Once upon a time, the call of the Phoenix King was reaching Ulthuan’s nobility. “Don’t ask what the Phoenix King can do for you, ask what you can do for the Phoenix King!” was the slogan that roused all the young noblemen. Among those asking the question was Prince Moranion, blue blooded, refined, educated, finest of his race and bored to death of shouting at peasants. If he had known where it would lead him, he might have done differently.
The Phoenix King was again in desperate need of a major trophy for his still embarrassing empty trophy hall. To get a picture of how embarrassingly empty it is, one has to know that by royal degree the hall was designed to have a proportion of three Blood Bowl pitches and contains only two lonely trophies gathering dust (the McMurty Children Burger Cup and the Goblin Mud Cap - believed to mean Mad Cup). And as the High Elves would rather drink their wine with ice than admitting royal failure, the only way out was winning. Nationalism played it’s part and several young noblemen ended up on the Blood Bowl pitch believing they were acting in their own interest. But as brilliant as they were, in the muddy, gore splattered peasant game, where no credit is given, they were sort of lost. This put the Elven Kingdom in another awkward position and was sort of forced to lose it’s finest nobles to the rotten breath of a Troll. The only ray of hope was Prince Moranion who proved fit enough not only to survive, but also to win those filthy, right,-I’ve-got-my-finger-in-your-eye,-but-you-should-really-bother-about-my-other-hand! fights. Even more, in time it emerged that Prince Moranion was one of those rare prowess warriors in whose veins the blood of dragons seems to run, as they say in Ulthuan. His unique and seldom matched combat techniques made him the one hope of Ulthuan who could carry their teams to victory. There was only one bad side to it, Prince Moranion hates Blood Bowl. He hates the sweat and smell, the insolence of the fans, the badly timed performance of the opposite cheerleader squad, the shrill, ear piercing sound of the whistle, the lack of eloquence, taste and education of everyone around the game, the… well, I guess you better don’t ask him about it. And although his reputation is sky rocketing in Ulthuan, and his pale, sharp edged face and cold, silent appearance made him popular with many of the (admittedly a bit masochistic) ladies of his homeland, he is in fact living in hell. And as long as the Phoenix King is grieved by the trophy hall, and no other young nobleman emerges with a prowess to match his, he’ll remain bound to his oath to play for Ulthuan teams when needed and that means in a world he deeply despises. As a result, Moranion spends most of his time isolated in his penthouse, eating peeled grapes and drinking delicious wine in the company of hand picked, refined companions and learning all about decadence, trying to forget the sweat, filth, gore and primitive labour on the Blood Bowl pitch, that is paying the bills for it.