A single ribbon of fire danced for an instant in the blackness ahead. There was a blinding flash and flames exploded from the soaked grass with a bloodthirsty roar. Pitiful, screeching figures of men and beasts filled the Firebellys vision as the burning field consumed them. His head reeled with the overpowering stench of charred flesh and burning hair, and his ears were assaulted by the cries for help and the voice of the greedy fire... he could hear laughter and he knew it was his own. The twisted part of him felt that those poor souls deserved it. They were fools to engage the vicious ogre pack.

The flames starved and his laughter died with them. Blind again by the blackness he stared out into nothing as the smell and the moaning went on. Soon the cries stopped and he marched forward feeling his way with groping hands low to the charred dirt and ashes. He could feel waves of heat fleeing into the frigid air. Twelve paces and his hand brushed against a head of stiff, smoldering hair. Thirty paces and he was climbing over an unseen carpet of bodies, some of them still whimpering softly as his he clambered over them. Another twenty paces and he was free of the vile smelling dead.


His fingers skimmed over something cold and wet buried in the blanket of white ash. He had found the item that had led to this bloodshed: An entry token for a tournament in the land of men.

Bulgrath, the firebelly, assembled his pack of fierce ogres and pointed to a stadium, barely visible, in the horizon. As the the ogres gazed at the objective of their quest, they roared out in unity with the sound of a thunderstorm. The Ogres gathered their supplies, and started the journey towards the bloodbowl fields of the empire of men...