It's another stormy night, and conversation around the table is quiet. Eluvial has joined you for the evening, a short rest from his lessons in the woods with the Treeman Thousandrings. Mace holds a piece of raw meat to a bruised eye, trying to ease the swelling from a fist fight earlier in the day. Everyones thoughts are on the Daemon, and even the halflings, Soho and Patches, have fallen quiet and pushed half finished platters aside.
Suddenly, the tavern door slams open, whether from the force of the rain drenched dwarf entering, or from the wind, you cannot tell. He closes the door and shakes off his beard, removing his cloak as he steps towards the fireplace. "Tis wetter than a Krakens arse out there! Bar wench, some of your finest ale, and Dwarven, if you have." He stands for a moment by the fire, warming himself, and you can see he has travelled hard and light. He is, no doubt, a dwarven runner, a messenger from a Dwarven city up in the Vaults. The barmaid brings him an ale, and he drinks deeply, before giving her coin. "Pah! Not Dwarven by a long shot, but it will have to do. Is the miller around?"
"He is, Grofnil." Says Nicodemus, from his place alone at a table at the back of the room. The dwarf turns, but his expression lightens as he recognises an old friend. "But let him be, this is no storm to be out in."
"Pah, it ain't really that wet. I bring a message for the town." Grofnil takes out a parchment case of oiled leather and hands it to Nicodemus. Nicodemus takes out the letter and reads the message. "Ah, Blood Bowl is it?"
"Aye, and this time I hope you humans can muster a team that's not scared o' a leather ball!"
The letter reads:
To the villagers of Franz-se-Uitsig
According the traditions set by your fore-fathers and ourselves, we will meet apon your village green in three weeks for our annual Blood Bowl tournament. Let Man and Dwarf reforge the alliances of old with sport, beer and tales of old.
Dwarven Blood Bowl Champion of the Vaults
P.S: We understand if you would rather play Snot Ball.