Background bio for my OWCC WELF team:

Stonefist stormed into the main office of the Cryptic Gemstone Tour. "Office" was a bit of a generous term really, as his treasury staff were basically housed in a couple of covered carts that had been roped together.

He might have been the quintessential Dwarf: he had a huge braided beard, he was covered in glittering jewels, and a hammer hung from his belt as if he might suddenly need it in a land that had not known real war for thirty years.

But Stonefist was not the quintessential Dwarf. He was dead. Or rather, he had been risen from the dead. So when he grabbed Elzebar, a bespectacled little Gnome, by the throat and lifted him in the air, the grip was icy.

'You're taking the piss out of me now, my lad. This tour started out with a good old and regular undead team. Then you trick me into bringing along some bloody lunatic Norsemen. And then it's the sodding humans who can't win worth a damn when they're picking games, let alone in the bloody Blackbox Human League...'

'But sir,' the gnome squeaked, choking as his air passage was clamped shut tighter. 'The humans were your idea!'

Realising that his little employee was right, Stonefist turned the gnome on his head and dropped him to the floor with a crash. His dead eyes, still bright, turned now to Thori Grimbeard. He was sat in the corner reading a scroll.

'This is your doing, my lad, isn't it?' The Stonefist asked of his most trusted accountant. Thori waited a while before turning to meet his employer's gaze. After a time, he nodded, and then returned to pouring over the scroll in front of him.

Stonefist began to pace with agitation. 'Elves, Thori? Sodding Elves? What next? Greenskins? Skaven? Why don't we go ahead and set up a sodding Chaos Halfling team while we're at it.'

'Sir, it's simple. We need the money. Wood Elves are proven winners on the pitch. Our coffers are emptying rapidly. We've got Norsemen and Humans dying left, right and centre and the tour needs the gold.'

'But another tournament? We're up to our eyeballs with the human league as it is.'

'The Old World Challenge Cup is about as prestigious as Blood Bowl gets, sir. If we can make a name for ourselves there, fans will come flooding to the Cryptic Gemstone games whether we're winning or losing. It's also a pretty fair deal. Generally, the OWCC administration can't be bought. The best teams, as it happen, generally win. Besides, I know a guy.'

Stonefist walked over to his friend's desk. It was stacked high with parchment and leather books. Thori was a busy and organised Dwarf, generally responsible for the many things that Stonefist found too difficult or boring - like lawyering or counting.

'What's this?' Stonefist said, pointing at the scroll. 'That stupid, farty writing is Elven isn't it?'

'Yes, my lord. It is.'

'Well, what does it say?'

'It's a signed contract, my lord. Our first player.'

The Stonefist sucked air in through his teeth. Venom and the fury of a thousand suns had etched itself into these whispered words: 'You signed a player without consulting me?'

Thori's eyes twinkled. He produced a small scrap of paper from inside his black accountancy robes and handed it to the Stonefist. Contracts were long and confusing, but Stonefist would understand this.

'I don't think you'll mind me taking initiative on this one sir,' he said. Stonefist unraveled the piece of paper.

After a while, he nodded. He returned the piece of paper to Thori and brushed an errant breadcrumb from his beard. He rocked backwards and forwards on his boots and then started to make for the exit. As he passed Elzebar the gnome, he lifted the tiny creature up from the floor and set him back down on his pointed feet.

'Well then, erm, carry on lads.' He said as he lifted up the cart tarpaulin and headed out into the miserable Bretonnia morning.

Elzebar rounded on Thori, 'What the hell was on that paper?'

Thori grinned at his colleague. 'The stat line report on our new Wardancer: Hérion Oreth. Have a look.'

The gnome scuttled over and took the paper for himself. He shrugged and said: 'Well, the fans won't like the name. We'll have to call the great leaping bugger Hammy.'