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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Thu Oct 06, 2016 10:42 am 
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6: Jelly Jammers VS Nautical Imperatives
Bumford walked into the changing room of Nautical Imperatives laughing.

"You won't believe this," he says, wiping a combination of various facial secretions from his face. "They've hired themselves a chef, right, with the intention, ya'll like this, of trying to distract you mid game. Normally, hehe, this tactic can work. Them little fellas are nifty with a cleaver and an onion, but... but--"
Bumford roars again with laughter, falling over.
"It's all just salad! Seeds and leaves and turnips! AAahahahA! Not a crumb of cheese, not a sliver of meat, an ounce of gravy, no cream, no butter, nothing! AAAHHHOOOOOOHRHEHAhaha!"
Bumford rolls over and pushes himself up. "Who'd get distracted by a soggy lettuce, I ask you! Who'd be so - what is it?"
The elfs can smell it now. Their faces crease with pleasure.
"I smell parsnips and roasted potatoes!"
"Is that a hint of rosemary?"
"Anyone else catch the suggestion of quinoa?"
"I think I can catch some cous cous stuffed beetroot dumplings..."
Excited elves babble amongst themselves. Bumford stands and sniffs the air, disgusted.
"Don't tell me ya actually... like the sound of all that?"
Aye Aye! brings his attention to Bumford with some force of will. "We don't eat meat, coach. Nothing from the animal or of the animal. No meat, no fish, milk, cheese, butter or honey."
Bumford is aghast. "No bacon?"
"No, coach"
"Sausages?"
"No, coach."
"Ice cream?"
"Not a drop"
"Bacon?"
"Nothing, coach!"
"Hmph, I suppose that's that then. Do ya all want some strategical advice or what?"
"Well, some food would be nice. Do you think they'll share..?" Belay! asks.
Bumford shakes his head.
"Go." He says. "Just.... go."
The team sidles out of the changing room.
Where did I go wrong? muses Bumford.

---

A veritable army of Halflings are surrounding a huge steaming pot next to a table groaning with consumable delights, just off the edge of the field.
Each was scooping piles of food onto plates, laughing, drinking, and making merry.
The elfs watch from a distance, transfixed.
An impatient referee stalks over and gestures at them wildly to hurry, but the chef, a lady halfling as round as she was high, silences him with the largest plate of all.
The referee's face cracks into a smile, and he happily tucks into this impromptu lunch.
The halflings make their way over to the pitch, wiping hands on clothing and tossing crumbs from their plates onto the pitch.
The elfs, when they're not gawking at the steaming buffet, start preparing to receive the ball, a sadness in their eyes as big as the lustiness in their little elfin tummies.

As play is about to start, a halfling stops and smacks his forehead as if remembering something important.
He scurries off to the changing room, and exits a few moments later.
Two enormous monsters make of bark and branch emerge after him - what were they doing? Holding hands? - and stride up to the line of scrimmage. Each is terrifying and clearly very powerful.
"Oh yeah!" shouts Bumford, "They've got dirty great big trees as well! Just knock 'em down and you'll be fine!"
Looks of horror from the elfs. Bumford smiles and waves as the whistle blows.

---

Within a matter of minutes the elfs grab the ball and huff it up the flank, right next to the table of halfing snacks. Abuse from Bumford starts to dissuade them of getting near.
The elfs start veering back to the centre, with the ball in the hands of Stow Mainsails!.
Suddenly a creak of wood followed by a shadow falls over him, and a halfing in a top hat lands expertly inches in from of him.
"Missed!! ...more's the pity.." grumbles Bumford.

The halflings, a swiftness betrayed by their portlieness, begin to swarm the ball and its holder, and before long they've managed to wrest it from Belay!'s hands, though not before he fumbles it into the crowd.
The chef, perturbed by the distraction, boots it back onto the pitch and the game continues.
Embarrassed by this surprisingly effective maneuver, Nautical Imperatives fight their way back to the ball and start running it in.

In the mean time, several unlucky elfs are trying to escape the clutches of the trees, and failing. Row, Damn Your Eyes! is knocked over by Willow, and a disgusting crack soon follows as a halfling named Tweefeet Twinkietoes pops up and delivers a spiked boot right to his crotch.
Bumford laughs and snorts when he sees Row being stretchered off.
Some elfs are trying to get the attention of the referee, but he waves them off with one hand while stuffing sticky buns into his face with the other.

The elfs score, and the halflings line up again. The whistle blows, and within a few moments the ball is moved up the line of halflings and into the arms of Spoony Bardman, who in turn is hefted by Argyle Mapleleaf and thrown over the heads of the elfs, most of which have already swerved around the trees to enter the Halfling back line. Before they know what's happened, the score is 1-1.

In a desparate attempt to score before halftime, three elves, lead by Belay!, dart deep into halfing territory.
"Watch this!" yells Belay!, streaming straight for Danny Dark Chocolate like a falcon. Danny waits until Belay! is mid spear, then delivers him a swift uppercut to his neck, causing Belay to crumple like last weeks pie tin. Cheers from the crowd, cheers from Bumford, groans from the elfs, gurgles from Belay!.*

Whistle blows. 1-1 at half time.

*note for the reader. My hapless blitzer managed to score a triple skull here, the pleb.

It's hard to get a word out of Bumford. He's laughing too much, and whenever he sees Belay!, he starts all over again. Ten minutes of pure mocking laughter and its time for the second half. Belay!'s glowing red face shows through his mask.

---

The second half sees the elf team score two more times, as halfings begin to fall like autumn leaves. The Jelly Jammers continue to play dirty though, and elf after elf are crotch stomped and finger-crushed, each with the referee calmly ignoring anything they get up to. By the time the final whistle blows, the elfs are leading 3-1.

--

The familiar sounds of pain and victory mix in the dressing room. Spirits are high. Four wins, two draws and one loss is a pretty good streak.
Bumford still claims he was must have been dangerously drunk during their match against the Dark Elf team Chausslin Shadows, as he can't remember a single second of it.
The season is drawing to a close, and Bumford looks at his chart.
"Hmm." he says.
"What is it coach?"
"I don't know if we're in the playoffs." he grumbles. "It all depends on how the other teams do."
Bumford doesn't want to come this far only to fall at the last hurdle. He knows something needs to be done to give his team, or rather, his rival's opposition, a little helping hand...
He smiles wickedly.

FUMBBL Replay

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Tue Oct 11, 2016 1:17 pm 
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Bumford paces up and down. The team are resting like the wussy elfs they are. They didn't seem bothered whether Nautical made it through to the playoffs. What did they know, eh? Who was coach? Who knows best?

The only way his team could make it is if Reddit Rotters, the currently highest ranked team in the division, beat Necronobacon, the second highest team. Bumford stopped pacing and remembers both of those games fondly. The carnage, the deaths. He wipes a tear from an eye.

No, focus. Back to the matter at hand. He WOULD get into the playoffs if it killed him.

With a stealthiness utterly betrayed by his girth, he finds his way to the Ref's lounge, and sneaks in by a back window. He falls, breaking the window in the process, and creates such a ruckus that he is immediately discovered.

Luckily, there's only the one referee there. The stout, blotchy human that Sir Trollington the Third was plying with during the game with Madcap Maulers.

Bumford smiled broadly, chunks of glass sticking from his mad beard.

"Who the-"

The referee didn't say another word. He didn't get the chance.



The commissioner, the single, bloated figure responsible for the entire league sits on a leather chair that groans under his weight.

"So let me get this straight," he says, in a voice that oozes with disdain. "My head referee, who also happens to be the most respectable, entrusted with the task of administering trophies to the best players, he, ahem" he glances down to a piece of paper, "accidentally brutally caved his own head in by accident when sweeping."

Bumford nods, smiling.

"Not only that, but you were chasing a robber through the stadium, who then charged through the window to the Lounge, stole all the money from his pockets and pissed on his face. After that, you discovered the whole scene and reported it to us immediately."

Assent from Bumford. "Terrible tragedy, that. The sort of thing that can happen to anyone." He stresses the word anyone, and looks around the room.

"Then," continues the commissioner, "you chased off the crook before he could steal any of the trophies, correct?"

Bumford claps his hands. "Yes sir!"

The frog like man sighs.

Silence.

"I was thinkin'". says Bumford, "how're you're probably short am official, maybe I could, ya know, volunteer for a game, just while I'm sittin' around?"

Stares. "Sitting around waiting for the final game of the season? The game that will decide whether your team enters the playoffs?"

Bumford coughs, and nods.

A twinkle in the commissioners eye.

"Agreed, if you do something for me. You must deliver every individual achievement trophy to all the winners of each category, because I can't be bothered to find another replacement, and also because it will amuse me."

Bumford spreads his arms, palms open.

"Why, nothin' would give me greater pleasure."



The game between the Rotters and Necronobacon is a farce. Countless rules are flaunted by the Rotters, Bumford doesn't care. A zombie on Necronobacon coughs, Bumford sends him off for misconduct. Bumford fights the golems, shoves the wights. Twice, the werewolves of Bacon are racing towards the touchline with the ball, both times Bumford calls a foul and sends someone off, cutting their momentum. That, or 'accidentally' trips up the ball carrier, then threatens him with penalties if he argues. Bumford actually hands the ball to the Rotters several times after confiscating it from Necro. In short, it is a gross injustice to the Necromantic Necronobacon.

However, by the time the whistle blows (that is, when Bumford remembers), the Rotters are in the lead. Nautical Imperatives are through to the playoffs!



"I'm thinking of retiring the whole referee game" says Bumford to a speechless elf team. They were hoping to be knocked out. That way some of them might make it home with all their limbs intact.

A knock at the door. A goblin with a clipboard beckons Bumford over. Bumford follows.

"So what, just give them out?"

The goblin nods.

"Snk, and don't forget the accolades."

Accolades? Maybe this would be fun after all...



The pitch has been cleared of bodies to make room for, well, bodies. The shambling undead rub shoulders with halflings, with vikings, with... were those apes? No, they're lizardmen. Wait, just more elves. "Could've sworn..." Bumford mutters.

Bumford climbs up on a podium and begins the proceedings.



"The award for scoring the most touchdowns goes to Humphrey of the Reddit Rotters. Well done chap, well earned." Bumford hands the trophy over with a wink. "Go easy on the booze though, eh? We all remember what happened last time"

The silver and gold go to Kosmouse 186 of the Skaven team Mad Experiments and Soljssnar of the Dark Elvf Chaulssin Shadows. Bumford sighs when he thinks of missed opportunities for violence and sexy lady elfes, respectfully.

"Most completed passes, eugh excuse me. This award, this pointless award, goes to-" Bumford recognises the name. Aye, Aye!, the dedicated elf thrower, shuffles up. He can't look Bumford in the eye. Bumford shakes his head as the elf walks away, leading a chorus of 'boo's.

"For shame." he adds.

A vampire collects second, waving to a crowd and lingering his gaze slightly on the third place prize, a haughty Wood Elf named Pirouette.



More awards are dished out by Bumford, most with abuse about wussiness, some with congratulations. Geiger-Murine of the Mad Experiments gets the gold for most casualties, and Bumford claps him on the back, nearly knocking the rat off the podium. The same thing happens with Porthos of the RaRaRasputins for being the most aggressive blocker.

A few hours later the FUMBBL Sheidl award is rolled out, and given to The Mad Experiments for a flawless season.

"Flawless, eh?" whispers Bumford. "We'll see about that..."

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Thu Oct 13, 2016 11:23 am 
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7: Semi Final vs Reddit Rotters.
The team is waiting in their changing room. It’s been a short while since their last game against the Jelly Jammers, and they’ve had time to come to terms with what they’re about to face.

The smell is necrotically familiar. It’s only been a few weeks since the Nautical Imperatives faced the then-undefeated Reddit Rotters. It had been a brutal game, but Nautical had escaped victorious, besmirching the Rotters’ perfect record and making themselves a tenacious enemy in the process.

Bumford is nonplussed, as always. He’s once again talking to the elderly, decrepit witch that helped them out last time. She shakes her head, glances at Belay! and leaves.

“Sorry lads, no help this time. Stop yer bellyaching! You’ve beat ‘em once before, ya can do it again.” The team are worried. Some of them have been keeping an eye on the Rotters, and can see how they’ve improved over the last few games.

“A few things worth remembering today, lads.” Bumford explains. “As it’s a semi-final match, there ain’t gonna be any draws. We gotta keep going and keep going until someone wins or you’re all dead. Here’s hoping, eh? Eh?” he nudges the nearest elf with an elbow, who cringes of disgust.

“Well, actually, that ain’t true. If it’s a draw, it’ll go to extra time. If that goes on for bloody ages, they’ll call the whole thing off and flip a coin. And, ah, after last week, I reckon the cointoss might be slightly skewed in our opponent’s favour…”

Bumford remembers the previous week when he’d been a member, albeit briefly, of the referee’s union. He hadn’t made any friends, put it that way. Any chance for revenge by the referees is likely to be seized upon.

“Any tactics, coach?” squeaks an elf.

“Hmm, not really. Just win! This is for the finals barkbrains! Come on!”



Bumford has paid for a few scandalously dressed women to administer beer and massages to anyone needing it on the sidelines. He reckoned, funny as it would be to see his team get the snot kicked out of them -Bumford giggled- , it would also be fantastic to actually win and make it to the finals, where he would face either the perfidious Skaven team Mad Experiments or the less, well, scrungey cousins of the Rotters, the Chaos team Kurgan Blood Tide.

The Nurgle team shuffle onto the pitch, followed by a cloud of flies swirling behind them. The cloud is larger than last time. Bumford sniffs. Humphrey, star player of the Rotters, heads over to him. Bumford smiles widely, remembering the last time they met. “Bumforrrd.” his voice sounds like mud bubbling on an sewage grate. “None of yourr trickss will work thhis time. Just yourrr little elvess and usss. We’re gooing to have some fuuun, maybe staaart recruiting.”

Bumford slaps Humphrey on the arm, laughing all the time. “Here’s hoping!”

Humphrey looks confused for a moment, then decides maybe taunting this insane dwarf would be a waste of his time, and jogs back to the team.

Bumford turns to the nearer of the two so-called ‘Bloodweiser Babes’.

“Great laugh, that Humphrey. Can’t hold his drink though. Speaking of which..?”

The whistle is blown, and the match starts.



The game is furious. Enraged by their last encounter, the Rotters unleash their anger through sickening impacts, laying out elfs left and right. Elfs are dragged to the sidelines, where Bumford, between cheers, encourages the ahem assistants to try to wake them up again. The ball is kicked to the Elf team, who zipped up the pitch as fast as they could, only to find themselves trapped on all sides by the disgusting, fetid, congealing flesh of the corrupted Chaos Players.

The largest and most hideous of these, the simply-named Hudor, had gripped a number of the elfs in his array of tentacles, keeping them close enough that they were all but passed out from the stench.

Humphrey, as is typical of the veteran, was laying out about him with fervour. The ball was knocked out of Hard to Larboard!’s hands, and bounced madly around the scrum, ricocheting off heads, arms, and whatever else the Nurgle team had, until it finally came to a stop. It had stuck in some of the gelatinous gunk that coated Hudor, and he plucked it with a wet splotch from his side, grasping it in hands and tentacles.

Oh dear, thinks Bumford.



The only hope Nautical had of getting the ball back would be if they somehow overpower the hideous groaning mass of death and teeth. Aye Aye!, thrower of the team, had somehow become freakishly strong recently. Perhaps it was Bumford’s constant bullying that had driven him to suicidal weightlifting. The incessant digs at his cowardice, hiding in the back, not getting stuck in like a proper player.

Either way, a lucky lunge fromAye Aye!, being supported by half the elfin team, and the ball was somehow freed! Weigh Anchor! snatches the ball and runs it in.



The Rotters’ offense is insatiable, and it’s not long before they’re deep in elfin territory with the ball. Elfs are being swatted away as they approach as if they weren’t even there. There are mere moments left for the first half. Bumford is perfectly happy, knowing that the Rottersaren’t going to equalise, there are too many elfs in the way.

As if sensing the challenge, Humphrey snatches the ball and gracefully pirouettes around and defenders, leaving them in the dirt. Moments later and the ball is in touch, and the score is 1-1. The half time whistle blows.



It’s halftime and Bumford is half annoyed, half excited. He flits between explosive rage and childlike enthusiasm, chattering furiously.

“How can you let them score like that, in our half! Useless, the lot of you! Cor, isn’t it fun though? I wonder who’ll win! It better be you though lads, or you’ll be sorry. That Humphrey is amazing isn’t he? Kill him! I hope he kills you!”

This tirade lasts for a full fifteen minutes. The next half begins. The elfs file out, some of them lingering a few moments more to spend more time with the, ahem, special interest representatives Bumford had hired. Bumford sees them daudling and practically hurls them onto the pitch.



If the first half was intense, the second was frenetic. More injuries, more tackles, more elfs going down. A glorious pass is almost thrown by To The Brig! for the victory, but his mouth is full of flies and his eyes are full of moths, and there’s a huge 7 foot tall armoured disciple of Nurgle breathing down his neck, and he fumbles it, and gets a fist of steel in the teeth for his trouble. Nurgle grab the ball again, and pass it as well as any elf to Steamy the pestigor, protegee of Humphrey, scores again, bringing the score to 2-1 Rotters.

Bumford jumps from his seat and starts yelling and shouting.

The elf team attack yet again, sprinting forwards with all the speed they can. Belay! is knocked into the crowd, and Bumford, in his fury, joins the crowd and kicks him in the groin as he stands up. Elfs are being grasped in tentacles, unable to support.

The whistle blows for full time, and it is only after several moments waiting for the mist to lift that Bumford realises his team scored in the interim. It’s 2-2. It’s going to go into extra time.



The elfs are tired. They’ve been playing their best, and they’re waning. The Reddit Rotters don’t look like they’ve been exerting themselves. They’re as fresh, if fresh is the right word, as the shambling dead can be. The ball is kicked to Nautical. They hightail it up the flank, relying on their speed to win them the day. The Rotters, see this, and counter effectively, snatching the ball for themselves. The ball, once again, is lost in a scrum of bodies, before popping into the bands of Steamy again. Steamy, flush with victory, steals away up the flank. Time is running low for both teams. Nurgle victory is certain. There’s only one way the elfs can snatch a draw. Hard to Larboard!, the other elfin blitzer, avoids a crushing blow from a warrior and jumps up to kick him in the exposed, fleshy neck. Using him as a springboard, he leaps around the Nurgle defense to hurtle towards Steamy. Steamy hasn’t noticed him, he’s too intent on scoring.

Hard to Larboard! almost trips, he’s running too fast. With the last, final strength he can muster, he literally throws himself at Steamy, taking the Pestigor down, and the ball bounces into the crowd, who throw it back in with an excited roar. It bounces off of the head of another warrior, who doesn’t realise what is happening, and the elfs seize their chance, their last chance! Aye Aye!, freak of strength and nature, somehow dodges through tentacles and fists, steals the ball and gets ready to throw. The flies are thick in the air, but he closes his eyes, and throws.

The crowd is in a frenzy. The ball sails, cleaving a path through pestilence, and the ball is caught by Weigh Anchor!, who had been fighting off a monster of a warrior for the past few minutes. Weigh Anchor! dodges from his grasp and is away, and just as the referee had gotten his game-deciding coin into his hand, Weigh Anchor! scores with seconds to go. The score is 3-2, Nautical Imperatives are through to the finals!



The changing room is abuzz with excitement. They’ve done it! They’re through! Through all the odds, they’ve actually made it to the finals.

Bumford is pleased. He goes from elf to elf, clapping backs and punching arms. Elfs flinch from the affection, several yelp, and one even passes out.

Belay! is still in a bad way. Bumford saunters over to him and shrugs.

“Nasty bunch, the crowd. Never know what they’re capable of.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Humphrey is standing there. His eyes scream murder, but he is in control of his face.

“You got lllucky, Bumforrrd.”

“Sorry? What was that? I can’t hear ya over the sound of my victory! Har!”

“We’ll meeet again, and next time-”

“Oh, go and get drunk from shandy, ya silly, stunted, waste of good disease. Gowan! Bugger off!”

Humphrey is not pleased. Belay! groans and stands up, and shuffles over to him.

“Yeah, piss off you-”

Humphrey kicks a cloven hoof at Belay!, once again causing him to double over in pain, clutching his crotch. He moans pathetically on the floor. Humphrey turns and leaves.

Belay! is not looking good. He’s most certainly not going to be fit to play for a while.

“He’ll probably be out for the next game, lads. Never mind, you don’t need him! You’ll be fine, don’t you worry.” The elfs have gathered around the twitching Belay!.

“Who’re we playing in the final, coach?” pipes an elf.

Bumford turns to face them, and glances quickly at the clipboard.

“Oh, it turns out the Kurgan Blood Tide won their game, they needed extra time too, so it’s Chaos.”

“But didn’t we just face Chaos?”

“Yes, but these are different.”

“Weaker?” asks a plaintive voice, hopefully.

“Oh no, not at all. Just as strong. Only difference is they’re faster and more agile. Something to look forward to!”



He downs a bottle of grog he was holding and swaggers from the room. He tosses the bottle behind him, and it lands, once again, on Belay!'s unmentionables. He faints from the pain.

FUMBBL Replay

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Last edited by Twelfman on Thu Oct 13, 2016 12:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Thu Oct 13, 2016 12:05 pm 
Legend
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I am the only one that shouts the player names when ready this in my head? ;)

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Thu Oct 13, 2016 2:35 pm 
Veteran
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No, i think thats common.
wll writen, i really start to see familiar names coming to life, even if its not their actual names.
Belay!
lol
\
good job in playing, marvellous job in writing it up
lunchmoney wrote:
I am the only one that shouts the player names when ready this in my head? ;)


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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Wed Oct 19, 2016 10:09 am 
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On to the final! :D

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Thu Oct 20, 2016 9:33 am 
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FINAL


This is it. The final match of the Reddit Redux league.

Bumford paces up and down. He turns to look at the elfs, murder in his face, then stops and continues pacing. He doesn't know what to do.

"Inscrutable. No mutations, no freaks, no nothing. Just a well rounded, skilled team. Nothing obvious. How do they play!?" Bumford mutters. He's been examining the roster of the Kurgan Blood Tide. There isn't anything particularly fantastic about it. No hugely strong or agile players. No veteran monsters. Bumford crumples the paper, along with the clipboard, into a ball and tosses it at Hard to Larboard!.

"I can't believe our stupid weakling blitzer is out for the match! What a leaf-eared wuss!" he spits.

"Well coach, one could say you might be partially responsible for-"

"I didn't ask for your opinion! You want some of this, eh?" Bumford starts violently shaking a fist back and forth right under the nose of Broadside!.

"Look lads, let's just get out there and crack some 'eads. It's what we've always done, and it's how we've been doing so well, right?"

The faces of the team show that this was perhaps not a view shared by Nautical Imperatives. Nonetheless, they nod halfheartedly.

"Well, go on then. And don't mess it up!"

The team begin to file out.

"Oh hang on, nearly forgot this."

Bumford reaches into a box and retrieves the same enormous codpiece worn by Belay! against their first encounters with the Rotters. He throws it at Weigh Anchor!. It hasn't been cleaned, and slaps wetly at the Elf. The Elf doesn't have time to be disgusted before he's shooed out by the dwarf.

Bumford waits until he's alone.

"So, you still want to make this bet?" murmurs a voice from the shadows.

"O' course. Two handfuls of the good stuff on Kurgan."

"Some might say that's slightly unethical, Bumford."

Bumford grins at the troll, bedeckered in jewels and furs.

"Yet here we are, Trollington"



The Kurgan are a hard team to read. Their teamwork is impeccable. No one player stands out from the bunch, yet their record is almost unmatched.

They line up on the pitch, their armour shining menacingly.

The elfs line up opposite. Many of them are scared. Some of them are terrified.

The ball sails into the air, and the final begins.



The first half is brutal. Elfs are being beaten back and forth. Yet something is different. Countless games of being beaten, bruised, maimed and even killed has given the elf team a tenacity that they had previously not known. No matter the amount of times they are forced back, they keep hurling themselves at the Blood Tide.

The Kurgan game is impeccable. The ball is knocked loose metres from the elf line, but incredible athletics by a beastman named Untusk, moves to rival any elf, sees the elfs 1-0 as the whistle blows.



Bumford is nowhere to be seen in the changing rooms. The elfs are unsettled. Even an insult ridden spit fest from Bumford is better than nothing.

It's not long before the whistle blows again. As they're leaving, To The Brig! spies several packs of butter melted on the floor. He doesn't think much of it.



It takes an unnatural amount of time for the elfs to pick up the ball, and each precious second they waste gives their opponents more time to bear down on them. Every time someone tries to pick it up to move it downfield, it slips tantalisingly from their hands.

The Chaos are just as indefatigable on defense as on offense, yet somehow Steady! slips through to score an equaliser for Nautical Imperatives. The Chaos line up to receive again, and the crunchfest begins anew.

The ball flies back and forth, being picked up and knocked down again and again. More and more it's barely being touched as it pops from the hands of any who get close.

The clock runs down, and the referee blows his whistle for extra time.



The referee, at the urging of Bumford (who has surfaced from somewhere) decides to eschew a break before the next round, and immediately kicks off the final drive. The elfs receive the ball, no longer slimey but sticky, and dart up the pitch. The Chaos, having dealt with this tactic against the Mad Experiment Skaven team, envelop the elf team and beat them into submission. The ball is close to the sidelines, as is Bumford, and it's there that To The Brig! spies their team coach with more packets of butter in his pocket. Bumford catches his eye. As the elf opens his mouth to shout, an enormous mailed fist cracks him in the skull and kills him instantly.

Bumford cheers, infecting those around him with his enthusiasm.

"Free butter for all!" he yells.

As the minutes go on, it's clear what is happening. Elfs are leaving the pitch, overwhelmed by the Blood TideGhusk, the beastman, pummels Board!, knocking the ball clean from his hands. The ball flies across and sticks to Ghusk's fur, who points, laughs, and begins a gentle jog to the elf lines. No one can stop him.

The whistle blows. The final is over.

2-1 to *Kurgan Blood Tide!*



The atmosphere is strange in the changing rooms. Instead of sadness, the air is full of motivation. Of determination.

"We can do better." says All Hands On Deck!. "I know next season we can win!"

Cheers from the elfs.

"We've had some hard games. Some tough opponents. But we can do it together! With Bumford leading us, we will triumph!" shouts Row, Damn Your Eyes!.

The elfs cheer and start patting Bumford on the shoulder. Their glory days will return again!

Bumford slaps away the hands.

"Yeah, about that. I've decided I don't want to coach you all any more. Frankly, the sight of you all makes me sick."

Unbelieving stares.

"Yep, I've decided to have a change of pace. See you around, you wet cress-headed celery sticks."

An elf squeaks up.

"Well, what about our prize money? All our wages?"

"Sorry laddo, it was, uh, nicked. Oh, which reminds me!"

Bumford scrapes back a bench, sending the elf on it flying, and picks up a healthy sized chest. It jingles tantalisingly, and Bumford struggles under the weight.

Bumford opens the door. Elfs watch in horror as all they've worked for is taken from them. He smiles broadly.

"You'll be fine lads! Well, some of you. Well, one of you. Maybe."

And with that he's gone.



Bumford staggers under the weight of the money.

Trollington meets him in an alleyway.

"That was dirty, Bumford."

"pff" is the response.

"I've decided I want you to do something for me as a favour."

"I don't owe you nuffin'."

"Oh, shall I just go and tell the referee union about this little bet then?"

Bumford stops. Sighs.

"Ok, what do you want, you big green snotbucket?"

Sir Trollington the Third smiles disgustingly.



Bumford checks the slip of paper. The address is correct. He sighs, and knocks at the door.

It opens with a creak.

"Coach Bumford? ribbit"

FUMBBL Replay

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Thu Oct 20, 2016 10:07 am 
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...and so ends the tale of Bumford, enthusiastic coach of the Nautical Imperatives. Some say he may emerge again to wreak havoc on some poor unsuspecting team, like some figure of arthurian legend. The truth? We'll never know for sure...

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures
 Post Posted: Thu Oct 20, 2016 11:05 am 
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Bumford for the win! :smoking:


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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures, season two: Yaverslann'd
 Post Posted: Sun Feb 05, 2017 5:10 pm 
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It is a new day. A new season. A new team.

Bumford emerges from his dressing room, bedecked in a luxuriously enormous fur coat. Ostentatiously furred, almost as if Bumford was trying to make a point. He picks his teeth from his lunch. Ale boiled frog’s legs, something tantalising he’d found last night. Why was he craving frog’s legs, again?

The air is crisp, but a little swampy for Bumford’s alcohol-infused morning brain. Bumford trundles over to the door of the newest bunch of rejects he’s responsible for, and boots it open. It flings back on its hinges, slapping something wet and squishy on the way.

“Right then! Line up, maggots.” He announces, picking his teeth again with a bone, before flinging it on the floor. A huge green hand plucks it up between padded fingers as big as chair legs, before an enormous wide face scowls at it. The scowl moves to face the dwarf.

“Oh yeah! Stupid frog people! I remember now. Line up then, come on!”

“Coach Bumford, what is this? *croak*”

“I don’t think you lot ‘erd me, LINE UP!

Bumford walks to the nearest frogman and backhands him towards the middle of the room with such fury that the Slann’s head sticks to the floor. He has to be peeled off the flagstones by his mates.

The other frogs, perhaps more out of shock than anything, shuffle into a line.

The huge frog with the bone in his hand hasn’t moved.

“Bumforrrd. We are an elderrr race, and as sssuch we expect-”

If one were to be standing outside the changing room at that point, one might have heard an unusual sequence of noises. A war cry, a snap, a grunt, two sounds not unlike sticking a pole in a pool of custard, three yelps, an insane cackle, a wet splotch, a burp, then a murmur, followed by silence.

Eyes already much larger than human are stretched wider still.

Bumford wipes himself clean.

“Now that that’s out of the way, what’s on the ol’ agenda for this evening for you disgusting bog-fwompers? Ah, gobbos. Easy. Lots of green. You know the strategy, just, I don’t know, bounce around or something.”

No one moves.

“GET!”

They retreat instantly, one of them slipping over the mess.

The door swings shut, revealing a smaller frog that had been trapped there since Bumford’s entrance. Bumford unsticks him from the wall with a sharp tug.

“Do me a favour, frog-boy. Grab a mop.”

He leaves.

---

The Burnt Wood Grockles are a goblin team that’s surprisingly long in the tooth. They’ve been hanging around the lower divisions of the Wight Isle league for ages, perfectly content to focus on maiming newer and less successful teams instead of facing off against the heavy hitters.

Dozens of goblins, a couple of trolls, and all the trimmings jog onto the pitch. Some of the goblins are cartwheeling and throwing a ball to each other with frankly upsetting skill. Bumford squints in disapproval.

“Not even a bomber, what’s the point...”

He looks at his pathetic team walk nervously to the pitch. He looks at the roll call of names he was given.

“Says here we’re meant to have a big feller, where is he?” He demands of an aide.

“He, er, we-well, you, uhm-”

“Oh, him! Totally deserved it. Never mind. Why do we have so many blitzers, by the way?”

“Uuhm, again, er, coach, *croak*, you insisted we, we, er, start with as many as we c-could find.”

“Hmm. Must have had some great plan in mind. Let’s see how the lads do!”

Two figures move over to Bumford. Another Slann, in ornate armour, and a skink wearing a skull.

The Slann, in a deep voice, says:

“Bumford, was it? We couldn’t help noticing the, hmm, discrepancy between the two teams playing today. Perhaps you’d like us to join in? We’re always up for a bit of a scrap.”

Bumford snorts. “You mean no bugger ever lets you play because you’re useless and expensive, so you want to beg me for some money in exchange for what can laughably called your expertise?”

The frog sniffs.

“Maybe.”

---

The first half sees the goblins tear the Slann team apart. Sticky green fluids coat chainsaws, trolls, even goblin boots. Hemlock the skink gets punched about quite considerably, but Lottabottl seems to stay intact. A few Slann get hurt, but Bumford doesn’t care particularly. By turn 8 the Slann are down, 1-0...

---

The changing rooms, several minutes later.

Bumford is angry.

Bumford suggests that perhaps the ‘dirty toilet mouldy limpet sucking toad lickers’ didn’t quite get the message earlier.

Bumford puts it in no uncertain terms that he would hate to have to demonstrate his position again.

The team listen very closely.

---

The second half sees new life breathed into the Slann. They’re speedy, they’re agile, they’re strong. They give hits and take hits. They steam up the pitch for an early score, then pile on the pressure for the second half.

Hemlock dives into a crowd of troll for an attempt at the ball carrier, but gets squashed. Hey ho, thinks Bumford.

A sneaky gobbo is unceremoniously thrown by a Troll, landing miles from anyone, and darts for the Touchdown line. A glance from Bumford incites yelps of fear from the frogs, who catch him just in the nick of time.

A surprisingly smooth passing play sees the Slann score again, bringing them the victory!

2-1 Yaverslann’d!

---

“Not bad, not bad,” struts Bumford later on, swaggering back and forth. “Medium amounts of carnage, acceptable injuries... Not bad. Still worth less than the hair on the boil of my arse, but still.”

The door opens. It is the fabulously wealthy Troll that blackmailed Bumford into coaching this team.

“Well played, team, and congratulations, Coach Bumford. Our little debt is settled, you may go.”

The frogs sigh with relief. One of them laughs. The nightmare is over!

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary Trolly. Truth it, I’ve grown quite attached to the little buggers. I’ll be staying put for the time being.” He smiles enormously.

“Well, I won’t say no! But let it never be said I was not a Troll of my word. Good day, Bumford.”

The troll turns to leave. His feet are stuck to the floor in a puddle of ooze.

“I, uhm, tried to clean it u-up, coach, but it *croak* was ever-so-sticky.”

The dwarf pats the smaller frog on the head, nearly knocking him out.

“Know what? I like it like that. That swampy odour... smells like home.”

He turns to face the team. They avert their eyes.

---

Fumbbl replay.

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures - Season Two: Yaverslann'd
 Post Posted: Mon Feb 06, 2017 9:52 am 
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NIIiice... :orc:

Love to see more of him. Every coach should be like Bumford..! right..? :o :( :)

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures - Season Two: Yaverslann'd
 Post Posted: Mon Feb 06, 2017 11:33 am 
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Nice to see Bumford back :lol:

Sadly though, it seems like the slann team he's coaching has opted for using blitzers.
I'm not sure even Bumford can get this team straightened out

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures - Season Two: Yaverslann'd
 Post Posted: Sat Feb 11, 2017 9:39 pm 
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Season Two: Game Two - Forest Side Warrior Princesses


Bumford is feeling good. Brand new team (even if they are weird frog people), first victory under their belt. He bursts into the changing room of Yaverslann’d, an overflowing barrel of finest dwarven BlitzBooze clamped between his arms.

“Mornin’, wusses!” He roars.

The frogs flinch from the sheer volume of the greeting. They are less enthusiastic about their new coach.

Bumford eyes a spot to deposit his cargo, manfully slamming it on a bench next to Gwan Tekkit. It sloshes over the rim, splashing the spotted legs of the hapless frog. It fizzes and sizzles on contact with him, and Gwan leaps yelping into the air, rushing for the nearest water source.

“Present for you lot for doing so well!” Grins the dwarf, producing a number of beakers from his beard.


The frogs listen to the painful moans of Gwan and decide perhaps abstaining is the wisest course.


“Pah! Fine, suit yerselves. Cowards. A little salt-infused pick-me-up never hurt anyone.”

Bumford lifts the barrel above his head, bites a hole in the bottom with chunky dwarven teeth and downs the whole thing in one.

When he finishes, he hurls the barrel at the wall behind him, and it bursts, showering the team in splinters and flecks of alcohol.

It takes a few minutes to restore order to the team. A few minutes, and not a small amount of threats.

“Right. Amazons today. Bloody amazons. Watch out, they’ll try and distract you with all their provocative clothing, curvaceousness and jiggling promontories.”

The frogs are startled by this stream of eloquence from their coach.

“It means their boobies, do I have to spell everything out for you? Arnok forfend... They’ll distract you give you the old runaround when you ain’t looking.” A look of fond remembrance comes over Bumford’s face.

“Uh, coach.” croaks Stretchy Pete. “We are an entirely separate species, and therefore have no desire whatsoever for human females.”

“Wait till you see ‘em!” Winks Bumford.

“I, well-”

A powerful knock at the door, and famed chainsaw-maniac Helmut Wulf walks in. He and Bumford greet each other warmly, clapping hands and laughing.


“Thought you’d all need some help today chaps,” he says.

“But coach, won’t Mr Wulf be susceptable to the aforementioned croak distractions you were mentioning?” Stretchy suggests, smugly.

Helmut looks at the frogman with disgust, before furiously walking away.

“That’s very insensitive of you, Pete. I’m dissapointed. Everyone knows Wulf had a dreadful chainsaw accident many years ago, when Nobbla Blackwort challenged him to a juggling match, leaving him missing key aspects of his anatomy. Speaking of which, I’d be careful on the pitch today. Helmut don’t half hold a grudge.”

Stretchy Pete gulps nervously.

---

As the team are filing onto the pitch, Bumford stands with his meaty arms folded, sussing the competition.

A quiet croak followed by a louder cough grabs his attention. He turns to see Lottabottol, again.


“I was, ahem, perhaps wondering if you valued my assistance again this day.” He says.

“No, I’d rather punch myself in the face.”

“Please, sir Dwarf!” Lottabottol falls to his knees. “You have no idea how hard it is as a serious Slann blood bowl player to make a career! No one hires me, no one wants me! I have sic thousand children to feed...”

“Ah, fine! Just quit yer blubbin’. On ya go.” Bumford slaps him on the back, knocking him face-first onto the floor.

---

The amazon team, while no seasoned veterans like the last match, are nonetheless serious contenders. Several of the women, Blossom and Demeter, are rumoured to be ace ball-handlers. Bumford snickered when he was first told this.

The Forest Side Warrior Princesses (the what? thinks Bumford) are indeed every bit as revealing in their uniform as Bumford had warned. As expected however, the only one really noticing was Bumford himself.

Yaverslann’d are receiving the ball this half, and arrange themselves for the kickoff. The moment the ball lands, Flicker Dee grabs it in sticky hands and rushes to the south, accompanied by several of his fellow Blitzers. The Princesses try to pile on the pressure, but the combination of springy frogs darting about and the manic whirling Chainsaw of Helmut Wulf sees them contained in the centre of the pitch. For what seems like an age the Amazons are contained further and further, the Slann confidence growing, until finallt something snaps. Out of nowhere the Princesses are hurling frogmen out of the way, exploding from their unwilling cage, chasing down and beating up anything that moves, not least poor Helmut, who finds himself set upon by no less than seven of them at one point.

Deciding that waiting around and showboating is not perhaps the wisest move, Flicker runs the ball in for a touchdown.

As the teams set up for the next drive, Bumford notices the time left on the clock. There’s enough time for the Zons to comfortably score, equalising before the second half even begins. He needs to do something.

He stands up on the head of a nearby spectating troll (a conspicuous fellow in glasses and a trenchcoat) and turns towards the predominantly female followers of the Princesses.

He cups his hands around his mouth.

“The gender-pay gap is a myth!”

---

The ensuing rampage of fans sees three dead, many more wounded, and a veritable mountain of hatred pointed towards the dwarf and his team. Thankfully, it’s bought just enough time to make equalising this half all but impossible for the Amazons.

---

It is half time, and Bumford is chatting to his team.

“That was fun, eh! Bunch of emotional, over-reactive-”

“Uh, coach? croak Do you think they’re actually going to hunt us down after the match and do those things they said croak they were going to do?” squawks Todd’m Bouncer.

“Naw, I shouldn’t think so. Probably. Maybe. Well, there’s a small chance. Like 50-50, I’d guess. You’ll be fine. Right, off you go! Remember, no ogling!”

---

The Amazon offence is brutal. Absolutely no quarter is given. A punishing wall of, ahem, flesh repels any attempt by the Slann to get to the ball. Several frogmen try to use their gifts to attack the ball carrier from the air, but are each time crushed entirely.


Tired of their sport, the Princess player Hestia charges down the pitch, ball in hand, ready to score. Again, Bumford seizes his opportunity to help his team. He again clambers on top of a spectator.

“Oi! Get yer baps out!”

Hestia stops, aghast. “Excuse me?”

“You ‘erd! Waheeeyy!”

A look of rage. “I’ll have you know, I am a campaigner for the equal treatment of women in sports, and I will not abide crude remarks from the type of sexist pig that thinks it’s acceptable to yell-”

She doesn’t get any further, because, perhaps in a fit of determination, Lottabottol streams from behind and thumps her on the back of the head. He, and several other Slann, surround the ball as best they can. It looks certain they will prevent the touchdown...


But several of the other women have heard and seen the exchange, and furiously storm down pitch, giving the frogs an absolute beating. They then pick up the ball and slowly walk it in, with a last withering stare at Bumford.

The referee blows his whistle. The score is 1-1.

---

The attitude is tense in the dressing room.

“Well, you drew. But at least you didn’t lose, so you’ve actually lost me a bet.” Says their coach.

“Coach, we believe we must discuss some of the tactics that you used today. We believe in parity of treatment of all races, genders, species, and-” Wasteyenot is cut off by a rumbling sound coming from the hallway.

“Hold that thought froggie-boy. Don’t tell it to me... Tell it to them. Turrah!” Bumford vanishes through a trap door, locking it behind him, as the dressing room door is bashed back, revealing a gang of very unhappy, very muscular and very armed Forest Side Warrior Princess fans.

“C-coach croak!-”


Fumbbl Replay

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures - Season Two: Yaverslann'd
 Post Posted: Sun Feb 19, 2017 9:36 pm 
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Game Three: Downend Dynamos


It’s the third day of Season 22 of the WIBBL, and Bumford is studying Yaverslann’d’s next opponent: The Downend Dynamos; a Skaven team that’s been enjoying success so far in the league. They’re the only team that have won both their starting games in this division. Bumford is in the stands above their dugout, watching them warm up before the match.

“They’re a nasty bunch to be sure, no doubt,” he says to the hunched figure next to him.

The figure shifts uncomfortably. “You do know I’m their coach?”

Bumford turns to regard the pale ratman next to him. “So?”

“Ssso... Well, never mind. I’ve come to assssk you to bugger off, as, you know, this is ssssort of cheating.”

“Nothin’ wrong with sizing up the competition.”

“Well, that’sss quite right, but I think the line is drawn at pelting them with rocksss.”

Bumford grunts and lets fly with another stone the size of a potato. It hits a rat square in the face. Bumford whoops with joy.

The Skaven coach sighs and walks off.

Bumford waits until he leaves, then turns and shouts towards his own team. Within a few moments Lottabottol is padding up to him.

“Coach!” he says, standing to attention.

“Hold these a second.” says the dwarf, shoving a few rocks into the frog’s webbed hands.

“Certainly, coach!”

“Good stuff, now I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

A few minutes pass, and within a few moments the Skaven coach returns with several Ogres in referee’s striped regalia.  He points towards the Slann. The largest Ogre jogs over to him.


“Ah, good morning gentlem-urk!

---

“No Lottabottol today, squeezlings. To be honest, his sportsmanship and general ethics are not at all what I expected, really lowering the tone of the game,” he sniffs.

“Anyway, ratmen today. They’re almost as mutated and disgusting as you lot are. Off you go then!”

As the team leave, a shambling undead representative from the League Commissioner’s Office sidles in, clipboard in hand.


“Good morning. We have received a complaint that you’ve been cheating, and that you’ve framed so-called ‘star player’, eh,” he looks at this clipboard “Lottabooter. Ridiculous name. Is this true?”

Bumford scoffs. “How dare you, questioning my integrity. I would never dream of actin’ in such an underhanded way.”

The zombie nods. “I thought so. Well, bye.”

He shuffles out. Bumford waves at a small procession that walks past the door after the zombie, two Ogres clamping Lottabottol’s arms behind him. His eyes are a mixture of anger and trepidation. Bumford waves.


He turns and chuckles.

“Heh heh. Frog marching.”

---

The teams file out onto the pitch. Boggy Bee stubs his toe and almost trips on a rock.


“You think they’d comb the pitch croak for rocks before the match starts.”

A monstrously large rat called Norvegicus scampers heavily towards the line of frogs as they enter formation. The frogs instinctively take a few steps back in fear. The Rat Ogre charges towards them.

It skids to a stop inches from the nearest frog, flecking them with mud, and stands up straight. It sticks out a meaty paw, big as a paving slab, and it’s gigantic maw splits into a smile.

“Terribly pleased to meet you, charmed, charmed.”

Wasteyenot, the closest Slann, hesitates before shaking the huge arm politely. “Er, likewise croak.”

The rest of the Skaven team are similarly well mannered, shaking hands and wishing luck. There is even a polite chuckle after Tiomanicus, a Gutter Runner with three arms, manages to shake hands with three frogs at once.

Norvegicus speaks up again.

“Beautiful day, hmm? Looking forward to getting stuck in, what. After, perhaps you would all like to join us in a little post-match wine tasting evening? The exercise really loosens the palette. Well, speak soon.”

The ball is punted overhead deep into the Slann’s backfield, and Norvegicus instantly roars like a dragon and rips into the line of frogs amidst croaks and screams, knocking Snippy Slip Slapper out cold with a single backhanded blow.

Flicker Dee grabs the ball and he, along with a swathe of frogs, dart to the south to sweep around the ratmen.


They fend off the lightning-fast advances of the Dynamos, first from the north then the east. The Ogre is far away, having lost himself to mindless fury, and is chasing down Stretchy Pete, who is running for his life.

The Slann play conservatively, screening off their offence. It’s all going well until Norvegicus’s head snaps round, and he charges towards Flicker like a steam tank. It’s all the frogmen can do to keep his murderous rampage at bay long enough to score. The moment the ball passes the touchdown line, he stops slavering and frothing and claps his hands together.


“Well played, chap. I’ll get you next time, har!”

The frogs are unnerved.

---

The teams set up for another drive, and the rats have plenty of time to score again. However, it’s not as easy as that.

As the Slann kick the ball, an argument breaks out on the Line of Scrimmage. Norvegicus and Everetti, the Skaven Blitzer, were apparently discussing philosophy prior to the drive.


They are falling out over whether the fundamental nature of the soul is one of balance despite adversity or adversity despite balance, and perhaps you should read more about it before debating with the big boys, and perhaps your face needs balancing, and you so on and so on.

The rest of the Skaven team try to calm them down.

“Hurry up! Go get the ball, green idiots! The clock is running!” yells Bumford.

The Slann, unsure of the etiquette here, jog around the scrum and pick the ball up before walking slowly towards the touchdown line.

With barely a few seconds left on the clock, the teams set up again.

The Slann form a defensive wall, though they’re not worried. What team can score that quickly, with ten seconds left?


The Skaven team are fast.


Very fast.

It takes seconds for the ball to be swept up, then it’s sailing through the air.

Tiomanicus swipes it from the air, and is streaming towards the touchdown line.


It looks like he’s going to make it!

The Slann defense charges to meet him. Tiomanicus avoids them easily. The Blitzer Swish is the last hope. Tiomanicus, perhaps in a display of ability, decides to go over him instead of around him. He jumps, and plants both feet on the Blitzer’s head, intending on gracefully jumping off of him like a footstool for the score. Sadly, Tiomanicus didn’t take into consideration just how sticky a Slann’s head is, and instead slaps wetly against Swish’s back.

The whistle blows for the second half.

---

Back in the changing room, Yaverslann’d are feeling pretty good. They’ve not had a lead line this before. They’re all alive. They’re feeling confident.

Snippy Slip Slapper is still out for the count. Bumford takes this valuable coaching time to draw on his face. In pencil.

---

The second half begins, and the slaughter finally arrives, much to Bumford’s delight! No less than three players die within minutes of each other, two Skaven and one Slann. Miraculously, the doctor (despite angry bellows of questionable ethics from Bumford) revives Stretchy Pete from the brink of death. One of the other deaths is Tiomanicus. (He’d tried to escape the slimy fists of Flicker, but his feet stuck to the floor at the wrong moment and... Well, suffice to say his running days are over.)

The Dynamos manage to perform a blisteringly fast roundabout passing play, scoring early on in the half. But, due in part to their ongoing felicitations and, er, otherwise about various vagaries of philosophical this and metaphysical that, and the often violent confrontations within the team about exactly which path to inner peace was most direct, the Dynamos were severely disadvantaged in numbers.


They had looked like they were about to rally together, having finally unified on their beliefs (for now), when Bumford leaps up onto his chair and yells about how inner peace is wholly selfish, for what great act of self-interest can one pursue than the ultimate fulfilment of the personal soul, and they all started off again.

Making the most of this, the frogs swamp them with bodies, holding them back long enough to score a third time.

3-1 to Yaverslann’d!

---

“Nice one swamplettes! You’re getting a decent record. Course, it’s only against teams that wear practically nothing, so no wonder. Once you have to fight some real armour, you’re really going to suffer. Especially if it’s covered in spikes. And maybe poison. Oooh, I can’t wait, the suspense is killing me...”

He timidly peels back the top page of his clipboard, and reads.

He cheers.

“Ahar! Dark Elves! All those blades, all them spikes, and those lady elfs... Oh my.”

He sits down.


His team exchange worried looks.

There is a poster on the wall. It bears the portrait of Lottabottol. There is some very severe looking red writing beneath it. --- Fumbbl replay.

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 Post subject: Re: Bumford's Adventures - Season Two: Yaverslann'd
 Post Posted: Tue Mar 07, 2017 1:01 am 
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Joined: Wed Jul 11, 2001 1:00 am
Posts: 293
Location: Netherlands
its a myth... rofl
i laughed so hard my gf thought something was happening. i declined to explain, but damm thats funny and vivid stuff


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