6. Jurto

6

JURTO

S tanding 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.

The ball, which explodes out from the ground underneath us with each new play, is held by the orc referee at the center of the arena. He beckons me over, and he does the same to Aleryn. Clenching my jaw, I keep an indifferent expression for the dark elf bastard.

I can feel the heat from the sun above and the heated breaths of my teammates beside me, all of us primed for the chaos that's about to erupt.

"Remember, brothers," I shout over the noise, gesturing towards them as I walk towards the center. "Hold nothing back! And defend your brothers like your lives depend on it!"

Hrogun and Borka lift their fists up and let out roars of approval, continuing to rile up our side of the crowd with their enthusiastic gestures.

As the initial chaos of our entrance settles, Aleryn and I advance toward midfield, the traditional ground of truce before the storm of the game. The ground crunches under my heavy steps, a stark contrast to his lighter, almost noiseless tread. The sun beats down, casting sharp shadows that slice across the dry earth, mirroring the sharp divisions between our teams.

Aleryn's lip curls into a haughty smile as we near each other, his eyes gleaming with disdain and challenge. He's always had a way of looking at the world as if it owes him something more. I keep my face stoic, my gaze steady, sizing up this elf who I've come to know so well on the field—too well, perhaps. Every scar and sneer on his face tells a story of our past encounters.

We stop less than an arm's length apart, the customary handshake pending like a silent battleground itself. His hand meets mine, the grip firm but slippery, like grasping a snake.

"Jurto," he says, his voice smooth, almost silky. "Ready to taste defeat once again?"

I tighten my grip slightly, feeling the coarse dirt beneath my feet. "Aleryn, your arrogance remains unmatched. But it will be your downfall, as always."

His eyes narrow slightly, the smile never wavering. "We shall see. Perhaps this time you'll finally understand that brute strength can't match precision."

I let out a low chuckle, feeling the tension rise like a wave between us. "And maybe you'll learn that all the precision in the world can't save you when real power comes crashing down."

We release our hands, stepping back with mutual reluctance, the air thick with unspoken threats and remembered pain. As we turn to head back to our respective sides, Aleryn calls over his shoulder. "Don't hold back, Jurto. I wouldn't want your defeat to have any excuses."

"I never do," I reply, the words thrown like a spear. "Watch closely today. It might teach you something about real strength."

A flash of anger crosses his sharp features, which elicits in me a deep satisfaction.

Aleryn's gaze attempts to pierce through me, sharp and calculating. I meet it without flinching, my resolve as hard as the sun-baked earth underfoot. In this moment, the air between us crackles, charged with the history of our rivalry and the anticipation of the clash to come. His team, sleek and confident, stands behind him like shadows mirroring his arrogance. Mine, robust and resolute, forms a solid wall of determination at my back.

The referee, a neutral figure amid the swirling emotions, steps forward. His hand lifts, a silent herald of the impending storm. Time seems to slow, the crowd's roar dimming to a distant rumble, and my focus narrows to the immediate task at hand. With the gravity of a general leading his troops, I turn and stride towards my team, every step planting deeper the seeds of impending victory.

"We know what we're up against," I speak low, my voice steady, reaching each of my teammates as they gather around. Their nods and clenched fists fuel my spirit. "We've trained for this. We've bled for this. Today, every drop of sweat pays off."

Their responses, a chorus of grunts and determined looks, forge our resolve into something unbreakable. We line up, our formation as tight as the bonds that hold us together. I glance once more across the field, catching Aleryn's smug expression, a silent promise of the challenge he brings.

The moment stretches, each second a drawn-out battle of wills across the dusty expanse between us. The referee scans the field, ensuring every rule is met, every player in place. The crowd holds its breath, the collective anticipation palpable in the air.

The referee mumbles an incantation, which sends the ball into the ground underneath us. It will emerge suddenly once the play begins. We must be ready to take possession of it.

This pause, this deep breath before the plunge, sharpens everything—the colors of our uniforms, the distant shouts of the crowd, the very air seems charged with electricity. I tighten my grip on my resolve, my eyes never leaving the ball, the prize that awaits our contest.

Today, we stand on the brink. Today, the battle is set, the lines drawn. The whistle will sound, the game will start, but at this moment, we are already warriors, already champions in our hearts. Victory calls, and we are ready to answer.