“Even before the whistle, head coach Stonefist had sounded his lawyer horn to assemble his legal team. Stroking his braided beard, he knelt again at the side of the pitch and stuck an accusatory finger in the mud.

'Those bloody Underworld scumbags have made it rain!' He bellowed, when his subordinates had assembled themselves.

Finally, a little gnome was brave enough to speak. 'But, well, sir... Isn't that a bit unlikely?' Elzebar squeaked.

The Stonefist turned to his little underling and growled: 'What did you say to me, lad?'

'Well, um, I mean. Can little underworld goblins and their ratling betters really do that? Don't they just eat warpstone and party all day and night?'

'Let me tell you something for free, my lad. You're going to get the name of that stinking coach in the opposing dugout and you're going to write him a letter of complaint about these underhand tactics. Or, so help me Sigmar, I'm going to put you in a cannon and fire you over the Grey Mountains.'

Elzebar scuttled off and Stonefist, already drenched from the pouring rain, returned to his dugout to brood. But then, the whistle went and the game began. The Storm blitzed and they blitzed then they blitzed some more. They dodged this well placed tackle zone and they picked up the slippery ball in spite of good placement from smiler. Generally speaking, they diced out their opposition with merciless disregard. Oh, and nobody of any consequences got hurt!

--

Okay, I'm not sending the letter of complaint mate. But you're on probation until the end of recorded time. I hope Nuffle repays you for the travesty you suffered here (but I also hope he forgets the love he sent forth to me).

Cheers. Look forward to playing again soon.”