Pith'igor scribbled a note in his journal. It was huge and flesh-bound and titled 'Kaus Kup – Riggistrashun Tims'.
Ahead of him, the queue was getting steadily longer. A mercilessly hot sun was beating down on the waiting teams; sweat dripped from foreheads and players were beginning to droop with exhausation.
Pith'igor didn't mind. Perhaps some of them would even provide him with some mild entertainment by dying of heatstroke while they were queuing.
"All right," he said, "Lowdown Rats, you're registered for the Chaos Cup play-offs. You'll know your group number and first match details by tomorrow evening. Tent-space in the player village is currently a free-for-all, so I hope you brought plenty of weapons. Have a great tournament, and I'd just like to offer you my personal wish that you don't get mauled too horribly this year. Next!"
He glanced up.
"Ah, Prince Valeris," he drawled, greeting the haughty, blonde-haired High Elf with a bow (as per the Blood Bowl regulations on inter-species co-operation during a tournament) and a barely perceptible sneer (as per Pith'igor's own personal beliefs that all elves, especially ones who dressed up in golden armour and ponced about with their nose in the sky, should be drawn, quartered, flayed alive, and have their kidneys placed on a platter as an appropriate sacrifice to Khorne). "It is our pleasure to have you - and the Elhuin Falcons - amongst us again, sire."
Valeris looked down his nose at the beastman and gave him a practiced look of undisguised revulsion.
"Register us for the tournament, loathsome creature," he said, and do it quickly, before my companions and I decide we can we can simply no longer stand the sight of you, and make it our business to cleanse you from existence."
Pith'igor, hairy fists clenching and unclenching vigorously, beneath his desk, smiled, nodded, and said,
"Yes, sire. Of course, sire."
Valeris turned back to his teammates and began to talk loudly about the degrading inevitability of having to speak with goat-people at a Chaos Cup tournament, and the sorts of suitable punishments that, should he rule the entire Old World, would be doled out to all Gor, Ungor, Bestigor, Minotaur, Caprigor, and any other unimaginatively-suffixed beastman type he could possibly think of. The elves tittered in agreement.
Pith'igor, head buried in his journal and lost in dreams in which he tore off Prince Valeris' pale, elegant hands and fed them to him, didn't glance up and notice the party of very large orcs dressed in blue and black until they were almost upon him. There seemed to be a couple of humans with them as well, and a dwarf, and they were strolling past the line without the slightest care for the angry shouts and missiles hurled in their direction. That was something you didn't see every day.
Wazguttle barged through the entirety of the Elhuin Falcons without a second thought, stood in front of the desk, and gave Pith'igor a friendly wave.
"'Ullo," he said. "We's der Oldboyz."
Pith'igor found a grin spreading unexpectedly across his face. Maybe it was the heat getting to him, or something to do with the look of scarlet outrage on Prince Valeris' face.
"And hello to you, sir," he said, with a respectful bob of his horns. "Let me just get that written up for you. Is 'Oldboyz' your full team name, or…"
From somewhere behind the orc's bulky shoulders, Prince Valeris loudly cleared his throat.
"Uh…fink so," Wazguttle said, scratching his head. He seemed a little confused. "Or…mebbe…mebbe we're called 'Wazguttle'."
"Don't be daft, Waz," Edwyrd said, pushing his way forward after him. "We're the Orctown Oldboyz, sir Gor. We should be in your lists under Edwyrd Kettlebelly. K-E-"
Prince Valeris cleared his throat again, more insistently. Wazguttle glanced down and gave him a sympathetic look.
"Got a sore froat?" he asked. "If you want, I could put you outta yer misery."
"Excuse me, orc," the elf snapped, "but we were here first!"
"The Orctown Oldboyz," Pith'igor said, trying extremely hard not to laugh. "Yes, here you are. All right, Master Kettlebelly…you're clear to go through. You'll know your group number and first match details by tomorrow morning. Tent-space is-"
Prince Valeris cried, loudly, stamping his foot,
"But we were here first! Is this some sort of conspiracy? Are all of the lesser races ganging up on us? I…I will not stand for this!"
Pith'igor's smile spread wider.
"Please bear with us, your highness," he said, with a calmness perfectly calculated to be as irritating as possible. "This will just take another moment, and then I can handle your case."
Wazguttle leant down to Prince Valeris.
"Dere is a queue, yoo know," he said, chidingly.
Prince Valeris drew a slim silver blade from its sheath.
"Men!" he shouted. "Let's teach these brutes a lesson in respect! I will…er, men?"
There was the sound of a lithe armoured body hitting the ground. Then another. Then, followed by an amusing squawk, a third.
Ten seconds later, Pith'igor came out from under his desk and gazed down at the groaning heap of elves.
"They may have been first," he murmured vaguely, "but who was there last?"
In the queue behind the Oldboyz, a rather large fight was breaking out. A teamful of High Elves had attempted to run towards the short-lived melee at the registration desk to help out their brethren, but had found their progress blocked by a Pro Elf team, who'd never liked their aristocratic cousins all that much anyway. A stray bunch had hit an Ogre, who'd woken up and sat on a Dwarf. From there, things had got a little complicated. A couple of reporters and a Cabalvision mage were hurrying towards the scene and setting up their equipment a safe distance away.
Edwyrd looked a little embarrassed.
"Er…sorry," he said. "We didn't mean to cause any trouble."
"Think nothing of it," Pith'igor said, chuckling lightly under his breath. "Think nothing of it at all, sir dwarf. Punching out the Elhuin Falcons…well, well, well. Your boys do know how to make an entrance, don't they?"
Under Edwyrd's feet, Prince Valeris mumbled through bruised lips something or other about an undying curse upon the dwarf's very soul.
"Right," said Pith'igor, returning to his desk. "You're all booked up. I recommend you pitch your camp in the field on the south-eastern side of the player village. The deadly Mists of Nurgle are rare there, and it's currently only occupied by a bunch of halflings, who I suspect you'll make short work of. In you go, and the very best of luck to you in this Chaos Cup!"
"Thanks," Edwyrd replied. "Come on, then- oh, ladz, no…"
The Oldboyz were staring wistfully towards the raging, multi-species battle.
"Can we?" Grobb asked, jumping up and down. "Kotch, can we?"
Edwyrd sighed.
"All right," he said. "We'll meet you in the tavern at midday. And if one of you gets injured, I swear to Nuffle I'll bite all of your heads off."
The Oldboyz grinned, turned as one, and charged.
Edwyrd, Fourtooth and Cressida strolled on through the great pale bone-gates. From behind them, there was a strangled cry of,
"Oh, Sigmar, not the troll! Not the-"