“Lying on the ground, Farmer Ed had time to reflect on his mistake. No, not devoting his life to training barnyard animals to play Blood Bowl. That was going quite well, actually. The mistake was taking the field with them. He was old -- well over the age of fifty. When he first started training the goats thirty years ago, it seemed like a realistic idea to play alongside them. When he barnstormed the Empire's carnivals, playing against rabbles of drunk peasants, he got by. But here he was, an aging man taking the field against an army of fearsome skeletons animated by magic he didn't even understand. And sure enough, one of the skeletons had crushed his leg. He'd probably have to have it amputated. He certainly couldn't play Blood Bowl again -- not that he'd want to anyway. He'd need to hire farmhands to help train the goats, of course... in the distance, Crazy Henrik galumphed into the end zone, even the undead fearing his shaggy and deranged visage. Farmer Ed fell back, unconscious. The goats dragged his body from the field. ”