“When Sir Cyril Ponceworthy heard his team had been matched up against the highly rated Thor's Thunders, his resignation turned to despair. Radiant Arrogance teetered on the brink of collapse, and this match had all the potential to push them over the edge.

What little fans the elves had left seemed to have deserted them. Seats alternated between spectators cheering for Thor's Thunders and sleeping visitors who had heard Radiant tickets were going cheap. Admittedly, no one had been heartened by the elves' newest recruit, the lugubrious Maximillian Downtrodden - today, it seemed the entire team shared their most gloomy player's disposition.

The game began quietly, with a small scuffle between Thunders as to who was in fact the true "star" of their team. Zorg and Morg came to such angry disagreement that they refused to both play at the same time. Okk exacerbated the situation with displays of true stupidity. When the ogre was not aimlessly staring into space, he was tripping over his own rather large bootlaces.

Sir Robert Munificent surveyed the situation irritably. If his countrymen were not going to show pride in themselves, he would remind them why they had signed on to play Blood Bowl in the first place. He grabbed a loose ball and dashed heroically into the opposing half....

Kelethar Mandariaus, a visiting Ulthuan noble of advanced years, was dozing in his chair when a glint of golden light caught his eye. He pulled out a miniature telescope and peered through it.

"I say... what's that? I do believe they've scored!"

A few lounging elves snorted contemptuously, but sure enough, Sir Robert had shrugged off a challenge and made it over the touchline. The crowd blinked in disbelief for a moment. Then the stadium erupted. To exuberant cheers and anthemic peals of elven song, Hubert Snoot followed Sir Robert's example, before another loose ball was thrown to their newfound star waiting in the endzone.

By the time another fumbled block by Okk denied Thor's Thunders any consolation, the noise was deafening.

"Well, of course we knew it was only a minor blip. The tournament is practically ours already!" proclaimed Sir Cyril Ponceworthy.

Given that at the time his skull was being mended by newly hired Master-Surgeon Amaren, one would be forgiven for thinking these sentiments a little premature. ”