It had been raining for weeks in Ryedale, at last the rain had turned to freezing sleet to give the goblins something different to complain about as they slosh through the disgusting mixture of mud and gore that was once the team's pitch. Inside the old mine owner’s house Gerald and the few surviving senior members of the Six Feet Underdogs huddle around a meagre fire kindled from a few broken pieces of furniture. A banner declaring “Game 100!” hangs limply across the back wall, surrounded by wilted, popped and deflated balloons. A few planks of wood serving as a sideboard hold a meagre offering of the teams least fetid scavengings from the previous few days to celebrate the achievement, but the atmosphere in the room is far from jovial.

“Come on Laz’pler dear rat, cheer up – shall I send for a goblin so we can tie it up and beat it? You always do enjoy a good party game!” Enquires Gerald “Plus aren’t we celebrating your promotion – the second legendary player on the Underdogs, I really never thought I would see one let alone two – congratulations my fine mutated friend! Surely you’re happy about that”

“Soreee boss, eets just I’m not in th’ mood, wat wiv Ber’anx looking like that, eets ‘ard to have fun” Laz’pler replies nodding towards a dark corner where the apothecary is fussing over Ber’anx as the skaven stares blankly into the flames of the fire.

“Hay… yes you apothecary, well don’t look so offended I’m sure you have a name, I just don’t care what it is… is there anything you can do to get my dear Ber’anx to snap out of it? He is dampening the spirits in this place!”

“I’m soreee meee lieeege” grovels the underling “Weee need to expect theees: eeee ‘as come back from th’ dead maneee times now an’ that kneee eeet aint gonna ever beeee reeeet.”

As if from far away Ber’anx speaks but never takes his eyes from the flickering flames “Every time I come back I am a bit less. Pieces of you get chipped away”.

The apothecary obsequiously sidles up to Gerald and makes a show of whispering in the Troll’s ear “I theenk eee eees tryin’ to get eees self killed – eeets like eee dont eeeven care no more an’ wi’ the concussion an’ th’ niggle I don’t theeenk eeets gonna beee tooo long now – better get another bleeetzer ready”

“Well that’s just damnably depressing. I’m going to have to have to broach another keg of ‘shroom in shite’. I’ll get pished even if no one else will. Happy 2516 one and all! (hic) and happy 100th game too!”

Thanks to all my opponents for many laughs along the way.