Mercer Entura
The ball soared through the air in a perfect arc, and despite the escalating shouts of the court sailed into the face of one (1) redblood, where it landed with a crunch. As it bounced away across the floor, a shrill whistle sounded. All activity in the gymnasium screeched to a halt.
“Desaga!” a gruff voice barked. The coach stood in front of the bleachers, hands on his hips, and moustache quivering.
“You're still with us, aren't you? Not too hurt? Good. NOW GET OFF THE COURT!! Entura!” He let out another whistle (this time with his lips) and beckoned the blueblood.
“Get Desaga to the first aid station before he bleeds out over the floor. I expect to see you both back here in five minutes. Now, GET A MOVE ON!!”Only once his back was turned did Mercer dare to roll his lookstubs. He jogged over to where the Bunsen stood, a stream of bright red blood rushing from his sniffnode.
“You okay?” he asked.
“That looks like it smarts.”
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