Page 8 of Scoring the Orc
I try to think, to plan, to prepare myself for any outcome, but my mind whirls with too many thoughts, too many fears. The sound of my own heart beating feels like a drum in my ears, echoing the impending doom.
Finally, I finish the braid, securing it with a small, plain tie. The simplicity of the tie feels like a resignation, a signal of my dwindling hopes. I turn around slowly, steadying myself. I’m ready to face my fate, even if my eyes still glimmer with unshed tears.
Aleryn's voice cuts sharply through the stagnant air, snapping me from my reverie. "Come, Emilia. It's time." His command is harsh, brooking no argument. With a swish of his dark cloak, he turns and strides from the room, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoes in my hollow chest.
I hesitate, my body tensed against the reality of what's coming. Each second I delay feels like a small rebellion, a fleeting grasp at control. But the choice isn't mine to make. With a heavy sigh, I force my legs to move, my feet dragging across the cold stone floor. The air in the corridor feels thick, each breath a struggle as I follow the sound of his receding footsteps.
The corridor is dimly lit, the torches on the walls casting long shadows that flicker like the doubts darting through my mind. A desperate prayer loops continuously within me, a silent chant for freedom, for a miracle. Yet, with each step I take, the heavy weight of inevitability settles deeper. Hope, once a bright flame, flickers dimly now, threatened by the gusts of my grim reality.
Maybe things won’t be so bad for me. Maybe he’ll win and I’ll get to stay.
My attempts at optimism are soon drowned out by the eerie thoughts that invade my mind. Either way, I’ll be a slave to someone. A dark elf or an orc. I’m used to a miserable life here, but what if it only gets worse?
What if the orc is crueler than Aleryn?
6
JURTO
Standing in the players’ tunnel, waiting for the match to begin, we sense the trembling of the arena due to the boisterous cheering and yells of the rowdy fans that await us.
We stand shirtless, showing off our muscles, scars, and years of meticulous preparation for this very moment. My teammates encapsulate me, from Hrogun to Rogar to Karg and all the others.
In any zyrphix match, we need an abundance of players ready to jump into the match at any given moment. The dark elves are dirty bastards and they’ve knocked my players unconscious in particularly brutal games before.
If Aleryn or any of his dark elves do that today, I’ll break their damn arms.
“You’re tense, Jurto,” Hrogun notes, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve prepared well for this moment. I wouldn’t worry.”
I turn towards him slightly. “I won’t be able to relax until we’ve secured our victory.”
“Spoken like a true champion,” he replies with a crooked grin.
Outside, a horn blows and echoes loudly throughout the arena, signaling our entrance onto the field.
As I step into the sunlight, the roar of the crowd hits me like a physical force, a tidal wave of noise that makes my blood thrum in my ears. My chest swells with pride as I lead my teammates, the mighty Bloodcrushers, onto the field. Rogar and Karg are immediately on either side of me, their huge frames casting shadows that merge with mine. Behind us, Varg and Kyleb beat their chests, their deep, guttural roars adding to the chaos of the crowd's excitement.
The stands are a sea of faces, a blur of colors and movement, but the energy they emit is unmistakable—it feeds my spirit, sharpens my senses. I can almost taste the anticipation in the air, tangy and electric. "Today, we conquer," I mutter under my breath, and Hrogun, ever the keen listener, echoes my words with a nod and a fierce grin.
Borka and Kraag jog past, slapping my back as they move to flank the group. Their laughter booms over the din, infectious and bold. Krodash lets out a bellow that silences a nearby section of the crowd for a mere heartbeat before their cheers redouble.
The ground beneath my bare feet feels alive, vibrating with the stomps and cheers of the crowd. I look around at my teammates, seeing the fire in their eyes, the readiness, the unspoken promise of a battle to be remembered. "This is our day," I shout over the noise, my voice raw with passion and determination.
Hrogun leans in, his voice steady and sure, "And they'll sing songs of this match, brother. Let's give them a chorus they'll never forget."
As we take our positions on the parched, cracked ground of the arena, the dirt feels like ancient bones crumbling under my feet. I know the terrain well, every uneven spot where a foot might slip, every patch that kicks up dust like a small storm when trodden upon. The rules of the game race through my mind—no weapons, but any brutal takedown of the ball carrier is fair game. Magic can't secure the ball, only scatter it, a rule that puts pure, physical prowess at the forefront.
Across the sun-scorched field, Aleryn and his Nightswords make their entrance. They strut across the arena with an exaggerated elegance, drawing both boos and cheers from the crowd. The discordant sounds merge into a wild cacophony that fills the air with tension.
Despite their show, my gaze remains unflinchingly fixed on Aleryn. His smirk, ever present, seems painted on, a mask to hide whatever flicker of doubt he feels facing us. I ground my teeth, feeling a growl rise in my throat, suppressed only by the tightening grip I have on my self-control.
"Focus on the game, not their theatrics," I remind myself, speaking the words softly under my breath as if to cement them in my mind. My teammates, sensing my tension, rally around, their presence a solid reassurance of our strength and unity.
Karg, massive and unyielding, claps me on the shoulder. "We smash through them, Jurto. Let their dance end under our boots."
I nod, grateful for his simplicity. It's not about the flash for us; it's about the impact, the raw energy of collision, and the thrill of the chase. As the referee gives the signal for the captains to come to the center of the field, my heart hammers in my chest, adrenaline surging like wildfire through my veins.
Meanwhile, the rest of my team lines up, our formation tight and aggressive.