Gathered in a patch of grass outside the colossal Mirrored Hall, there was a small crowd. It was a solemn occasion, as one of the warriors had died. The still burning corpse of M'zart, player of the Coven, was composed on a table, the helm hiding the marks left by the claws of the vicious drop bear that ended his life. A small, crooked priest, with his wheezing voice, was celebrating the funerary rites:

"...and as his friend and teammates -uff-, brothers in faiths and in life -uff-, I'm sure you can find comfort in the fact -uff- that M'zart died doing what he liked best -uff-, on the Bloodbowl pitch -uff- battling the opponent -uff-..."

The priest ogled the team gathered in front of him, a collection of bandaged tzaangors, beaten-up warriors and screeching familiars. Maximilian Windhelm, easily identifiable with his white mustache, was sobbing loudly. Inhaling deeply, he started talking again:

"Now, if any of you wants to -uff- say something about your lost comrade..."

For some time, nobody motioned towards the podium. Visibly embarassed, the priest stepped down, puffing hurriedly to reach his seat. A moment of awkward silence fell on the funeral, broken only by Windhelm's weeping. Then, from the first line of seats, AutoAxpert rose and staggered towards the table, where M'zart was still blazing in his multicolored flame.

"Alright, I guess it comes down to me. I think it's fair to say that nobody liked M'zart. He was obnoxious, he had no talent for Blood Bowl, and he just kept shouting puns about flames or fire, and they were all terrible. I seriously don't remember him saying anything else, not only that, but he kept repeating the same ones. I lost count of how many times he said " I have a flame-boyant personality!", or "Woo, I'm on fire!". Most of the time it didn't even make sense in context."

The coach paused, staring at the team in front of him:

"However, nobody can doubt M'zart had passion in what he did. I think we can all get a lesson from this. And we can also say something else: this is where we draw a line! No more games where we get our butt kicked from little woodland creatures! No more games where people sit out of the whole game! No more warriors going on the field half naked! This is serious business, and I expect you to take it serious! This is where we turn our season around, starting from next game!"

He pointed out to the nearby town, Kislev:

"Our opponents are there. They want vengeance against Chaos, but not only they don't fear us, they laugh at us! I can hear them from here, and this time around it's not just the voices in my head!"

Neron assumed a perplexed look, apparently trying to actually hear the laughs in the wind.

"They think we are the laughingstock of the league! Are they right? My answer is no, they're really wrong, and we will make them pay for their laughs! At the end of the next game, we will be the ones laughing!"

Taking the suggestion to heart, Voonith started laughing loudly and irritatingly. Eltrith, who was sitting next to it, hit the grotesque creature on the end, making the racket end.

"If you don't want to end up on this table yourself, if you don't want to be dumped in a hole somewhere, forgotten by everyone, you have to say NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN I WILL BE OUTPLAYED BY OVERGROWN RATS! NEVER AGAIN I WILL LET MEN HALF AS TALL AS ME FORCE ME ON THE GROUND! NEVER AGAIN I WILL LET CUDDLY TEDDYBEARS KICK MY ASS AROUND! NEVER AGAIN I WILL FALL FACE-FIRST IN THE MUD AS I TRY TO SPRINT! IF YOU ARE WITH ME, IF YOU WANT TO BECOME THE TEAM THAT WINS THE HEART OF FANS WORLDWIDE, IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE CLOWNS ON A CABALVISION SHOW, RISE ON YOUR FEET AND SAY 'AYE'!"

Leaning on his crutch, Horok stood and cried "Aye!". Clapping with all four hands, tears still dripping from his eyes, Maximilian Windhelm stood up: "Well said, Coach, well said. Motivation is the first step to success!". Not making a noise, Eltrith just stood up. One at a time, but looking less convinced, every player of the team stood up. Last, Do Galaad, the Herald, the captain of the team, calmly rose to his feet and said: "Aye.".

The coach suppressed a burp, then started moving back to the Hall: "Alright, guys, double session tomorrow. We start at dawn. Now I'm going back to my room, AA out". A spark of excitement was snaking through the team, something that was missing the previous weeks. As the celebration ended, and the people started going back to the Hall, some familiars uncerimoniously threw the still burning corpse of M'zart in a hole dug in the ground and covered it with a shallow layer of dirt.

Back in the building, coach AutoAxpert felt uneasy. It had been a while, but for the first time in weeks he was, without a doubt, lost. He didn't recognise the corridor that opened in front of him, and that meant that the Hall wanted him to go somewhere else than his room. This rarely brought good news. Much to his frustation, he found himself in a dead end, with a giant black door marking the end of the hallway. The corridor behind him filled with unpleasant noise, so he decided that entering the room was probably the best choice.
The room was big and dark. The man could hardly see what was in front of him, and yet it was somehow familiar. But not in a good way. A big object stood in the middle of the room, barely visible in the dim light. At one of his side, a big, undefinable shape floated at about a feet from the ground. Terror filled the man's heart.

"No."
The shape stirred, moving away from the big piece of furniture - a giant mirror.
"No. Not you. You were dead."

A hooded figure condensed, much too close to the coach.
AutoAxpert clawed at the door behind him, trying to run away.
"YOU WERE DEAD! I KICKED YOUR CORPSE!"
The Harbinger leaned closer, baleful eyes staring at the panicked man.
"Not me. My obsolete predecessor. Pleased to meet you, coach. My name is Malphas, Harbinger of the Master."
The thing paused, engulfing the coach in smoke and mist.
"I'm sure we will work wonders together."