Six weeks ago ...
As the
145 Rookie League LVI Grand Championship drew to a close, a forgotten figure lay sprawled on a metal table in the dingy infirmary under the pitch.
The Elven healer stood to one side, apron caked with gore, bonesaw in hand, but merely waited, taking no action to assist her patient. They were alone, the stadium infirmary's Goblin attendants quickly dismissed after retrieving the broken player from the pitch.
Occasionally the roars and screams of the crowd filtered through the iron bars of the tiny window set high in the wall of the room. Occasionally the figure on the table groaned, gurgled, or made a feeble attempt to reach a hand to its wounds.
The time was close, and the healer approached. A single eye turned to look at her, blinking rapidly to keep its field of vision clear of blood.
"You see Ruckus, it just wouldn't have done. An entire team, winners, carried by a single player with just 9 SPP, who got lucky on his first level up? Ridiculous. It would have been a different story if you had scored again, or broke more face by your own hand, but you were too content to just support your fellow players and - ugh - help the team win. It was embarrassing, for all of us. I was there when they paid off the other team for your removal - did you notice how they would not stop fouling? Not paying off the referee too was a master stroke."
The healer stopped her exposition.
The figure had expired.