The Rorcs of Revelation

Boof! Coach HedoNihilist stumbled out of the tavern on the end of an unfriendly boot.

“You can’t smoke that in here!”

OK, disclaimer, he wasn’t actually a coach at this point. Just a hedonist, nihilist – OK, not a complete nihilist, because he did believe in one thing: Blood Bowl. The smashing, the crashing, the kicks and the cheers. That feeling when an impossible play turns into a touchdown. He dreamt of being on the field, ball tucked under his arm, shooting the gap, making the play… but he was far too weak to ever make it in any human team. He had tried to pass himself off as a goblin in full green body paint, but the smell just wasn’t right and he got caught during the try outs. Plus he could never quite manage the dodges.

“Ugh, you’re just jealous coz… well… just coz”.

“Get lost you loser. Go watch wizzbox in someone else’s place. It’s not like you ever spend any money in here.”

“Oh man, you can’t deprive me of my Blood Bowl!”

“It’s already done idiot. Try that Orc shack on the other side of the stadium. That should be about your level”.

With heavy heart, HedoNihilist trudges away from the Reaver’s tavern. What was he gonna do now? There’s nothing else going on in life but Blood Bowl.

After a few hours of aimless wandering, from one neighbourhood to another, stone buildings turning to wooden shacks, paved roads replaced by mud tracks, HedoNihilist arrives on the wrong side of the stadium. A crack of thunder and rain starts to fall. He looks up, blinking water from his eyes, to see a tumbledown shack ahead, silhouettes larking within, thick green smoke drifting from every window, and a raucous cacophony of rough behaviour vibrating on the wind. A crudely painted red and white sign hangs precariously above the door. It reads The Rorcs of Revelation.

The idiot goes in.

POW! Something hard smacks into his face and he goes down. Fade to black.

He begins to wake, who knows how much time later, to hear angry voices.

“Wot you meanin’, go round the takkul zone Sid? Youz a stoopid Nobla. You dont goes around, you smashes fru!”

“Simon, you az got no Klu. Even da humies knowz it. You ain’t got no block skillz so you goez around. Lest you getz the assist”

“You ain’t gonna see me goin round no stinkin rats. Im a gonna squish and then squish them and keep on wiv da squishin’. I dont need no assistin’”

“But Chris, you keeps on squishin, and me and Simon is getting crunched wiv da ball every time! We never scores no touchdown.”

“Shuts it Elvis. You always finkin about dat ball. It ain’t no fun running about wiv a ball. We has got to do more smashin.”

HedoNihilist sits up. 11 Orcs are gathered in the room around a sort of packed mound of earth, used as a table, surrounded by a haze of green smoke, pipes hanging out their mouths, or crudely rolled leaves, smouldering between their fingers. On the table, one before each player, sits a different coloured shining gem stone.

“Wot doz it say in da rools about dem takkul zones den?”

“Shutzitt Joe, you is on da line, you don’t gets to talk til you gets sum SPP. Anyway, dat dumm troll as eaten da rulez innit.”

The burly black orc pointz to a corner where a severed troll head sitz on a plinth, the remains of a tattered blood bowl rule book hanging from its gob.

“Poor Rorc Steady. He was a stoopid troll, but e was won of us Rorcs.”

“You hated dat troll, Sam. Almost as much as dem goblins. Now dey all gone and we az got no rools and we don’ts now ‘ow to play da game proppa. Ow we ever gonna get back on ta da field?” says a black orc with a bulgin chest, suggesting it might be a lady black orc, if such a thing can exist.

“Da Rocks az made us a team Beryl, so we has got ta be a team. Da Rocks came to us. Juziz, the wood cutter’s boy gives em to us and makes us a team.” – “You mean you steals em from im and leaves im in a ditch!” – “Whatevs, its da same fing.”

“Excuse me?”

Eleven green heads swing around to find a puny, skinny, grey haired white guy, standing at the edge of their group”.

“Did I hear you say you need to know more about Blood Bowl?”

“Itz dat stick boy I clobbered!” shouts the one called Elvis.

“Wot if we did, puny humie?” Asks the one called Simon, the smartest looking of the lot.

A smile creeps on to the humies face.

“I think I could be of use to you fellas.”

And so it begins…

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