The large stone turret towered into the nights sky. Thunder crashed in the sky , and rain battered the tower from all angles. The top level of the tower, accessible only from 27 flights of stone stairs, contained the living quarters and study of Head Coach exefokker.
exefokker sat behind the large desk, hewn by traveling DarkElf artisans from a single piece of solid Andorian Oak Wood. Despite the inclement weather outside, the coach's study was warm and comfortable - a fire roared in the large stone fireplace, the walls and floor were covered in a mish-mash of animal furs and skins, and the few pieces of uncovered space were adjourned with exefokkers Bowl trophies and accolades from days gone by.
The coch was hunched over his desk, engrossed in the stat's from his most recent team. Charts of data, graphs, bio's, all lay strewn across the desk. 'An organised mess' thought exefokker. 'Much like a drive in the Bowl' the coach mused to himself.
A thunderclap burst almost directly overhead, and forked lightning could be seen streaking across the sky through the study's only window.
The coach looked up. He could hear something. The pattering of quick, nimble feet. The coach knew the sound all too well. Years on the pitch had taught him how to discern not just the sound of footsteps approaching - the rhythm, strength, and distance of feet pounding on the floor- but also to use that same information to calculate the size, shape, and - most importantly - the intent of the runner. It could be a matter of life and death to know if those footsteps behind you were of a friendly catcher running deep, or of a block orc blocker hell bent on ripping your entrails out through your nose.
exefokker had seen first hand what happened if you got that call wrong...
The pattering grew louder. Soft, quick feet...the creature was in a hurry...quick, desperate footfalls...but the rhythm, the rhythm was...excited...a broad grin spread across the head coaches face...
The creature reached the top of the 27th flight of stone stairs, panting, desperate for breath. But it was in a hurry. Pausing only for a second, the creature pulled back its hand to knock on the solid Treambear Wood door that marked the entrance to exefokkers chambers. Just as the creature brought its hand forward to knock on the door, a booming voice came from within:
The creature paused for a moment, momentarily caught by surprise. Still heaving for breath, the creature pushed the door open, and part walked, part hopped, part scuttled into the Head Coaches study.
The coach sat behind his enormous wooden desk, leaning back in his chair, a relaxed smile across his face. Still, his eyes bored into the creature with the intensity for which Head Coach exefokker was known throughout the realms and kingdoms of both the Old and New world.
The creature, Tentto'nik'ekk, was diminutive, standing no more than four and a half feet tall, with a slim frame, partially hunched. A small tail protuded about half way down the creatures slender, yet powerfully muscled, legs. The creature seemed unable to stand still, its legs and arms twitched, as did its neck, and its head twitched as it spoke:
"I assume you are referring to Practice Squad 78, Tentto'nik'ekk?"
Tentto'nik'ekk's face twitched and jerked as it nodded the affirmative.
"What have they done again?"
"They'vedoneitagain, they'vekilledagain, they've,killed, again!" said the creature, still unable to stand still, all the whilst twitching and and jerking, with an unpredictable tic of its face. The creature spoke in a high pitched voice, with a disjointed and hurried rhythm.
"Excellent" said exefokker "Who have they killed thistime?"
exefokkers face relaxed, before breaking out into a huge ear to ear grin.
The Head Coach turned on the spot, and took a step towards a huge decanter of Single Malt Dwarfen Rune Whisky which stood atop a small table in the corner - which itself appeared to be made entirely from a single stuffed leg of large goat ... or perhaps a Minotaur.
The coach stopped abruptly, and turned slowly back to Tentto'nik'ek.
"What reason did they give for killing the other practice teams, Tentto'nik'ek?"
"Theysaidtheywereprovoked, said, they...were, provoked." The creatures already high pitched voice went up another octave.
The coach threw back his head and let out a deep, hearty, laugh.
"This is far better than expected. Say they were provoked do they they."
"Well, their training has gone superbly. My advanced techniques appear to have paid off completely." exefokker carried on: "If tare provoked to kill by ball skills, blocks, running, and passinhg then - well - they are more than ready for the trials and tribulations of the Southern Wastes League!"
exefokker turned back to the decanter and poured the Dwarfern Whiskey, right up to the brim of what was either a giant golden goblet, or perhaps a solid gold Blood Bowl trophy from the coaches playing days. The broad grin remained on the coaches face, and his eyes seemed to be alight with some intense internal fire.
Turning back to his blue skinned skink servant, exefokker raised the golden goblet, sloshing some of its peaty smelling contents onto the floor.
"Cheers" said the head coach, before quaffing the contents down in one.