Page 30 of The Fake Divination Offense
And I’m going to trust that my teammates are here to play, too.
None of them have given me shit during practices. They haven’t from the start, but I dunno; I expectedsomethingto get bad after the lawsuit announcement, a reminder that I’m atraitor to the Urzoth community. No one else on this team claims Urzoth as their god, though, so maybe that helps. Plus, the positive press about me and Alexo seems to have usurped the lawsuit news. Or Roesia’s attitude toward the lawsuit is indicative of the whole team’s stance.
There won’t be any repeats of stuff like what the Chimeras pulled.
Everything’s. Just.Fine.
The locker room’s mostly full already, everyone launching into their various pregame rituals or prep.
Darian’s in the corner restringing his guitar and cooing quietly to it; apparently it gets stage fright unless he assures it how good it sounds.
I’ve learned to take people at their word when it comes to enchanted rawball items.
Like how another of the tanks across the room is currently feeding strips of charred steak to her broadsword—yeah, how doesthatwork—because if it doesn’t get a steady diet offlesh, it’llcut opponents too deep, and we want tonickthem, notmutilatethem.
Then there are players like me, who go in with no weapons other than their body and fists, and get to pummel the shit out of the opposing team when they get too close to their designated offensive player.
Fucking love this game.
I dig through my locker for my gear. Shin guards, elbow guards, cup, chest shield, helmet, and more.
When I’m suited up, the last thing I pull out is my jersey. The Urzoth patch is sewn on the upper left shoulder.
This’ll be the first time I’m wearing my Hellhounds uniform for a game. I’d hoped to go in with just the Hellhounds logo and my number, 64. Nothing more.
My thumb runs over the stitched symbol of the axe in a stone.
I had an iron pendant with this symbol when I was younger. I’d cling to it and pray and pray andprayat Camp Merethyl.Beggedthat pendant, begged Urzoth for strength, for the pain to stop.
Strong as stone. Hard as rock. Stones don’t have feelings. Emotionless, tough, nothing hurts stone.
A door slams open and I startle, sniffing hard against the stinging in my eyes. Gets so damn dry down here.
I shove to my feet and tug on my jersey as the coaches file in.
The head coach is Arthur Riprak, an older dwarven man I’m pretty sure only shows emotion when the Hellhounds win. He claps twice. “Listen up! We got the field layout from the Gorgons.”
Rawball routine: the visiting team’s artificers choose and design the field’s layout. Which means the home team doesn’t know what they’re working with until the day of the game.
We all gather in the center of the massive room that always kind of smells like sweat and hand chalk. I up-nod Darian and Marlow, and they return it.
Behind me, there’s a groan like something shifting, stretching—
Then a willow tree shoots to the ceiling.
I look up at it. “Hey, Phei.”
Its branches droop into the crowd and someone bats one aside.
“We talked about forms that get all up in other people’s business when we’re not on the field, didn’t we?” that person groans. “Phei, can you—”
The tree vanishes, becoming a wobbling, see-through humanoid form made of… wind?
“Thanks,” the same person says, and Phei’s air form burbles assent.
“Are we all good?” Riprak calls. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Now, the field.”
He turns to his assistant coach, who splays her hands, and a miniature version of the field appears in an arcane whorl over all our heads.
