The rain had set in. It didn't pour, it slouched out of the grey clouds, running in rivulets through the mud. It filled the swamp, which slurped once again through the Badlands kingdom. It hit the ground so hard there was a sort of mist of ricochets.

It drummed off the gravestones in the cemetery behind the training pitch, and into the small pit dug for Grim Toejam .

There were always only players at a player's funeral, Great Gobbo told himself. Oh, sometimes there were ex-team-mates like Yeruck Blacknail here today, but you never got crowds. Perhaps Doctor Eadcase was right. When you become a Blood Bowl player, you stopped being everything else.

There was a small shamen who gave the generic fill-in-deceased's-name-here service, designed to be vaguely satisfactory to Gork, Mork, Nuffle and any other gods who might be listening. The small coffin was lowered into the grave, and the shamen threw a ceremonial handful of dirt on the coffin, except that instead of the rattle of soil there was a very final splat.

And Greeda Stinkbreath, to the Great Gobbo's surprise, made a speech. It echoed across the soggy ground to the rain-dripping trees. It was really based around the only text you could use on this occasion: he was my friend, he was one of us, he was a good lad.

The congregation began to break up and head for the nearest tavern, all except for the Great Gobbo who waited until he was sure that everybody else had left. Then a small voice, constantly on the edge of breaking, could just be heard above the thunder of the rain. It was singing a song mournfully:

"Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Gork, with me abide;
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me."

R.I.P Grim Toejam.