Murderball Tryouts

[NARRATION] A few days had passed since the courtyard incident, and Von Queef University had resumed its routines. Sort of. Students continued to place soft vigil lights at the crater site, their glow casting long, melancholic shadows across the quad—like spectral visitors too courteous to interrupt. But elsewhere, campus life trudged forward, uneven but persistent. Including, of course, the reluctant launch of Murderball season. Murderball: the crowning sport of Jericha. Tailored for the magically inclined and the recklessly aggressive. It was one part spellcraft, two parts concussive force, and entirely brutal. The objective? Pummel your opponents into unconsciousness with enchanted rocks. These rocks—aptly nicknamed Murderballs—were dense, round, and very intentionally painful. Naturally, tryouts overflowed. [NARRATION] The Murderball court resembled a circular amphitheater of sanctioned violence. Bisected by a glowing arcane line, its stadium seating was lined with sigils that healed injuries—but only once practice ended. The VQU Tyrants, Von Queef’s official team, oversaw the event with the air of bored royalty. Their uniforms shimmered with minor enchantments, and their animated skeletal mascot—a T-Rex named Bowflex—clattered and roared from the sidelines, mostly for effect. [NARRATION] Darius was impossible to miss. Seven feet tall and corded with muscle, he prowled the edge of the court like a predator eyeing an unworthy meal. The Tyrants eyed him hungrily—but warily. Raw Power was one thing. Discipline was another. TYRANT CAPTAIN (barking): Let’s see what the kitten can do! [NARRATION] Darius didn’t blink. He hurled the ball with such force it cracked the warding barrier on the far wall. The whole room recoiled. TYRANT CAPTAIN (laughing): Okay. So... not subtle. [NARRATION] Ash Stonefist sat watching from the bench, arms folded. He looked unimpressed. A bunch of overcharged dodgeball with too many rules and way too much shouting. But the way Darius locked in—the joy behind his eyes, the way he moved with instinct—it altered something in Ash. Philosophically. ASH (calling out): You’re overcompensating! Hold up! It’s not about muscle. It's patience. Let them come to you. [NARRATION] Darius blinked once. Then nodded. He tried again—waited, absorbed the incoming energy, and redirected it with lethal grace. The Murderball snapped from his grip like a spell gone feral. Three Tyrants ducked in unison. TYRANT PLAYER (groaning): Vithyrex be damned. He’s coachable. [NARRATION] In the stands, a flicker of movement. Ash turned. At the top row, Baron von Queef had taken up residence far too close to Eveline Pringle. Ash couldn’t hear their conversation, but he could read the theater—Baron gesturing grandly, smile too wide, charm oozing like potion sludge. Eveline’s face was unreadable, and that bothered Ash more than he expected. ASH (under breath): Perfect. Nepo baby with a crush. [NARRATION] "Watch out!" [NARRATION] Ash turned just in time to catch a glimpse of a Murderball hurtling toward his face. And then—movement. A blur of black fur, iron claws. Darius intercepted, sliding across the court and catching the ball one-handed, leaving gouges in the floor. DARIUS (grinning): Told you I’d get it. [NARRATION] Ash felt a moment of inbalance. He was proud of his new catfolk friend, yet jealous in a way he didn't himself want to deal with. He did what any guy would do, he acted smugly. ASH (coolly): Told you I’d coach you. [NARRATION] Around them, the rest of the tryouts descended into their own little wars. Complaints. Accusations. More bruises. Someone definitely cried. But in the eye of it all, Ash and Darius stood together—synchronized. Balanced. [NARRATION] Somewhere above, Eveline allowed herself a smile. Baron did not. [NARRATION] Murderball season had begun.