“It was the end of the first third of the second half and the Il'barsi clan was winning 2-0. This was a position they were not used to. Their opponents were a ferocious tribe of ogres who seemed barely to care about ball control. Instead they focussed on beating the orcs to oblivion. This tactic looked like it might start working. Sure, the Il'barsi had the ball...but they were deep back by their own endzone and there were several mountains of ogre approaching Kalek the ball carrier. The only teammates between Kalek and the marauding Ogres were Grizzt the rookie thrower and the teams only goblin. Yriol the goblin thought "Wow things don't look so good. They'll probably score here and then maybe toss one of their fliers for the tie...maybe win." He was glad he didn't have the ball!

Kalek looked at the masses of pain approaching him and shouted out with a commanding tone "Yriol! They're coming through your way! Ya gotta hold em off or you're in the pot for ol' Vlag!"

Yriol knew that the pot meant certain death...while if he stood his ground he'd probably just be crippled. He dug his cleats into the turf and waited for the agony.

The next thing he knew he was hit hard by the ogre who went by the name of Major Pounding. The wind was knocked out of him...and he realized that he was still in the arms of the Ogre about to hit the turf! As he struggled to squirm free he remembered someone telling him one time that,"if you hit someones nose just right, the cartilage will push into his brain like a spear, killing them instantly!" Yriol didn't think these ogres even HAD brains, but he set his hand against the ogres smell hole, gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

He was dead. It was absolutely silent and dark. His whole body ached. "That's not right, I shouldn't be feeling anything!" he thought. Slowly he opened his eyes and sat up...and was deafened by a roar that shook the earth itself. To his left lay the carcass of Major Pounding, dead, killed by a goblin!”