Death’s Advance

This post is part of the series Unlife

Other posts in this series:

  1. A season and half in the (un)life of a coach … (Part 1)
  2. Death’s Advance (Current)
  3. A Date with Destruction …

August 12th

Git stood motionless on the sideline of the pitch, observing his players training session, led by the ever dependable Blavod. Blavod. In a curious way, Git had come to regard the wight as … perhaps not a friend, but certainly a comrade, and somebody he could trust. Blavod had spoken up for him even in the face of the Maker’s fury following the defeat to the Weeping Widowmakers. He had blamed himself for his weakness during Dead Metal’s game with the flamboyant InGen Apocalypse, despite the injury taken forever changing him for the worse, and it was only this intervention that had allowed Git to keep possession of the Hand of Glory …

He looked down at the hand – ornate, black as jet and engraved with faintly glowing runes. Git had no idea what they meant, only that they granted him dominion over the otherwise-mindless mummies and zombies of the team, and then the more involved tasks of game management Git left to Blavod, who had built up a good understanding with the maniacal Conrad, and the ever elusive Ratcollector, Marrowbone & Wormravager.

Git looked upon the imposing figure of Skrakh the Fourth – a gift from the Maker in recognition of the efforts during the previous season. In truth, the Maker had wished to test the resolve of his new pawn, informing him that he would be able to receive a gift of immense power, but only in return for an offering – Git had surprised him by immediately sacrificing Mesekhtet III, his essence being infused into the larger, stronger former monarch. Skrakh had been impressive during the season, the only player left standing against the Widowmakers when all others had fallen, and all season long, he had stood as an impenetrable barrier against Skaven, Orc, Lizard, Dwarven and Human opposition. Truly a worthwhile bargain, the coach noted to himself.

In truth, the team had performed above the expectations of not only their coach, but seemingly the wider public. Fans had started to attend the Abattoir in droves, and against the odds, the team had worked themselves into a position where they were 3 games away from the trophy that the Maker so desperately coveted, but standing in their way were some familiar names. Git pulled the scrap of parchment he’d been looking at constantly out of of his pocket, and after taking a moment to admire his ever-improving left-handed handwriting, read the names aloud, one by one …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was one name in particular that caught the eye of the coach … Chuckling, he strode onto the pitch.

“Blavod!”

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