It was a nice evening in the Coven of the Mirrored Hall - which meant that the weather was awful and screams of agony were heard anywhere, but at least there weren't rains of acid, screaming blue daemons flying around or Imperial shepherd dogs appearing out of nowhere and then exploding messily. You had to take what you could in a hellish place such as the Wastelands.

AutoAxpert was drowsily walking towards what he thought was his apartments, when a flickering light caught his attention. The familiar sound of a CabalVisor came from the ajar door of the room, along with a delicious smell of Middenheimer Bratwurst. Puzzled, the coach opened the door.

He was greeted by the sight of Maximilian Windhelm in his undergarments, his eyes staring at the spheric screen. In his four hands two kegs of beer and four sandwiches with sausage. It seemed like the huge man had started eating them, as the greasy mustache seemed to suggest, but stopped halfway, and now was clutching feverishly to it. The hulking warrior seemed freezed in place, and didn't even seem to notice that his coach had entered the room.

"Max? What are you doing still awake? We need to tighten our training schedule now that Eltrith is-"
"SHHH."
The player pointed one of his fingers towards the screen.
"It's him"

Confused, AutoAxpert looked to the screen. There was a CIBBL game; on one side, in the familiar blood and gold jerseys were the Estalians. AA hadn't met them yet, but he knew they were tough cookies. The other team he didn't recognise, a ragtag collection of untrustworthy-looking fellows wearing leather. Among them however there was a player that really stood out: he wore a full set of armor, with a shiny winged helmet on his head and an impressive white mustache. Despite the evident age, his poise and fitness were incredible. He clearly was a born player - an older one for sure, but one of those rare ones that seemed to be at home on the field.

A childhood memory flashed, a similarly dressed player triumphant with a huge cup (the Bloodbowl?) in his hand, smiling at photographers. At the time he didn't have any facial hair, and the armor was less elaborate and not gold and white, but that was definitely the same player. AutoAxpert remembered his father cheering, calling him the greatest of all time.

"Wait, is that...?"
"Griff. FUCKING. Oberwald."
Max's voice was really different from the usual. Normally, he sounded like a loud, jovial guy, one of those old men that spent their lives telling stories about their past deeds. Now, it was cold and grim, so full of hatred it was almost scary.
"I thought he had retired a lot of time ago."
"This is his return game, straight out of my nightmares back to torment me."
"By Sigmar, I remember the Reavers winning with him as their captain back in 2589, and he was already a veteran. How old is he now?"
"Fifty-seven. He's fifty-seven years old and it seems like time didn't even glanced him. Oh, sure, he's a bit out of shape, maybe, and he doesn't jump everywhere like he used to do, but he's still going with all cylinders it seems."
The CabalVision cameraman focused on him, the graphics unmercifully showing all the accolades he won in his already long career. The aged Reiklander waved to the crowd, an handsome smile on his face. Windhelm's hands angrily tightened around the sandwiches remains.

The game begun, and immediately Oberwald's class was evident: with a masterful blitz, he stole the ball for his team. The guys in leather were clearly outmatched, but Griff was seemingly everywhere and gave them a chance to stay in the game. With a couple of perfect blocks, he knocked out a couple of Estalians. He was surrounded, but waltzed his way to an early score. Everybody seemed to cheer for him, even the opposing team crowd.
His supporting cast, however, didn't seem up to the challenge. The white-clad star looked alone in the mid of the crowd of Estalians, which ruthlessly kicked every player that happened to fall to the ground. Soon enough, the game was tied again. At halftime, Griff waved to the cheering crowd on his way to the locker room, but he looked winded and frustrated.

"You know, my memories are kinda hazy, before the Coven I mean. I can't recall the village I was born in, or the name of my childhood friends, or the sound of my wife's voice."
For the whole half, Max had just sat still, a disgusted expression on his face. It was really strange to be in a quiet room with the boisterous warrior. Even now, his voice was more of a hush, almost unrecognisable.
"Yet, I remember every single game I have ever played with incredible clarity, including those meaningless ones I played in the end. And I remember every single Reavers I had the displeasure of meet. With the exception of that idiot Zwimmer, he's the one I hate the most. Always there, dancing on the field, being untouchable, just out of reach. Oh, I have hurt him before. In 2579 I broke his leg. In 2582 I kicked him so hard in the head that he heard bells in his ears for months, or so they told me. And yet, every time I played him, he always seemed to come on top. I have spent my whole career wanting to just beat him once, but somehow victory always escaped me. Until now, I thought revenge was out of my hands. Zwimmer is somewhere being an old geezer. Zug was always too stolid to be a meaningful opponent. And Oberwald was enjoying his golden retirement. I had found serenity, in a way. And yet, here it is, and I feel my rage burning once again."

The four-armed colossus didn't blink, just kept staring at the screen, where the first incredible drive was being showed on a loop.
"And you know what the sad part is? He looks like a shadow of what the Griff Oberwald I know was. He's a tad slower, a little less agile, a bit more tired. He's old. This is not the Griff Oberwald I wanted to top, and yet I must destroy him, even now. Oberwald is mine. Even if I can't have my revenge the way I wanted, I MUST BE THE ONE TO END HIM."
Suddenly, the Middenheimer turned to face him. His eyes where bloodshot and filled of tears, but the face didn't show any kind of emotion. The coach had never felt as terrified.
"Will you help me, kid? Will you be the one who will fulfill a mad, old man wish?"
"Y-y-yeah, yeah, I guess."
"Good. Good."
Windhelm face relaxed, getting back to the usual smiling, grandpa-ish self.
"Oh, the second half is starting. Let's see if the Estalians can make it. You know, I once had played in a team which was really similar. Well, not really, in fact it was a team of half-hobgoblins that had a really feeble grasp of the rules of the game. But they too hated each other guts. It's a funny story how I got to play for them. Do you want a sandwich?"

The atmosphere was much less tense during the second half. Windhelm, as usual, started talking about past games, and didn't stop for a second. He cheered noisily for the Noblemen, ate and drank beer like an army, and almost choked himself laughing when Oberwald was carried away on a stretcher after an opposing player dived head-first on his crotch. In the end, the Estalians proved to be the better team, and the game ended 2-1 for the home team. And yet, despite the mood twist, AutoAxpert couldn't help but feel uneasy. As soon as the match finished, he conjured up an excuse and zipped out of the room. As he sprinted through the crooked corridors, a thick hail started to fall on the building, accompanied by purple lightnings.

"Ohhh, Myrmidia's tits. Is everybody in this place a madman?"

I WANT TO EAT THE COLOR YELLOW IT MUST TASTE LIKE TURTLES answered a voice in his head.