“It was dark. Dark and cold and clear. The stars shone bright. The moon was full.
"Blood for the blood gods," they chanted as they dressed.
"Blood for the blood gods," they droned as they took the pitch.
"Blood for the blood gods!" they entreated to the skies as the ball sailed into the air after the kick.
"Blood for the blood gods!!" they screamed as the eyes of the vampires clouded over.

Somewhere, deep in the deepest dark of the night sky, something stirred. Something so old as to have had its name forgotten, so old as to have the stones upon which it's name was once etched have crumbled to dust and grit. It stirred, and blocked out the stars. It leaned close to watch the match. And it was not disappointed. One after the other, the fell lords of undeath supped upon the marrow of their hapless slaves. As the bodies smashed together, bone and muscle shattered and tore. A curse fell upon the field, as men and beasts, once strong and brave, cowered under the unearthly gaze of that which man was not meant to know.

In the end, no one was a winner. The referee blew his whistle, and all left the pitch fearful. No stories of glory were on the lips of the fans, no fists raised in victory. Only a whisper was spoken, here and there. A reminder not to look into the black, starless living night that hovered over the pitch. No one was pleased, except the thing. The thing withdrew, sailing back to the stars to sleep, and was happy.

"Blood for the blood gods," whispered a broken form, forgotten on the pitch.”