“Reprint of an article from the annual journal of infernal realm explorers, correspondent Chaos Lord Catatonia

“By Chaos doctrine, the butterfly is a Weapon of Mass Destruction. As is well-known, the flapping of a butterflies wings causes hurricanes, tornadoes, and for all we know, earthquakes, rains of frogs, rains of fire, rains of burnt and burning frogs and those things you get just as you fall asleep, where you limbs suddenly spasm….you know the ones…

So far they call this a theory, but I was minded to make it a practical demonstration, and to this end I summoned to my side Count Bernhardt Jaguar, who is a renown lepidopterist and an infamous frotteurist. His skills as a warrior are less well advanced, but he is keen student. Plans I had. For if one butterfly can wreak such havoc, imagine what a baker’s dozen could do?! Or a score? Or a gross? All carefully directed: sticking each one to great wheel. A great butterfly-panjandrum whipping twisters across the pitch, carrying our foes away and queering their passing play.
On arrival in the blasted lands, he expressed a forlorn dismay at the lack of life of any kind, and gave voice to his doubts about finding any butterflies. This was to anger me for several days, but when my rage subsided I bade my goatmen cut him down from the displeasure rack and had him explain. It seems (and I confess I paid scant attention to his ponderous exposition) that butterflies need flour for their butter-making, and flour presumably requires some kind of plant. And, if I recall windmills. I have seen no mills in the withered lands, although a howling wind, like the screams of ghosts who have stubbed their toes on their tomb-stones, does scour the land like a damp rag.

He went on to blame the lack of plants and flowers and trees on the sudden disappearance of the bees. This unlikely chain of cause and consequence was too much for me. I had had plans.. But since all the creepy-crawlie-collecting count had managed to capture in his long-handled net was a solitary moth, which we found living in the minotaur’s jockstrap, it seemed that my schemes were for nought.

At this time, before I could properly grieve the death of my dreams, a raggle-baggle of ratmen came skittering into our camp, challenging us to play. I fear not the skaven, and even their rat-ogre can be tamed by Clover and we took to the field with relish. The skaven though, rarely play the game, focussing instead on moving the pigskin and scoring play-interrupting touchdowns. Mindful of this, we held the ball for nearly all one half before Wyrm was spooked and accidentally cantered over the enemy touchline. In response, in the dying embers of the first half, the rascally skaven shot across the pitch; like a rat in a drainpipe, to equal our score. To my enduring surprise we managed to prevent them scoring a second in the final half and we left the pitch without conclusion. Cyclonic jerks!”
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