“ALAS! Poor
Branagh! Mads Knutson hurt him
grievously!”
Tarquin held the ball to the light, turning it in his hand,
considering the spots of elf blood which were smeared across its skin. Around him in the dressing room, he could
hear the muffled sobs of his fellow actors, each and every one of them huddled
together for comfort, and each holding another’s trembling hand.
Branagh had taken the worst of it. He writhed on the hay-strewn floor, clutching
his groin, which was still smattered with blood and teeth marks. Every now and then, his whimpering would be
punctuated by cries of “Why?” and
“All I wanted to do was entertain people!”
“Apparently,” mused Tarquin as he weighed the ball in his
hand, “it’s some kind of game.”
Kelm the Witless lifted her eyes, purple, blood-shot and
swollen with bruises.
“A game?” she spat, along with a mouthful of
blood. “A GAME???”
“They call it Blood Bowl.
The peasantry find it very entertaining, I’m told.”
“How can anybody call that
entertainment?” she gasped. “It... It’s
brutal. Savage. Horrific!”
“Calm down, dear, it could have been worse,” he sighed.
“Luthien did pantomime last year.”
Kelm’s hand instinctively went to Luthien’s shoulder, gently
squeezing. “Oh, you poor thing,” she
lamented. Luthien stared blankly.
“They made me play the back of the cow!” he wept. The others bowed their heads, sobbing all the
more.
The troupe had tried to make a quick getaway after the
previous week’s debacle, but had been collared as they crept out of the
stadium’s back door. The ogre in the
striped uniform (the ‘ref-er-ee’, Tarquin had explained to them later) had
proudly announced that he was being paid a great deal of gold by a mysterious benefactor to ensure that the
elves kept playing, though for what reason he either could not or would not
say... To be honest, it all sounded like
an ill-conceived and tenuous plot from
one of their (if they were honest) bloody awful plays. Once the ogre had twisted a few arms (and
broken a couple of fingers), the troupe had unanimously agreed to turn up for a
second performance.
The Araak-Frizko 69ers were nothing if not enthusiastic with
the pummelling and the pounding. The
wood elves had hoped to wow their audience once more with plenty of – what they
understood the audience to call – touch-ups,
but the dwarfs seemed to be taking the old adage of ‘break a leg’ rather too
seriously. It had all started rather
well for the elves, who managed to score almost immediately after the ogre,
What’sit o’ Gold, had blown his whistle , encouraging the audience to take
their seats in preparation for Act I.
Peregrine Pine-Cone had even allowed himself a small celebration, until
one of the diminutive hairy beasts cut him off with a swift clout of his
tattooed fist.
Girth Gielgud had tried to get his branches on the dwarfs,
but they simply didn’t seem to be long enough to reach down that far. In answer, Mads Knutson had twice uprooted
the Treeman and, against all physical possibilities, managed to re-plant him
head-first with a series of Reikland supelexes.
It was Ole Skar Ratcatcher and Cool Hands Pedro who spelled
disaster for the elves though. This pair
were surprisingly spry for thick-headed dwarfs and had both managed to trundle
down the field, protected by their fellows – scoring only as What’sit o’ Gold
had blown his whistle.
The elves’ supposed star, Kelm, had done the sensible thing
after being knocked senseless after
trying – and failing - to vault over the heads of a large group of the raucous
dwarfs. Even after finally opening her
eyes, she had decided, on reflection, that sitting and watching from the wings
was definitely the best way to view the proceedings.
By the end, the dwarfs were clearly out for blood, but
luckily for the Green Glade Players, none of their frustrated bursts of
violence managed to do any lasting damage.
Well, of course, except for Auburn Branagh. But he’d be right as rain after sitting out the
next match.
Sort of.
The injured elf was lying face-down now, still clutching the
crimson patch on the front of his breeches, his anguished groans muffled by the
soiled rushes which thinly carpeted the stone floor.
“Chaps,” he begged through his tears, “tell me honestly...” He managed to lift his face to gaze directly –
hopefully – at Tarquin and asked “Do you think it’ll grow back?”
Tarquin turned away and nobody else said a thing.
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