This band of senior tribe-veterans has taken some time out from their daily walks, games of chess and nice cups of tea to sneak away every now and then to relive their glorydays by PLAYING BLOODBOWL!

The name came up on a weekend trip to the local wellness spa. Being old and forgotten by their kin, they quickly banded together and formed the (R)aging Mob. It was rather easy. Everyone in a wheelchair got to be a Blocker, since they just had to sit there and fend off any ungrateful younginns. The few fit enough for a tactical short sprint would be blitzers, while the rest would just mingle and lash out with decades of "wisdom".

These seniors bring all their rage of being patronized, spoonfed soft food and youth in general to the field and let loose.

They even use the old tribal honorifics on the pitch, even if the younger generation has gotten over them long ago and laughs behind their back. Those honorifics are still cool! Damn younginns, with their hair and their soap and whatnot!

Nobody says it aloud, but dying on the pitch seems like a nice alternative to boring evenings in front of a fire while a bard recites calming lyrics to help you get to sleep.

But will they die there so easily? They must have gotten old for a reason. Maybe they are not that good at dying as they hope. Maybe, maybe they even start to remember all the skills they forgot over the years.

(Currently they get sponsored by a new kind of arthritis-balm, made from goatfat, apples and something else. Mainly apples. Their cheerleaders are actually well-trained nurses, ever vigilant for Intervertebral discs or hips going haywire.)