Felnor looks up from his desk as he hears someone knocking on the door of his office. A look of slight impatience is evident on the face of the battle-scarred former soldier.

“Come!” He barks abruptly.

The door cracks open a few inches and a blonde, slightly disheveled elf peeks his head through.

“Are you … F-felnor?” he asks timidly.

“I am.” Felnor picks up a sheaf of paper from his desk and peruses it casually, “You must be … Tylar, I take it? Please, take a seat.”

Tylar hurriedly enters the room and seats himself in front of Felnor’s desk. The office is small and a little cluttered. Some shelves against the wall are filled with various items of Blood Bowl paraphernalia and there are several flipcharts showing sketched formation diagrams and pitch markings. Another elf is standing next to Felnor’s desk, with arms crossed and displaying a neutral expression.

Felnor dons his glasses and peruses the sheaf of paper further.

“So … it says here you previously worked as a … pro elf?” Felnor flashes a skeptical glance at the standing figure. “what does that mean, exactly?”

Tylar sqirms slightly in his seat, “Well … we're elves that play Blood Bowl. And … we get paid for it. Sometimes …”

“Riiiight …” says Felnor, a faint tinge of sarcasm evident in his voice. “Well, it also says here that you don't wear armour on the pitch. Instead, you ‘prance about in ripped jeans and hockey masks’. Doesn’t sound very professional to me.”

“Um …” Tylar fishes for an answer, “well, we find it easier to dodge away from our opponents if we don't wear armour. It makes us lighter on our feet and we can run faster.”

“Well, if you can’t dodge in armour then I’m not sure if your 'skills' will be very transferable to our team …” Felnor studies further down the page, “from what I can see, it sounds like you people don’t even have your own country. So, basically, you’re … gypsies?” Felnor flashes another wry glance at the standing elf.

“Well, we don’t use that term exactly … we prefer to think of ourselves as travellers, sporting nomads, if you will. We go wherever the road takes us, playing Blood Bowl and enjoying life to the full.”

“Ok, I think I’ve heard enough.” Felnor says, assertively, “we’ll try you out for a few games, see how you do. We’ll put you up near the front – you’ll … erm … gain experience and learn quickly that way. Go and see Meldoril down the corridor and he’ll kit you out with a helmet, greaves, breastplate and the rest.”

“Oh, thank you sir!” says Tylar, excitedly, “you won’t regret it, I promise!” he gets up, almost tripping over the chair as he leaves the room.

“So, what do you think, Niceguy?” Felnor asks the standing figure, “I give him about 4 games …”

Mr. Niceguy remains motionless for a moment, as if he hasn’t heard the question, then, suddenly, he looks straight at Felnor and gives him a wide, toothy grin, spreading from ear to ear.