’Twas the turn before Blitzmas, when all across the pitch
Not an injury was bleeding; every wound had been stitched.
My blitzers stood for the kick, shaking fists hard as rocks
In hopes that Lord Nuffle would soon bless their blocks.
My linemen all braced, their helmets in shreds
From the steel-spiked boots that had danced on their heads;
And I, their proud coach, glad to still be alive,
Had just settled my brain on a game-winning drive.
But then from the stands I was hit with a splatter,
So I turned from the bench to see what was the matter.
Blood sprayed out in a spurt from an unlucky fan’s head,
As behind him emerged a shadow of dread.
All those near the shadow soon parted and ran,
And I sensed what was coming was not a mere man.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a dark robed figure who chilled me with fear.
He stalked toward the field with a death-like cold shuffle,
And I knew in a moment he must be Lord Nuffle.
More rapid than skaven his curses flew out,
As he whistled and laughed, and said with a shout:
“Now, dice! Now ye roll and land on a ten!”
And like that, my opponent had a blitz, yet again.
Past the line of scrimmage, through my blockers inept,
Dashed his brutes through my backfield, as I cursed and I wept.
With a punch to the chin, they knocked my runner to the ground
And waited with glee for the kick to come down.
I had no hope, alas, no new plan to hatch,
So I begged dear Lord Nuffle that they’d fail the catch.
Then lo, in a twinkling, the ball bounced off their hands,
And I realized with fool’s hope, I still had a chance.
A six-plus pick-up, a dodge, and a mere quick pass
Then a hand off to a lineman facing just open grass ...
From there, the endzone was only two turns away,
If those rolls and two GFIs went my way.
So I turned to Lord Nuffle and tore at my hair.
Then dropped to my knees and offered this prayer:
“Just give me these dice, and I swear to you then
I’ll never ever ask for a reroll again.”
Nuffle’s droll little snear curled like a blade,
As he listened closely to every promise I made.
He had a dark, deathly face and a gut wide as two hulls
That shook when he laughed, like a sack full of skulls.
He was filthy and foul, a right angry old god,
But then he did something that seemed thoroughly odd.
With a wink of his eye and a nod of his head,
He gave me to know that my plan was not dead.
I rolled once, I rolled twice, then a third time as well.
A six, six, and a six, my opponent cried, “bloody hell!”
Then my lineman at the goal line rolled his last GFIs,
And the glory of more sixes struck my tear-filled eyes.
’Twas a turn-16 touchdown, a glorious win,
And I turned then to thank my brand new best friend.
But Nuffle had gone with a scrape and a thud,
Dashing off through the crowd in a splatter of blood.
Still, I heard him exclaim, with that voice cold as ice—
“Happy Blood Bowl to all, and to all some good dice!”
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(I'm sure this kind of thing has probably been done before and likely better, but I did this for a roster for a team I brought to the Back Broke Mountain Bowl in Virginia this weekend, so I figured I'd share, since 'tis the season. If you want to print off a copy so you can gather the family around the fire for a Blitzmas Eve reading, here's a link to
download the PDF of the roster.)
