GGTTP 3 -1 Dulla's Kowboys

“But I don’t understand!”  Coach Lysenko shouldered his way past Auburn Branagh and blocked the doorway out of the dressing room.  “You guys won!  Again!”

The elf made a feint to the left but then dodged nimbly around to the right as the coach tried to stop him leaving.  Lysenko quickly turned on his heels and followed him down the corridor, struggling to keep up.

“We’re actors, Coach,” Branagh explained over his shoulder, not slowing a step.  “We’re not sportsmen.”

“But we’re second in the league!  You can’t leave now!  Money!  Glory!  FAME!"

Branagh’s step faltered a little.  He stopped, turned.

“Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”  the coach pleaded with him.

“Girth got his nose broken!”  Branagh protested.

“Does the tree even have a nose?”  Lysenko decided to check next time he saw Girth.

“Well, it’s more like a sort of... well, it’s a kind of... knobby protuberance, but it looks like a nose.  And it’s broken.”

Lysenko had to admit, he hadn’t seen that one coming.  Even against orcs, when you could expect all manner of injuries to your players, treemen were the last ones  you’d expect to be finishing a game on a stretcher.  But Lysenko didn’t want to think about that one.  It had taken a team of six horses and a mile of rope to drag Girth from the field after Tonto the troll had head-butted him, and the treeman hadn’t spoken to anyone since.

“No,” the elf shook his head.  “We’re leaving.”

The coach sighed, raising his hands in submission.  “Fine, fine.  If there’s nothing I can do to change your mind...”

Branagh turned his back.

“Except...”  Lysenko patted down his pockets.  After a moment, he pulled out a small parchment envelope and handed it to Branagh.  “Not sure what this is,”  the coach shrugged.  “Someone left it outside the dressing room this morning.”

Branagh held up the envelope and examined the neat script penned immaculately in glittering purple ink.  “It’s for me,” he said.  The coach said nothing, but waited for the elf to open it.

“Lovely quill work,” the elf commented, as he unfolded the letter which was inside.

“Is it?” Lysenko asked innocently.   “Probably just some random bit of fan mail.”

Branagh’s eyes widened as he scanned the page.  “It is!” he gasped.

“Really?”  The coach offered nonchalantly.  “You must get those all the time.  As an actor.”

“Well, yes.  Now and then.  Occasionally.  Well, not at all really.”  The elf continued to read, picking out phrases every now and then, whispering them to himself in awe.  “Magnificent skill... the epitome of Blood Bowling mastery... a marvel to watch...  possibly the greatest player in the history of the sport!”  

Branagh hugged the letter to his chest, his eyes glazed with tears.  “THEY LOVE US!” he cried.  “THEY BLOODY LOVE US!”

Lysenko patted the elf on the shoulder.  “That’s nice,” he said.  “But I’ll let you get back to your acting, now.  The limelight awaits, no doubt.”

“The what -?  Oh no, that won’t do at all.  We’re not going anywhere.  We couldn’t possibly let down... the fans, could we?”

Lysenko smiled innocently.  “Well, if you insist...”

“I most certainly do!”  Branagh was practically marching back to the dressing room.  “I was thinking up a few new strategies, to be honest.  What if Glorfindel were to throw the ball to me rather than Pine-Cone or Hare-Foot?  Nobody would expect that, would they?  Bit of a twist in the tale, eh?”

“Um,” the coach mused, “we could think about it...”

“I mean, let’s face it, don’t you think I’m a bit wasted on the line of scrimmage?”

“Well... perhaps...” Lysenko wasn’t sure.

“Oh, you’ve got something on your fingers... Coach.”

“Have I?  It’s nothing.”  Lysenko quickly wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving a smear of glittering purple ink.  “Tell me about Glorfindel again?”