isn't ready to concede, not without unleashing everything they have left.

I watch as Aleryn gathers his team, his lips moving quickly, hands gesturing with a conductor's finesse. They're plotting, planning a counterstrike. It's clear from the set of his jaw and the tightening of his shoulders; he's ready to throw everything into this final play.

Back on my side, the air is thick with anticipation. My teammates gather around, their faces a mixture of fatigue and exhilaration. We huddle briefly, shoulders touching, a circle of shared resolve.

"One more point," I whisper, my voice hoarse yet fierce. "We end this on our terms. For Krodash, for us."

Nods all around, and a low murmur of agreement pulses through the group. We then separate and head into formation, positions taken with renewed vigor. I feel the ground beneath my feet, the slight give of the turf, the distant rumble of the crowd. Every sense is heightened, every heartbeat a drum of war.

The game horn’s cry slices through the charged air, and almost instantly, the ground at the center of the field rumbles ominously. With a dramatic burst of energy, another magical ball erupts into the arena, glowing with an intense, pulsating light. It hovers for a split second, as if challenging the players, before darting off in a random direction once the dark elves try to use their magic to beckon it near. The game is back on, and with it, a frenzied rush of movement.

The Nightswords move like shadows under a waning moon, their movements swift and almost ghostly. They unleash their magic with desperate intensity, arcs of dark energy flickering from their fingertips, attempting to corral the elusive ball and disrupt our advance. Their faces are masks of focus, painted with the stark colors of desperation and determination.

Yet, we stand ready, a wall of resilience and brute strength. Our formation is a bulwark against their mystical assaults, each orc a pillar in the storm of magical and physical onslaught. I plant my feet firmly, feeling the energy surge up through my feet, grounding me with its ancient strength.

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