The port town was little more than a dock on the shores of Lumbria, one of the few places that had any people coming from outside the island. The village, called Taumatawhakatangi­hangakoauauotamatea­turipukakapikimaunga­horonukupokaiwhen­uakitanatahu like the little knoll that overlooked the poor houses of the locals, was a common restplace for little Ind and Catai cargos looking to reach the shores of Lumbria and Naggaroth, but even then it was extremely rare to meet someone who wasn't a sailor or some unlucky settler. The Kangors and the Yowies that inhabited the inner part of the island weren't the most sociable of peoples and even then they were mostly regarded as troublemakers more than anything else. People from anywhere else were unheard of in the quiet village of Taumatawhakatangi­hangakoauauotamatea­turipukakapikimaunga­horonukupokaiwhen­uakitanatahu with its dock and its little tavern where sailors got drunk before sailing away the next morning.
It was then quite surprising when a giant silvery palace appeared, one misty morning, on top of "the hill of the nose-flute playing by Tamatea – who was blown hither from afar, had a slit penis, grazed his knees climbing mountains, fell on the earth, and encircled the land – to his beloved". Even more surprising was the fact that the inhabitants of that building were creatures even more bizzarre than those found on that mysterious island, and that, strangely enough, the lawn at the bottom of the hill had been smoothed and some white lines had been drawn with white paint. Some of the sailors told stories about what that meant - it was some kind of rite or game, called Blood Bowl, where people fought a war to please a God named Nuffle.
Apparently, the coming of these outsiders had also called beasts from the hinterland. Tall kangors, vicious dropbears and an odd Yowie dressed like a woman started to come to the city, followed by other of their kind, apparently there to support them.
While that was quite annoying, the people soon found out that to them that meant little more than a good income, as if a larger ship full of noisy sailors had anchored in the bay. Taumatawhakatangi­hangakoauauotamatea­turipukakapikimaunga­horonukupokaiwhen­uakitanatahu was less quiet than usual, but people didn't care much, and instead were happy of the gold that suddenly was flowing into their pocket. Even the usual violent brawls caused by the dropbears and the occasional disappearance of some of the citizens and sailors were considered little more than trivial annoyances. Soon the tavern, little more than a couple of rooms near the shipyard, was full of bizzarre creatures and men, all talking strange and unknown languages , all drinking rivers of beer. And the locals were fine with that.

"...and so there was this fat halfling that dressed like a cook. Generally that's not a strange thing, halfling teams love their cooks and they always bring them to the game. They say you haven't really eaten Stirland Stew until you've eaten one made by a halfling and you know what? They're right! Anyway, we see this fatso going in the field with a cleaver in each hand and one of my teammates gloms. Then he says me that the cook is called Mincemeat something something and he's some kind of star or whatever. So the game starts and they have chainsaws and this cook maniac hopping around stabbing guys like it's nobody's business, cackling like Voonith there. The guy I was talking with before, I think he was called Berthold, gets his throat sliced clean and the other guys start panicking. So I got to the little knife-wielding idiot and give him a elbow between his eyes. The douchebag just cracked like a watermelon and they had to carry him away from the field." The loud ramblings of Maximilian Windhelm, former captain of the Creeveland Crescents, were interrupted as the massive mutated Middenheimer got a large sip out of the giant keg of beer in one of his hands. With another one of his arms he cleared his mouth from the foam, then with a disgusted grimace he resumed talking to his fellow, a tall but skinny tzaangor, with his thick Empire accent. "Pfah. Unbelievable what some people consider beer. I wouldn't wash my socks with this shit. Still beats the little prissy doses of rose water the elves pretend is a stout, though. Eugh. Anyway, what I was trying to say is that you have never seen something truly strange until you've gone stunty. Well, or until you get into Tzeentch, if you know what I mean." He winked to the statue-like hulk that sat beside him. Eltrith stood immobile. "So, anyway, there was this other time..."

Vol'arth had seen some of the strangest things the Warp had to offer, truths so unspeakable that just hearing them turned wise men insane, vistas so alien that brave warriors cried like toddlers at the mere sight. And yet, all those trials he had withstood to gain the favor of his patron, Tzeentch, paled in comparison to the effect the gab of the warrior was having on his psyche. With every useless anecdote, every unfunny joke he spouted, the tzaangor could feel a little thread of sanity, which he cherished and held on for so long, slipping away. What was worse, he had been talking for hours without pause and hadn't shown any sign of fatigue. He looked at Eltrith to get some help, but the iron-clad figure sat still as usual, little more than a body and an armor. Really useful on the field, not so much in stifling such a formidable flow of nonsense.
Trying to find an ally, his eyes wandered further in the chaotic mass that crowded the tavern. Surprisingly, he find one. A wild eyed man, his beard unkempt, was stumbling across the room, in a combination of drunken stupor and sleep deprivation.
"HEY COACH" Vol'arth screeched, trying to catch AutoAxpert's attention. The man looked at them and lurched towards their table.
"H-h-hey, Vol'arth, hey Max. What.... what... w-what are you doing here?"
"Hey coach! Looking good! We were talking about old times and some memorable games we played, drinking some beer, you know, the usual. Want to join in?"
"Yes coach! Want to join in? It would be an honor!". Vol'arth knew he sounded a bit too eager, but he was desperate to find someone who could act as a scapegoat, or at least someone to share the burden.
"Ahah. HA! No-no-n-no, you're too kind, but I'm just he-here to take m-m-my barrell of beer. Then it's back to my to sleep. To try to get some sleep. Say Max, what did you do with that thing I gave it to you last week."
"Uhm, I think it's still in my room back in the Hall. Didn't check in a couple of days though. Why?"
"W-w-well, well, well because it came back to my room. Or at least is an identical one, and you know, it just ticks, and ticks, and ticks, and IT JUST KEEPS TICKING AND IT'S BEEN MORE THAN A MONTH AND THE MIRRORS STARTED TO SPEAK WITH ME, FIRST IT WAS JUST MY REFLECTION BUT NOW THERE'S LIKE A WHOLE CROWD IN THERE AND THEY ALL TALK ALL THE TIME AND I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!"

The two players looked with concern at their coach. He tidied himself up.
"Ok ok, no, I'm fine. Look, we gotta take this damn trophy, so maybe I can then get some sleep. Next game against dropbears. Vicious things, but that's fine we can give them a good beating. I think. I need to take some beer and then go to bed. Things are fine. Remember what I told you at our training session: tie them up and hit hard. Do you understand?"
Both players nodded.
"Good... good."
As the man staggered towards the exit, his eyes crossed with those of the tzaangor. Both of them desperate for a relief. Both of them unable to help the other one.

"So, we were saying... oh yeah. That one time we got on a tour in Lustria. Those were days. Do you know that Amazon cheerleaders are still females? I mean, if you're going for some eye candy, there's nothing better. Well, maybe Witch Elves. I remember playing the Deadly Nightshades, and the competion was more than a little stiff, if you catch my meaning. Those were some mean chicks. Man, those were days! Anyway, I was telling you about that time it started to snow in the middle of the jungle..."