TEAM BIO

In a southeast region of the Chaos Wastes known as Quantuckee, was once found the tribe known as the Zinger Krushers. The tribe were devout in their worship of Tchar (Tzeentch), however engaged in an ongoing war with the neighbouring Golden Arches Tribe (led by a fearsome white-faced, red-haired daemon named McKhornald). The war was not going well, with the Zinger Krushers losing ground, lives, and worst of all, market share.

In desperation, Cluckin’ Bell – the tribe’s shaman – adorned his traditional red and white striped robes and ceremonial bucket hat, and walked alone into the Wastes, hoping to curry favour with Tchar. He sacrificed the last of the tribe’s food – a scrawny chicken – in a fire, pleading for their salvation. As he waited, he repeatedly struck a tambourine with a drumstick, while chanting the sacred litany of secret herbs & spices over and over. As the chicken charred in the coals, his empty stomach grumbled in protest, yet nothing happened. At last, the shaman could resist temptation no longer, gave into his weakness and bit into the scorched carcass, in the process burning and blistering his tongue.

At once, the winds of change howled, cerulean flames flared up, a tremendous thunderclap sounded across the Wastes and the smoke coiled into the form of a dread visage. The shaman cowered in fear and, not knowing what to say, quaveringly offered the tribe’s traditional greeting of “Hello Sir/Madam, welcome to Quantuckee, how may I help you?”. Tchar’s avatar began to speak, however to his horror, Cluckin’ Bell realised that he had been deafened by the clap and could hear nothing except the beating of his own black heart.

Long moments passed, and the smoke continued to speak as the shaman cringed, too terrified to voice that he could hear nothing. The smoke’s long-winded (and frankly boring) monologue at last ended with the threat “Blasphemer, never again dare to offend your god with any more of these paltry foul nuggets!”. Unfortunately the shaman’s hearing only partially cleared at the last, to hear the words “Any more of these poultry fowl nuggets?”. With that the winds blew the dissipating smoke into his face, leaving the shaman staring in confusion, his tongue burning, and tears streaming from his eyes.

Cluckin’ Bell returned to the Zinger Crushers camp where he tried to explain what had happened with his tender, blistered tongue. The tribe were bewildered by his watery expression and his ridiculous mispronunciation of ‘C’s and ‘S’s (which came out as ‘Tc’s and ‘Ts’s). However, believing him to have been touched by divinity, the tribe decided to rebrand and were reborn as the Tcharcoal_Tchickens (T_T for short). They abandoned their camp and the war against McKhornald, discarded their traditional red and white stripes for blue and red flames, their bucket hats for rooster combed helmets, and adopted the mangled communication style as their own.

The Tchickens then began travelling to seek out various chicken products to sacrifice in the name of Tchar. Upon each discovery, they would celebrate with a chicken dance, emitting rooster calls, clucking sounds, and other gibberings that could only be daemonic in origin. A worthy scholar once tried to decipher these ramblings, however could only make out a phrase that sounded like “finger lickin’ good”. This ridiculous uttering clearly makes no sense and only provides further evidence of the tribes’ warped descent into utter madness and depravity.

Tchar, amused at the tribe’s inane and pointless obsession, “rewarded” the unworthy shaman by changing him into the being now known as Turduckenax the Enigma. He has died many times over as punishment for offending his god; yet however many times he dies, he is reborn again – as a phoenix rises from the ashes, a nugget is reconstituted from offcuts and roadkill, or a bout of reflux recurs after a particularly greasy meal.

Blood Bowl provided the Tchickens with the perfect vessel and cover for their objective, allowing them to travel throughout the Old World, where they can undertake their insane poultry obsession. To this day, the Tchickens seek glory on the Blood Bowl field, to fulfil their pointless quest of earning moar monies in order to purchase and sacrifice chicken products to their avian god...