IMRYYR, MELNIBONE – The Princes are coming off their second decisive win against Skaven in as many weeks, defeating the Repulsive Ratlings 5 – 2 following their 4 – 1 drubbing of the Skuttle Butts in Week 1. Despite the auspicious start, there is no team celebration to be found in the locker room after the game.
Rather, sequestered in his private quarters, Elric sits in an eagle-clawed bathtub full of steaming, perfumed water strewn with rose petals. After dispatching the Repulsive Ratlings with ease in their Week 2 contest, he is far from exultant. Instead, he sits brooding, eyes hooded as watches clumps of rat fur float to surface as they are dislodged from underneath his steely fingernails. The bathwaters slowly assume a crimson tint; not from the rose petals, but from rodent blood washed from the dread elven blitzer’s ivory skin.
“Do I not channel a divine frenzy with the purest wrath every week? Do I not throw enemies into the crowds with fervor and unequaled bloodlust? I am Nuffle’s avatar, molded in Arioch’s image!”
He reaches for a glass of wine balanced on the back of a kneeling human at the tub’s edge, and takes a greedy swallow.
“And yet it is not to me that the reporters clamor around after our victories! It is not about me that that the MML announcers fawn over like infatuated schoolgirls! No, it that thrice-cursed, demon-loving cousin of mine, Yyrkoon, who curries favor!”
With cruelly elegant fingers, he cracks open a small glass vile and scatters from it an ochre powder across his chalice before taking another long draught. His red eyes glare sullenly out from underneath his mane of white hair, wet and matted to his skull. Suddenly he leaps from the bath, scattering water across the room and dashing the chalice into the back of the prostrate slave’s head.
“But I will show them all that I ALONE am the force that will drive the Princes to domination!”