Blitzkrieg Brockman walked down the dark, echoing halls of the Nurgle stadium towards the visitor’s locker room. Game time approached quickly and Brockman had an uneasy feeling about the challenge that awaited his team. He had the Kruelty’s two nervous armourers behind him, following closely in the mist. Brockman was hoping they would finally be allowed to affix the golden stars he held in his hand to the right shoulder plate of Borris Bane’s armour. Currently the Kingston Kruelty’s brightest star, Borris Bane had been nick-named ‘Brain Problems’ by his teammates for his tendency to take his superstitions to extremes. The fact that Brockman still had the stars in his possession 8 games after the previous captain had fallen in battle was just one example. Since Captain Blunter’s death, Bane was the without a doubt the greatest leader and player on the team. His fearlessness, strength, and agility were largely responsible for the team’s current unbeaten streak, and Bane had been reluctant to ‘jinx’ the sprint’s success by becoming the new captain.

Donning the three stars would mean altering Bane’s armour slightly, and minor alterations were something ‘Brain Problems’ did not do when things were going well. He had finished games without a shoe if he had scored without one. He had started matches with his armour still covered in the previous games ‘lucky’ blood-splatter. And had the curious habit of shaving his helmet before every game, as if it were a living thing that appreciated the attention.

“Brain Problems indeed.” muttered Brockman as they approached the locker room door. The team needed the young player’s his leadership, not his mysticism. Superstition could work against you. Leadership always showed a way forward through adversity. Brockman thought back to his own days of wearing the stars, of being Kingston’s first team captain. He remembered taking the field before each game and going through his own small ritual. When his feet first touched the grass inbounds he would thump each armored shoulder with the opposite hand. First the stars on his right shoulder, followed by the skull on his left shoulder. As each palm met its mark he would recite one half of his family’s age old battle prayer, ‘’Ready to lead. Ready for death.” It was something he had passed on to each captain afterwards. Something they had all learned and accepted eagerly.. until Bane.

Opening the heavy iron door, Brockman was pleased to discover the room was well lit and in good order. Nurgle stadiums had been atrocious in the past, with dark, vile, reeking locker rooms that kept the opposition players at their worst right before a game. The Black Box league commissioners had acted 3 years ago to enforce minimum but stringent standards upon each stadium. Those found lacking risked banishment from the league. It appears the regulation had worked in this case.

Bane was sitting on a bench, still mid-shave with razor in hand and helmet half covered in white lather. Blitzkrieg led the armorers over to the de-facto captain, noticing how the two rookies they passed were trembling. They had been called up from the minor leagues before they were ready, replacing two veterans who sat injured on the other side of the room. Blitzkrieg held the stars in an open hand in front of the pre-occupied Bane.

“Will you don the stars and lead this team today brother Bane?” asked Brockman. Bane looked up at Kingston’s blitzer coach smiled.

“Blunter is the captain of Season 9, sir. The stars were his honour to wear, and we honour him still. Besides..” said Borris as his grin grew wider. “I do not intend to die today brother. I intend to help the Kruelty enter the Hall of Fame in style, and bask in the afterglow of our 100th victory with my teammates. ” Brockman knew well that most players that had worn the stars had died on the field. But this was hardly more the case for captains than with blitzers in general. Playing for Kingston was an honour. Blitzing was the vital role. It held the most potential for glory, and death, and the field was the right place to die.

“This team needs a leader.” countered Brockman. “McCrakin is not on the field to watch your back today. Nor Tommie. Or Bailer.” Borris paused at this thought, then nodded across the room.

“I have Mick. And the Ogre. We’ll be fine.”

Brockman turned to look at the players being mentioned. Moffack was sitting with his back against the wall and was resting his eyes. He was a massive chunk of muscle that was never phased by anything. Would Kingston’s monster provide the support and steadfastness the young players needed for such a difficult match-up? The Ogre opened his eyes slowly to meet Brockman’s gaze. It was disconcerting to lock eyes with the massively tusked visage in such close quarters. Brockman kept his eyes on the ogre though, looking for anything unusual, any hint of emotion. The Ogre simply winked reassuringly then went back to sleep.

Mick Mantle sat beside the giant, re-tying his shoes for what was likely the 4th time in the last 20 minutes. The shoes had the longest traction cleats he had ever seen. Mick was perhaps the fastest player the Kruelty had known, and despite his size he had stayed alive much longer than most other catchers who had worn The Skull. A feat of survival that Brockman wished they could all pull off another day in this cursed place.

“Armours! Come!” cried the catcher. “ I decide on longer cleats. I do not trust the footing in this swamp!” Two other players nodded and started unlacing their boots as well as the armors rushed over to take a knee. They opened their tool-kits to try and make the modifications in time.

“And what of them? Do they not deserve a champion?” asked Brockman turning back and jerking his head to the ceiling. He was indicating the thousands of thunderous fans above, all chanting the three syllables of the young star player’s name at the top of their lungs. Thousands of Kingstonians had made the 2 day march to the dark stadium, and they dramatically outnumbered the home town crowd. The low and evil chanting of Nurgle fans was imperceptible when faced with the mighty roar of the human crowd. BOAR - ISS - BANE! BOAR – ISS – BANE! BOAR – ISS – BANE! The whole stadium seemed to shake as the humans shouted in unison.

“I will give them what they want.” Said Bane.

“Very well. Play well, brother. I will meet you on the side-lines after your entrance.”

“Thank-you, sir.“ Bane immediately returned to shaving the helmet before he ran out of time. Brockman turned and left the room to meet the other coaches on the field. Kingston did not give pre-game pep-talks in enemy locker rooms. Every man knew the game plan and his role before they left Kingston, and was expected to die trying to achieve victory. When a man was ready to die doing his duty he didn’t need pep-talks.

~~
END PART 1