“Chapter 1

So, it was to be a baptism of fire...

But then the rain started, and it became a baptism of mud instead. The sheet of parchment containing Coach Robsson's hastily scribbled play calls had already turned to mush before the kick off and he found himself wading ankle-deep in mud along the sideline, desperately trying to give instructions to his players through a combination of shouted orders and strange hand signals, all of which the opposing team's players could clearly hear and see - and react to.

Needless to say, things began badly. One of the ghouls succeeded in picking up the ball on the second attempt, but after a half-hearted scramble upfield, found himself hemmed in with nowhere to go and no real support from the rest of the team. Robsson screamed and waved, but all this seemed to do was cause confusion among his players, who kept stopping to stare across at him with hollow eyes and vacant expressions while ignoring the more important events going on around them.

Robsson called Ebeneezer across to the sideline.
"This is crazy. I don't even know what my players are called, or what they're supposed to be doing out there. I need you to bring me up to speed, fast."
"Fair enough. Let's see if I can remember." Ebeneezer took a deep breath. "Right, let's start with the wights - they're the lads in the slightly better armour. They're ancient warriors, hundreds of years old, who have been brought back to fight the eternal struggle between the living and the dead. In life they were of noble blood, and in death they command the respect of all."
"Sounds impressive."
"Actually, they're a complete nightmare. Pompous, jumped-up little has-beens who think they're better than the rest of us. The tall one is Kornelius Kane, first son of the first son of some big-shot warrior lord or something. Calls himself the captain, but doesn't really seem to do anything captain-ish, just insists he gets the best seat in the changing room and an extra ten percent in his pay packet. He does hit pretty well though, I'll give him that. The other one is Ivan the Terribly."
"You mean Terrible?"
"No, it's Terribly."
"Terribly what?"
'No one knows. His dad was Vlad the Absent-minded and his mum was Wilhelmina von Vague, so maybe they just forgot to keep going during the naming ceremony. Anyway, he's useless as well as arrogant, and because he's not captain, he has a chip on his shoulder the size of... well, the size of the chip on his shoulder. Old battle wound, apparently.
"Anyway, moving on. The two big guys are flesh golems - reanimated corpses made from scavenged body parts sewn together by our trusty Igor. The green one is Sanjfrntyg."
"San what?"
"Sanjfrntyg. He takes the first letter of the name of each person who provides one of his body parts and adds it to the end of his name. Apparently he was just Sanj until the middle of last season but then there was this one particularly ugly game against some Nurgles and he ended up with half-a-dozen extra letters to add, and no vowels among them."
"And the other one?"
"The one with the big number 4 painted on his shoulder pad? He's called Number Eight."
"But he's number four."
"He plays number four, sure, but he's called Number Eight."
"Why?"
"I think it's something to do with the experiments. He was test subject number eight, so he's called Number Eight."
"So why not make him number eight on the team? Wouldn't that be less confusing?"
Ebeneezer looked confused. "Because he's number four."
'Yes, but..." The rest of Robsson's words were lost amid a huge roar from the crowd. He looked across to where the action was happening, just in time to see one of the ghouls being hastily dragged away from the scrum around the now-loose ball. "That doesn't look good."
"No, but it happens a lot. They're not exactly dead, the ghouls, they're just disease-ridden carrion gobblers, so they don't respond to my regeneration magics when they get bashed about. Last year the team went through twelve of them before the season was out, and from the look of it, the same is going to happen this year. So don't get too attached to them, as they won't be around for long. In fact, don't get attached to them anyway. They stink, and they're just really unpleasant. The two we have at the moment are Silas the Unclean and Tobias the Outcast - that's Tobias on the stretcher, by the way."
Robsson stopped listening. It was coming close to half time, the ball was loose and suddenly the dark elves were in a dangerously well-prepared position. One of the line elfs has quietly sneaked his way down towards the undead's endzone and suddenly one of the blitzers had the ball. He dodged away from a useless attempt at a tackle from one of the zombies, got himself into a good passing position, drew back his arm.... and the whistle blew.
"Thank the gods," Robsson muttered. "That was too close for comfort. Now, finish off telling me about my team. Who are those two hairy fellas? And why does one of them look like a child?" Robsson looked suddenly concerned. "We're not using children, are we? Isn't that against the rules?"
Ebeneezer smiled. "They're werewolves. Apparently, they're the pride of the team. Fast, vicious, good ball handlers. The tall, scrawny one is Celandril Autumnleaf, former catcher with the West Wayland Hawks. Sadly he fell victim to a carefully-planned accident one full moon last year and, well, once the hair started to grow, the Hawks didn't seem to want him any more."
"You deliberately turned him into a werewolf, just to get a fast player on your team?"
"Uh, yes," Ebeneezer said, uncertainly.
"Good work! That's the kind of forward thinking that's going to turn this team into champions. So what about the child, what's his story?"
"That's Skabbadabbadu. He used to be a rat."
"A skaven?"
"Skaven. That's the word."
"So he's what, a wererat?"
"Don't ever call him that! He's a bit touchy on the subject. He's a werewolf of small stature, that's all."
Robsson looked over to where Skabbadabbadu was sitting, chewing a bone. The bone still had a hand attached to it, Robsson noticed. "Okay, wolf it is."
"The others are just your standard zombies. Kaaaal, Normaaan and O-fish. We'll get some spares when we can afford it, but for now they're just there to make up the numbers. Basically, they're just there to get in the way."


* * *


The second half began as the first had ended, with rain and mud and no score, but at least now Robsson knew what his players were called and could give slightly more specific instructions to them - or to the ones who could understand him, anyway. They came out firing, with a quick blitz which could easily have turned the tide of the game if it had been effective in any way. But it wasn't. The dark elves got the ball, consolidated their position and pushed forward slowly, but the rain and mud finally seemed to be getting to them, and although they managed a respectable pass downfield (which Robsson was both impressed by and jealous of), they weren't able to get enough players far enough downfield to protect the ball carrier. Skabbadabbadu sped in for a desperate, score-stopping blitz, grabbed the ball and then scuttled for all he was worth towards the (very distant) elven endzone.
Time was running out, both teams were beginning to lose players and it was looking like ending as a 0-0 draw when Skabbadabbadu made one final lunge and found himself on the far side of the white line just as the final whistle blew.

It was a lucky win, Robsson knew that all too well, but it was a win all the same, and a great way to start the new chapter of his epic journey towards Bloodbowl glory. It would be a long journey...a really long journey, but he'd already taken the first step, and although it had been an unpleasantly wet and muddy one, he was already looking forward to taking the next.”