"When your boot hits his eye
And the entrails let fly
That's-a Blood Bowl.
When there's blood, sweat and, death
And that's only the ref
That's-a Blood Bowl…"
Edwyrd tottered in through the door of his inn room and collapsed onto the bed.
The mattress springs creaked beneath him.
He'd managed to salvage a few treasured items from home on the long journey into the heart of the Empire. A tatty poster of Balrik Farblast, signed (and singed). A picture depicting the legendary three-way brawl between the Dwarf Anvils, Dwarf Giants and Dwarf Warhammerers over an issue of copyright. And the ball from the 2051 match between the World's Edge Wanderers and the Lieck H'Resh Allsorts.
He'd been just a nipper back then; a young beardless lad, cheering at his first ever game. Front-row seats, too, the best money could buy.
And at the end of the match, when the Allsorts' captain Bertie Battering-Ram was lying crushed and twitching on the very edge of the pitch, it'd been Mjiolnir Davis who'd lifted the bloodied ball out of his brainpain, given Edwyrd a cheerful wink, and handed it to him.
Now it sat on the bedside table, punctured and flat, but still unmistakably his. A reminder of what could be achieved if you dug deep, planned well, and fixed a pair of sharpened horns to your helmet.
"The Chaos Cup," he chuckled, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. "I mean, really…"