This week we have a special match report from Brianne Tribune reporter Gerard Le Cordonnier
Best of a Rotten situation
There was once a great Estalian explorer, Enrico Ricci. In his great tome, The Old World: Flora, Fauna and Fornication, he mentioned that deep within the jungles of Lustria grows a plant. This plant, when in a stage of infrequent bloom, produces a stench so foul, it could put a troll off its dinner. However I believe a bouquet of them would be a fragrance suitable for The Lady herself when compared to the aroma of a Necromantic Vs Nurgle game of Blood Bowl.
With my skin itching I took my seat. There is an old Bretonnian phrase that “Every village has an idiot.” I had the misfortune of sitting betwixt an entire realm’s worth.
In my years as a travelling scribe I have visited the majestic Altdorf Oldbowl. I have marvelled in acrobatic displays in glorious Ulthuan. I have voyaged deep underground to write on a pair of Dwarven Kings in a grudge series. As I sat upon an upturned stone slab, the breath of an unwashed orc on my neck, I had to remind myself that this was merely a dip in fortune.
The aptly named Dapper Lycanthropes came into this match on the back of a draw against I, Eldarius. Sporting a pair of werewolves, Old Man Jenkins’ the captain flesh golem, one ghoul and a shambling of zombies, they entered the game as favourites. Local bookmaker Mad Patty Power giving them odds of 8/11 for a win.
Detroit Pox City entered the game in high spirits, the ever phlegmatic Bruce Lŭvgŭnn stating, “Win for the Pox God!” Eloquence notwithstanding they walked onto the pitch with all the swagger of a Breton lord after a large supper.
The Dapper Lycanthropes won the toss and elected to receive. From my vantage point the centre of the pitch seemed hazy and the unmistakable buzzing sound of bloatflies set the soundtrack for the game.
The match started with all the pace and elegance of a Halfling wading through treacle, only the double team of werewolves moving at anything resembling speed. But this speed proved to be the undoing of Lysander Puddlesworth as he overshot his run past Belial, Pox City’s star pestigor, who then nudged him into the away fans stand.
The werewolf had been attempting to find space for a pass, get it would have a been in vain as the soaring ball was plucked out of the air by Plăstur-Kăstur.
Detroit Pox City launched their attack. Plăstur-Kăstur lofted a pass to Tomas Parasite who jogged coughing and spluttering towards the end zone.
The midfield was a first fight of dead and rotting flesh, the peg nosed referee eager to take a step back while grounded players were stomped.
Tomas crossed the goal line just as halftime struck, Detroit Pox City taking a One-Zero lead into the halftime interval.
If the smell of the teams was bad then the halftime food stalls were truly repugnant. I surveyed the various pots of untrustworthy broths, with a sliding scale of living and dead creatures, and declined a meal.
The halftime show involved local “musician” Nekrota. Alternating between guttural growls and dog like howls one would almost wish to be dead, never mind undead. Tristan le Troubadour she is not.
After the food and entertainment, words used as loose a bar girl’s garter, I was happy to have a ewer of Friar Benedictine’s elixir to raise my spirits for the second half.
Between halves, The Dapper Lycanthrope’s coaching team managed to sew the various parts of the dead werewolf back together. No doubt adding extras from unwilling members of the crowd.
With a final lock stitch the Necromantic team were ready to kick off the second half.
The kick was short, veering towards City’s left flank. A trio of rotters enveloped the ball as they started their drive up field. Lŭvgŭnn marched forward, ball tucked in the boils under his arm, ready to traverse the carnage ahead.
Five Necromantic players were sent to the recovery box, while the City number 4 was caught with business end of an Old Man Jenkins’ headbutt, crunching him to the ground. Only his ankle remained of Erik Kulick once the body was swept away.
The second half also carried on the bizarre grudge match between Baby Face Tom and Ankh Thayer. Tom hit Thayer. Thayer got up and hit Tom. Tom got up and hit Thayer. Each player getting knocked down and getting back up again. A strange side motif in the game. One that will be sung about by drunken oafs in local taverns no doubt.
With the bloaters, and Beth the bloatspawn, engrossed in carnage, it was a surprise to me that no Dapper Lycanthrope players were sent to their respective injury dugouts. Both teams lucky to not receive more than putrid flesh wounds.
With the time ticking away Lŭvgŭnn crossed to score. Seconds remained as Detroit Pox City kicked off.
The ball was kicked.
A Rotter was thumped.
The referee blew his whistle.
Two wins from two for Detroit Pox City. The third round game against pre-season favourites Max Deadroom will be the barometer of the team. Are they just a flash in the pestilent pan?
The Dapper Lycanthropes are still searching for a win this season and could be in need of a rebuild. Rumours of the local graveyard being upturned by figures in Lycanthrope colours could not be confirmed.
After the game I had the dubious pleasure to speaker to top Nurgle agent Hoary Menieredes. He/it informed me that Pox City were scouting a local leper colony for recruits. “My client is blessed by the pox father. He might not be much to look at, but no one can stop an ogre charge with his face like he can!” High praise indeed.
Now I have to go. The village apothecary would like to examine the rash on my leg. And I feel like I’ve been followed by a man with a pronounced hump…
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