Swift Sandrooster stood on the bloody beaten corpse of the world of violent sports and contemplated his conquests with a unfocused gaze.

Blitz Getball, his noble running guard, life long friend, best man, kidney donor, and part-time rock band back-up singer, offered a observation to his solemn compatriot.

"Dere's nowhere to go but down anymore, Swift."

"Wrong. We could go back in time. There are thousands of teams back then and ages ago and once upon a time I keep hearing about."

"Back in time?" Blitz Getball scratched his most recently acquired scar, confused. True, the team had just acquired the rare and powerful FLUX NUCULATOR STONE when a irate, magically gifted fan launched it into Thick Goodgrace's neck at the speed of sound (where it remains). No one on the team had the slightest ability with magic though, or machines, or religious rituals, or even grade school math. Blood bowl consumed their every hour, and they were just barely no good at that either, except for Swift.

"How in the world are we going to go back in time?"

Swift furrows his brow, "I'm working on that part."

Sore Dunkbottom sat on the Sloppy Milkshake locker room floor in a circle with the rest of the linemen. Each of them were carefully pondering a hand full of cards with strange shapes drawn on them.

"Wut dis game?" Flex Hasslehoff articulated, a pair of cards with squares on them stuck between his teeth.

"Smarts said," Frown Clenchcheek pantomimed a pair of glasses and adopted a cross-eyed expression, "you am trump cards and win loot."

"Where loot?" Thick Goodgrace turned to address Frown, "This dum."

Something glimmering in the folds of Thick's neck muscles caught Sore's eye.

"Wut dis ting?" he asked as he reached out to poke it curiously. The glimmer flashed bright, and the room was empty.

"Fur Hasslehoff!"

"Wut you talkin bout? I here," Flex Hasslehoff said as he clotheslined the crazed female orc. Her neck snapped sharply against his bulky arm and she went somersaulting through the back of the hut. For good measure, he seized the axe she had dropped and buried it in her abdomen. A hulking male orc smoking a few paces off observed this with slow realization. He bit off his pipe and roared the same thing:

"Fur Hasslehoff!"

"I here!" Flex roared back, annoyed. He lowered his slightly larger bulk and tackled the orc, sending him howling down the sheer side of the mountain. He stood staring after him for a few minutes, working through the rest of his adrenaline. He remembered that moments ago he had been about to enjoy a game of eating cards and getting loot when he had suddenly been in that hut, under attack.

"Where boyz?" He wondered aloud as he retrieved the axe. Only in his calm state did he notice that the weapon looked exactly like the Hasslehoff Clan Axe that his grandparents had bequeathed him in honor of his first Blood Bowl game.

"Dat strange. Where boyz?"