The Port Bristol Corsairs
Posted: Sat Nov 05, 2011 7:41 pm
Damion Longstride walked down the deck from the ship and onto the bustling docks of Marienburg, his legs grateful for the steady purchase of dry land. Four days at sea had played havoc with his constitution, the problem made worse by the autumn squalls and their temperamental effect on the surging waters of the Sea of Chaos. He looked around at the swell of humanity surrounding him. There seemed to be denizens from all over the known world. Hard-bitten Reiklanders, regal Bretonnians, swarthy fast-talking merchants from Tilea and Estalia, burly Kislev trappers and fierce Norsca sailors, gaudily dressed Elves from Ulthuan, and Dwarf traders from Barak Varr. Damion recognized men from as far as Araby, and those of an even duskier color, rumored to be from much further south. It was a far cry from the vacant, windswept hills of Albion, from whence he sailed.
"You Longstride?"
Damion looked around for the voice calling his name, his shoulder-length black hair cascading down his shoulders. It took a second for him to realize the voice was coming from below his field of view. He looked down to see a portly Halfling in shabby clothes. Sparse patches of red hair sprouted haphazardly from his mostly bald head, and a pipe hung crookedly from his mouth. He looked up at Damion with an air of indifference.
"I am, and you are?" He replied, trying to convey his most warm smile.
"Thought so," the Halfling deadpanned, turning his back on him and walking away. "Follow," he said, sounding as if he didn't really care whether or not Damion complied.
After a moment's hesitation, Damion rushed forward to keep up. Despite the short man's stature he moved surprisingly quick. "Might I have the pleasure of your name," Damion asked again.
"Bodo," replied the Halfling. "Bodo Grimble, Assistant to Coach Naylor."
The name nearly stopped Damion in his tracks. Argus 'Tiny' Naylor was a Blood Bowl legend. After a distinguished career as a Blitzer for the Middenheim Marauders, Naylor made his true mark in the coaching ranks, coaching the Oldheim Ogres to a Blood Bowl Championship in 2475 and a Chaos Cup finals appearance in 2486. He was hired away by the wealthy Dragon Princes, but the haughty High Elves refused to listen to him and he negotiated out of his contract for a less lucrative but more amenable position with the up-and-coming Port Bristol Corsairs. Damion had been toiling away in a lower Albion league, where he had had some success, leading the league in rushing paces and touchdowns. Interest from a larger club was only a matter of time, but when he had heard the Corsairs had purchased his contract to play on their reserve squad, he was especially excited. Spending time learning the game under Coach Naylor could make him a truly outstanding player and who knew, after a season or two, he might get to wear the ocean blue kit of the Corsairs.
Bodo interrupted his reverie by tossing a large, bound sheaf of papers into his chest. "Playbook," he grunted. "Memorize it. You're starting tomorrow."
Damon gaped in disbelief. "Starting? Really? Well this is--" Damion couldn't finish his sentence. A smile beamed across his face. To be playing alongside the team's veteran star Rex Wyngarde and the dazzling speedster Mason 'The Jet' Ryan. This was truly a dream come true.
"Ryan's dead," said Bodo, somehow reading his mind. "Orc crushed his windpipe. Max Zoros delayed in Altdorf. Reserve blitzer hurt. That's why you're starting."
"Oh," replied Damion, suddenly a lot less thrilled. He hadn't known about Ryan's death or the Corsairs hiring Zoros, a well-regarded blitzer with something of a mean streak, but news traveled slow in Albion. Last Damion had heard, he had latched on with the Bright Crusaders, but there were rumors that he didn't fit in with such a pious team.
The rest of the walk to the stadium, Bodo said nothing while Damion tried to avoid running into people and objects while his nose was buried in the playbook. It wasn't long before they reached Marienburg Stadium, where the Seaside Open was taking place. Bodo led him past the security guards inside. The stadium was empty of fans, as it was an off day between games, reserved for practice and healing up from the previous contests.
"You're late," Bodo grumbled. "Missed practice."
"I told the Captain to go faster," Damion deadpanned. He had already made up his mind that he didn't like the surly, little Halfling. They walked below into the locker room, where they were greeted by a large, dark-skinned man with a shaven head, sitting on a bench where he had just finished wrapping his ankle. He was so dark, Damion thought, that he had to hail from the Southlands. The man got up gingerly from his position, placing a crutch underneath his arm.
"This the fresh meat, Bodo?" The man smiled warmly at both of them, extending his hand to Damion. "Okoye," he said. "Okoye Bamasi. Your lucky day, rookie. If I don't get a little too close to Gundar in practice, you'd be watching me from the stands tomorrow instead of the other way around. Try not to look too good out there," he said with a wink. "I'll take him from here, Bodo, show him around, introduce him to the rest of the team."
The Halfling grumbled and wandered off. "Ignore him," said Okoye. "The personality of a cave troll, but he's reliable as the sun coming up. Somehow, everything gets done with Bodo around."
They headed into the locker room, and Okoye called ahead. "J.F.!" A thin, pencil-moustached man turned his head. "Bonjour, Okoye! Zis is the new guy, eh?" He bounced to his feet and sharply extended his hand. "Jean-Francois Lafitte, *STAR* lineman for ze Corsairs. How do you do?" He punctuated the handshake with a sharp bow.
"Star, he says," smirked Okoye. "J.F. hasn't been here much longer than you."
"Nice to meet you," said Damion, shaking his hand. "You're from Bretonnia, I take it?"
"Bretonnia?" Lafitte practically spat out the words. "Zose people stink of mustard. I am from Luval, Monsieur, over in ze New World."
"My apologies," said Damion. "I've never heard of Luval."
"Most people haven't," said Okoye. "They're a colony that was settled by Bretonnians over a century ago. J.F. here is one of the few to make it out of the hinterlands back to the Auld World."
"Where I hope to teach you filthy swine ze PROPER way to play Blood Bowl!" Damion couldn't tell whether he was joking or not.
"We eagerly await your lessons, J.F.," Okoye laughed, leading Damion away. "Over here is Guiseppe Verte, the team's kicker... well, he's learning the position, anyway." The diminutive Tilean smiled and waved back. "And over here are the Krumm Brothers, Eomar and Otto." The two burly Reiklanders looked up and half-nodded, but didn't smile. Damion was well aware of the Krumms and their reputation for bringing pain on the pitch. "Hmmm," Okoye wondered allowed. "I don't see Gerhardt around. He must be in with the coach." Damion knew he was referring to Gerhardt Reinhelm, the hard-nosed lineman who had served with the Corsairs longer than any other player, and captain of the team.
"Well, HELLO. Okoye, please introduce me to this handsome specimen." Damion turned around to see the lithe, athletic figure of the Corsairs star catcher, the beautiful Francesca De La Riva. She had graced as many pin-up calendars and tabloid columns throughout the Auld World as she had highlight reels for her play on the pitch. A former Estalian Contessa, she had grown bored with a life of nobility and took to the gridiron for more exciting pursuits.
"Damion Longstride," said Damion, taking her hand. "A pleasure, Miss De La Riva. I'm a great admirer."
"Now there's a charmer," Amos Hart, the team's other flamboyant Catcher, piped up. "Stands to reason, though. Longstride, eh? I can recognize a fellow from the Isle." He walked over and shook Damion's hand. "From Manchester myself, can't place you, though."
"Newkirk," said Damion, returning the handshake. "I was born in Albion, but I grew up in Wolfenburg."
"That explains it. Smart folks, yours," winked Amos. "Gotcher out early. Oi! Stig, come meet your new Blitzer!"
Stig Jarlsson, the team's Thrower from Norsca, looked up from his place on the bench. A metal patch stood where his right eye used to be, and a long scar trailed down his left cheek. The rest of his face exhibited the harsh features of his warrior people. "Nice to meet you, kid," he grimaced. "Just watch my blind side and try not to get killed out there."
"Nice guy," said Damion. "Why isn't he playing for a Norse team?"
"They just don't appreciate a good Thrower the way we do," cackled Amos. "Half of 'em don't even carry one any more. He's alright. Blitzer mentality, but he can deliver the ball in a pinch. The Contessa and I sure appreciate it, don't we, darlin'?"
"Of course," she smiled, still hungrily eyeing Damion. The way she looked at him made him feel a bit nervous.
"Hey kid," a voice bellowed from the back of the locker room, "get over here!"
It was the unmistakable voice of the team's gregarious star Blitzer, Rex Wyngarde. He was up in years, with a little grey edging at the temples of his handsome, rough-hewn face, but Damion could see that the man was a physical specimen, and judging from his play, still a terror on the Blood Bowl pitch.
Damion headed over, eager to meet one of his idles. Rex took Damion's hand in his massive grip and shook it vigorously, before wrapping an arm around him and leading him away. "Ignore Frankie. She loves all the attention, but she's more bark than bite. Glad to have you on the Corsairs, kid."
"Happy to be here, Mr. Wyngarde," replied Damion.
"Only my ex-wife's lawyers calls me Mr. Wyngarde, kid. Call me Rex." He paused and looked a little reflective. "A damned shame about Mason, he was a good guy, great player." He nodded sadly. "But that's how it goes. One day, we all wind up playing for the Reaper. Just keep your head on a swivel out there, and you'll do fine. Now that you've met the rest of the team..."
"Er... I haven't met everyone yet, Rex." He motioned to the mammoth, yellow-skinned Ogre sitting alone in the corner.
"Oh," said Rex. "Gundar... he ain't really the sociable type, kid. You'd best steer clear of him."
"If that isn't the truth," said Okoye, motioning to his broken foot. "Only the Coach and Gerhardt are allowed to get anywhere near him off the pitch. Give that one a wide berth."
Damion didn't have to be told twice. He couldn't take his eyes off the behemoth, huddled in the corner, his red, bloodshot eyes refusing to betray whatever murderous thoughts ran through his mind.
"You Longstride?"
Damion looked around for the voice calling his name, his shoulder-length black hair cascading down his shoulders. It took a second for him to realize the voice was coming from below his field of view. He looked down to see a portly Halfling in shabby clothes. Sparse patches of red hair sprouted haphazardly from his mostly bald head, and a pipe hung crookedly from his mouth. He looked up at Damion with an air of indifference.
"I am, and you are?" He replied, trying to convey his most warm smile.
"Thought so," the Halfling deadpanned, turning his back on him and walking away. "Follow," he said, sounding as if he didn't really care whether or not Damion complied.
After a moment's hesitation, Damion rushed forward to keep up. Despite the short man's stature he moved surprisingly quick. "Might I have the pleasure of your name," Damion asked again.
"Bodo," replied the Halfling. "Bodo Grimble, Assistant to Coach Naylor."
The name nearly stopped Damion in his tracks. Argus 'Tiny' Naylor was a Blood Bowl legend. After a distinguished career as a Blitzer for the Middenheim Marauders, Naylor made his true mark in the coaching ranks, coaching the Oldheim Ogres to a Blood Bowl Championship in 2475 and a Chaos Cup finals appearance in 2486. He was hired away by the wealthy Dragon Princes, but the haughty High Elves refused to listen to him and he negotiated out of his contract for a less lucrative but more amenable position with the up-and-coming Port Bristol Corsairs. Damion had been toiling away in a lower Albion league, where he had had some success, leading the league in rushing paces and touchdowns. Interest from a larger club was only a matter of time, but when he had heard the Corsairs had purchased his contract to play on their reserve squad, he was especially excited. Spending time learning the game under Coach Naylor could make him a truly outstanding player and who knew, after a season or two, he might get to wear the ocean blue kit of the Corsairs.
Bodo interrupted his reverie by tossing a large, bound sheaf of papers into his chest. "Playbook," he grunted. "Memorize it. You're starting tomorrow."
Damon gaped in disbelief. "Starting? Really? Well this is--" Damion couldn't finish his sentence. A smile beamed across his face. To be playing alongside the team's veteran star Rex Wyngarde and the dazzling speedster Mason 'The Jet' Ryan. This was truly a dream come true.
"Ryan's dead," said Bodo, somehow reading his mind. "Orc crushed his windpipe. Max Zoros delayed in Altdorf. Reserve blitzer hurt. That's why you're starting."
"Oh," replied Damion, suddenly a lot less thrilled. He hadn't known about Ryan's death or the Corsairs hiring Zoros, a well-regarded blitzer with something of a mean streak, but news traveled slow in Albion. Last Damion had heard, he had latched on with the Bright Crusaders, but there were rumors that he didn't fit in with such a pious team.
The rest of the walk to the stadium, Bodo said nothing while Damion tried to avoid running into people and objects while his nose was buried in the playbook. It wasn't long before they reached Marienburg Stadium, where the Seaside Open was taking place. Bodo led him past the security guards inside. The stadium was empty of fans, as it was an off day between games, reserved for practice and healing up from the previous contests.
"You're late," Bodo grumbled. "Missed practice."
"I told the Captain to go faster," Damion deadpanned. He had already made up his mind that he didn't like the surly, little Halfling. They walked below into the locker room, where they were greeted by a large, dark-skinned man with a shaven head, sitting on a bench where he had just finished wrapping his ankle. He was so dark, Damion thought, that he had to hail from the Southlands. The man got up gingerly from his position, placing a crutch underneath his arm.
"This the fresh meat, Bodo?" The man smiled warmly at both of them, extending his hand to Damion. "Okoye," he said. "Okoye Bamasi. Your lucky day, rookie. If I don't get a little too close to Gundar in practice, you'd be watching me from the stands tomorrow instead of the other way around. Try not to look too good out there," he said with a wink. "I'll take him from here, Bodo, show him around, introduce him to the rest of the team."
The Halfling grumbled and wandered off. "Ignore him," said Okoye. "The personality of a cave troll, but he's reliable as the sun coming up. Somehow, everything gets done with Bodo around."
They headed into the locker room, and Okoye called ahead. "J.F.!" A thin, pencil-moustached man turned his head. "Bonjour, Okoye! Zis is the new guy, eh?" He bounced to his feet and sharply extended his hand. "Jean-Francois Lafitte, *STAR* lineman for ze Corsairs. How do you do?" He punctuated the handshake with a sharp bow.
"Star, he says," smirked Okoye. "J.F. hasn't been here much longer than you."
"Nice to meet you," said Damion, shaking his hand. "You're from Bretonnia, I take it?"
"Bretonnia?" Lafitte practically spat out the words. "Zose people stink of mustard. I am from Luval, Monsieur, over in ze New World."
"My apologies," said Damion. "I've never heard of Luval."
"Most people haven't," said Okoye. "They're a colony that was settled by Bretonnians over a century ago. J.F. here is one of the few to make it out of the hinterlands back to the Auld World."
"Where I hope to teach you filthy swine ze PROPER way to play Blood Bowl!" Damion couldn't tell whether he was joking or not.
"We eagerly await your lessons, J.F.," Okoye laughed, leading Damion away. "Over here is Guiseppe Verte, the team's kicker... well, he's learning the position, anyway." The diminutive Tilean smiled and waved back. "And over here are the Krumm Brothers, Eomar and Otto." The two burly Reiklanders looked up and half-nodded, but didn't smile. Damion was well aware of the Krumms and their reputation for bringing pain on the pitch. "Hmmm," Okoye wondered allowed. "I don't see Gerhardt around. He must be in with the coach." Damion knew he was referring to Gerhardt Reinhelm, the hard-nosed lineman who had served with the Corsairs longer than any other player, and captain of the team.
"Well, HELLO. Okoye, please introduce me to this handsome specimen." Damion turned around to see the lithe, athletic figure of the Corsairs star catcher, the beautiful Francesca De La Riva. She had graced as many pin-up calendars and tabloid columns throughout the Auld World as she had highlight reels for her play on the pitch. A former Estalian Contessa, she had grown bored with a life of nobility and took to the gridiron for more exciting pursuits.
"Damion Longstride," said Damion, taking her hand. "A pleasure, Miss De La Riva. I'm a great admirer."
"Now there's a charmer," Amos Hart, the team's other flamboyant Catcher, piped up. "Stands to reason, though. Longstride, eh? I can recognize a fellow from the Isle." He walked over and shook Damion's hand. "From Manchester myself, can't place you, though."
"Newkirk," said Damion, returning the handshake. "I was born in Albion, but I grew up in Wolfenburg."
"That explains it. Smart folks, yours," winked Amos. "Gotcher out early. Oi! Stig, come meet your new Blitzer!"
Stig Jarlsson, the team's Thrower from Norsca, looked up from his place on the bench. A metal patch stood where his right eye used to be, and a long scar trailed down his left cheek. The rest of his face exhibited the harsh features of his warrior people. "Nice to meet you, kid," he grimaced. "Just watch my blind side and try not to get killed out there."
"Nice guy," said Damion. "Why isn't he playing for a Norse team?"
"They just don't appreciate a good Thrower the way we do," cackled Amos. "Half of 'em don't even carry one any more. He's alright. Blitzer mentality, but he can deliver the ball in a pinch. The Contessa and I sure appreciate it, don't we, darlin'?"
"Of course," she smiled, still hungrily eyeing Damion. The way she looked at him made him feel a bit nervous.
"Hey kid," a voice bellowed from the back of the locker room, "get over here!"
It was the unmistakable voice of the team's gregarious star Blitzer, Rex Wyngarde. He was up in years, with a little grey edging at the temples of his handsome, rough-hewn face, but Damion could see that the man was a physical specimen, and judging from his play, still a terror on the Blood Bowl pitch.
Damion headed over, eager to meet one of his idles. Rex took Damion's hand in his massive grip and shook it vigorously, before wrapping an arm around him and leading him away. "Ignore Frankie. She loves all the attention, but she's more bark than bite. Glad to have you on the Corsairs, kid."
"Happy to be here, Mr. Wyngarde," replied Damion.
"Only my ex-wife's lawyers calls me Mr. Wyngarde, kid. Call me Rex." He paused and looked a little reflective. "A damned shame about Mason, he was a good guy, great player." He nodded sadly. "But that's how it goes. One day, we all wind up playing for the Reaper. Just keep your head on a swivel out there, and you'll do fine. Now that you've met the rest of the team..."
"Er... I haven't met everyone yet, Rex." He motioned to the mammoth, yellow-skinned Ogre sitting alone in the corner.
"Oh," said Rex. "Gundar... he ain't really the sociable type, kid. You'd best steer clear of him."
"If that isn't the truth," said Okoye, motioning to his broken foot. "Only the Coach and Gerhardt are allowed to get anywhere near him off the pitch. Give that one a wide berth."
Damion didn't have to be told twice. He couldn't take his eyes off the behemoth, huddled in the corner, his red, bloodshot eyes refusing to betray whatever murderous thoughts ran through his mind.