IMRYYR, MELNIBONE – Sadric, Elric, and Yyrkoon sit around the conference table in the Princes of Arioch locker room; Sadric, regal, poised, sitting rigidly upright in his throne; Elric, intensely and brooding, craning forward with elbows on table; and Yyrkoon, lounging indolently with a leg thrown over the arm of his chair, a chalice of wine sloshing in his hand, and an enraptured human massaging his scalp.
“Do not celebrate,” Sadric admonished. “Dominance is our right! Our catchers’ route trees were perfection, elegant and versatile, before any human had even stepped foot on a Blood Bowl pitch for the first time. We are the very pinnacle of Blood Bowl.”
“Of course, of course, but what’s the point of winning if you don’t take time to enjoy the spoils of victory,” Yyrkoon purred, running a finger over the jawline of the fan draped across his lap, wearing a crimson #2 Princes jersey with his name emblazoned across the back. “Sex, drugs, and touchdowns, in equal proportions, am I right? Elric? Am I right?”
Dark red eyes glower back from Elric’s stormy visage. “What are you celebrating, cousin? We scored only twice – TWICE! – against those filthy goatmen, and did not slay a single one! And here you are, whoring, drinking, and smoking every edritch herb your vassals can seize. Can you not see your mediocrity? Do you not know how degenerate and depraved you are? How complacency and hedonism are eroding your soul?”, Elric rages, casting his heavy gaze between Sadric’s placid visage and Yyrkoon’s titillated one.
“Elric, my son, be still. It is performance on the field of Nuffle that matters, not what your cousin does off it. And this season, Yyrkoon has been an exemplar of the Arioch’s philosophy. Graceful, deadly, sudden, and unpredictable.” Sadric pauses a breath, finding Elric’s eyes, before continuing, “You know my playing career will not be indefinite. While the Captaincy of the Princes of Arioch is traditionally a hereditary post, it is not without precedent for it to pass to a more distant blood relative. Yyrkoon, you will bear the mark of Assistant Captain next season. Elric, do not brood. Find succor in blood spilt and passes caught on the field. You may yet regain my favor.” He rises decisively, and strides from the room, calling over his shoulder, “Training camp begins next week.”
“Better luck next season, cuz!” croons Yyrkoon, before throwing the giggling fan over his shoulder and skipping from the room to continue his celebration.
Elric is left alone at the table, with no target for his wroth and angst but his own essence. “I, MML Season 6 Champion?”, he barks with a harsh laugh. “Do I feel like a champion?” His frenzy and furor boil inside, ready to overflow when the next whistle blows.