So I dug out this old thing and gave it a bit of a brushup. After I had two absolutely terrible seasons with a necro team, I decided to take the game less seriously, and made an underworld team called Up Yours, Nuffle! I named all the players after the way I guessed they would die. The first troll was 'Fouled by a Goblin,' the second I think something like 'Deadly Bowel Movement.' My star runner was "Death by GFI," etc.
A Day at the Office
The office was small and stuffy, with the acrid stench of warpstone fumes imprinted in the sparse furnishings. On the floor lay a thick red rug so riddled with mystery stains it was now a permanent fixture. On the wall, a makeshift shelf hosted rows of vials filled with tell-tale grey dust and a single worn book entitled The Smart-Ass Dictionary: Words That Make You Sound Important.
At an appropriately sized desk sat a particularly hideous goblin with an oversized jaw and toxic green eyes. His feet were up and his chair tilted back. He wore a permanent savvy grin that clenched down on a chewed-up cigar. A carved wooden sign teetered on the brink of the desk. It read Nubber Gobflap, Head Coach.
Nubber was currently giving a piece of mind to a young goblin in a blood-spattered leather apron, who carried the tell-tale bone saw of an apothecary.
"I dun care 'ow much that pustulent whinebag says 'is back 'urts! E's playin' da next game! How we gunna stomp dark elves without a troll ta put 'em down in the first place?!" There was spittle spraying all over the room. It was hypnotising the way Nubber managed to talk so much yet never quite lose grip of that cigar stump.
"Ah, well. You see his spine did not set right and–"
"Damn it Splint, it was yer ineptitude broke his back in the first place!"
"Actually, that honour belongs to–"
"When I hired ya it was ta keep my team hardy. Can ya do that?"
“Snotstone should be able to–”
“And what did I tell you 'bout the names?! I hired 'em! I name 'em! They gotta embrace their death, they gotta know it's comin'! If they can accept that, damn near makes 'em illimitable!”
“Yes well, not all the players are very happy with–”
“Stonkin' gibblets, Splint, you think I pay them to be happy?!” Nubber bashed his goblin fist in the desk, which was built sufficiently shonky to shake impressively under the limited display of force. The wooden sign finally failed its see-saw game and fell onto the rug, as if making a desperate attempt to escape the room.
Nubber got up and counted fourteen vials from his shelf, which he placed on the desk.
“Go on, get back to work! I want to see some mutations for the next game! Gotta show dem high-falutin', rootin'-tootin', stick-up-their arse elves what's what!”
The apothecary made a mock bow and swept the vials carelessly into his satchel before scampering out of the room, all while being showered by more insults and spittle. As the room was once again empty, the shouting slowly dissipated into grumblings and mumbled misgivings. Nubber took his book down and started flipping through the grimy pages.
“Laborious stuff this, running a Blood Bowl team. Yes. Very laborious indeed,” he said to no one in particular.