How about a Mystic Druid Halftime Ritual, and include Lupa

Yes. Yes. Let’s crack the veil.

Scene: The Halftime Hollow

The second quarter ends like a door slamming. The Plateaus jog off the field—mud-caked, breathing hard, bruised. The roar of the crowd fades as they descend into the dim, winding tunnel beneath Tromethor Stadium.

But this time, instead of the usual raucous locker room clamor, Coach Cian raises one long-fingered hand. Silence follows, unnatural and reverent. He nods once toward a metal door marked with nothing but an old, carved knot.

“Into the Hollow.”

Lupa is already there, waiting.

The room is alive in a different way. Not with sound, but with breath—the air thick with the scent of sage, moss, and iron. Moonlight glows from the artificial canopy above, filtered through branches that shouldn’t be able to grow in a sub-basement. Roots twist down the walls like veins. The center of the space is marked by a spiral of green stones, each one etched with a sigil that hums softly if touched.

Lupa stands at its heart. His gray-furred arms are bare, gleaming with sweat and marked in fresh druidic sigils, glowing faintly with CRT green. The headset is off. This is not the Defensive Coordinator. This is something older.

“You’re not just players,” he says quietly, voice like gravel under wet leaves. “You’re echoes of something ancient. And you’re bleeding too clean.”

He crouches and places one clawed hand to the earth. The floor shudders. The lights flicker and settle into green twilight.

One by one, the Plateaus are drawn in—Dex, still catching his breath; Schlitz, quiet for once; Fionn, lowering his head with solemn grace. Even Jack’D enters, holding a bundle of sweat-damp gear like it’s a sacred offering.

Lupa gestures to the players.

“We leave the first half here,” he says.

“Not just the sweat. Not just the dropped passes. All of it. Your anger. Your pride. Your ghosts. Feed it to the Hollow.”

Fionn steps forward first. He unlaces a leather wrist strap and drops it onto the stones. A green flame licks up briefly, then dies.

One by one, they each leave something: a towel, a broken mouthguard, a snapped chin strap. Each item pulses green and fades.

Then it’s Lupa’s turn.

He reaches up—and tears off his headset. He crushes it in his clawed hand, wires sparking. He hurls it into the center.

“No control,” he growls. “Only instinct. Let the forest call the next play.”