“In the locker room down the hall, the hauling of the wolf was intense and terrifying. The Warriors however, showed no emotion at all. They sat silently, together but away from each other. They were ready. Ready for the third game. Círdan Telemnar, the muscular lineman with the pale blue eyes, looked around. There were only ten of them, having lost two Warriors in the last two games. But he had no fear: the spirit of his homeland burnt fiercly in all of them. As he heard the cry of the wolf get even louder, Círdan found himself silently laughing. He knew then this game would be won.

And so it was. The Warriors struggled but kept fighting. Círdan looked around and saw the fractured leg of the tough Drit'hul Ciryatan. He knew he could not play next game, but only next game. They would be with nine. As he took the bloody bandage of his left arm, there was a knock on the door. He was wrong, they would be with 10: there was his distant cousin, the most gifted young thrower of his town. He smiled again. Things were getting better.”