BLOOD BOWL – Journey of the Maulers: Team Logos

In my article, Blood Bowl: Solo Campaigns, I've talked about how the backstory of a team contributes significantly to the immersion in a solo campaign and that I'm actually following that method in the Journey of the Maulers series. For the fans I already did this, as each of them got a few lines of background. These are usually rather short as they serve as a basis for their character development and can be expanded both narratively and throughout the campaign.

Today, I lay the foundations for the background story of the Maulers as a whole and at the same time I deal with the logo of the team. Draw again a parallel to the real sport template of American Football, it is noticeable that many teams are recognizable by a certain symbol, similar to the heraldry of a knight's house.

I should warn you - today's post does not contain any miniatures, just a few scribbles that have sprung from my twisted, creative vein. But if you like a bit of story about Blood Bowl teams, you can sit back and enjoy the first real chapter of the Maulers' journey ...

Every team needs a logo

   It was the worst game of Blood Bowl Boz Bonebreaka had seen in years. Pathetic. There was no other word for the performance of the team. The Challenge 2 tournament was in full swing and the Mousillon Reclaimers wiped the floor with the Maulers. Although it was only 2 to 1, this did not reflect the course of the game at all. Two players were already badly injured and would have to end their careers, another was unconscious and would see the end of the game only after the final whistle. Fortunately, it sounded only a few moments later and the fans were released from the miserable show.

   But some of them were not satisfied with the end of the game. Lots of money was lost today in betting and the losers basked on bloody revenge. When they caught one of their orcish teammates, the rest of the team rushed all the more to get into the locker rooms.

   As soon as the bars closed, a furious mob gathered in front of the entrance, shaking the them with unhesistantanger. Boz grabbed one of the fans and threw him through the air like a doll. Even for such an aging Orc, he was still pretty strong. The shrill scream made the mob stop intimidated, and the eyes turned to face him.

   "Time to go Gitz." Boz said in a threatening rumbling voice.

   "Only when we have sacrificed these sissies to Nuffle!" shouted a tall Norscan.

   Obviously he was not as easy to daunt as the other fans and he was furious.

   „We’ll start with you!“ he shouted and suddenly started to charge towards Boz.

   Before he even understood how it happened he stumbled to the ground. He tried to get up again but was instantly horrified as he noticed that he was missing a leg. Boz's lap Squig chewed on the missing leg, its foot still sticking out to the corner of his mouth. The unlucky fellow was about to cry, but the Squig did not seem happy yet. With three hearty bites, he finally devoured the Norseman completely, followed by a loud burp and a satisfied smack.

   Some of the other fans had already fled by then and those who hadn't done so were petrified. Boz could now reach the entrance unhindered and ripped through the battered lock effortlessly. His mind was unusually clear. He knew it was time for the Maulers to change management.

   Imposingly, he opened the door to the crew cabin and stopped in the doorway. The sight offered to him wasn‘t exactly a pleasure.

   "I'm Boz Bonebreaka, and from now on, I'm da boss. From now on only da things I say happen. " he said it with a determination that didn't allow any protest.

   His plan was straightforward and simple. The team needed new players and they had to win enough games to rebuild the team's reputation. They would have to do this the old fashioned way. That would mean making a name for yourself in the smaller leagues, followed by a few more prestigious tournaments or cups. That should bring enough Gubbinz to them to perhaps become permanent residents somewhere. Everyone knew that teams that held something on their own had their own stadium. But first he needed something that brought the guys back on track and would motivate them again. An inspiration. Like a symbol. 

 

   The team travel cart, who was once pulled by a bad-tempered boar, fit the run-down team just right. The pig had been stolen during the game though.

   "Perfect," Boz said, pointing to the drawbar.

   "From now on, training is always on. We'll drag da cart ourselves. And so everyone knows who is coming, they shall all see the logo." he said.

   For a moment, the remaining players were silent until one of the players finally dared to ask: "Which logo, boss?".

   Boz glanced at the carts loading space. A jumble of old trash was still in there. At least that hadn't been ravaged by the angry fans. An ax to gather wood for a fire and the old choppa from the former apothecary were some of the leftover tools. A true precision tool that could cut off any pain in no time. The rest consisted of old paint buckets, rough paintbrushes that you needed to paint a playing field in more remote areas, and the usual block shields, which were used for contact training when you didn't have a few cocky fans at hand.

   Hm...let's see...Boz thought to himself. He grabbed the two weapons, tied them together and mounted one of the block shields above them.

   His squigg nudged against his leg.

   "MMMMMM" rumbled the roundish animal. Mmmm? Mmm. Mm? M ... M! That was it.

   Boz was one of the eloquent Orcs and could not only read, but even write a little. A long time ago, he had been in a mushroom brewhouse in Karak Eight Peaks, whose red and yellow nameplate had lost the first few letters after a pub-wracking. They had fallen down because of the impact of skulls on the other side bashing against the wall. When he asked a Goblin what it read, he had answered "Gork's Mork's Shop", whereupon he had dragged him along for a while to learn the rest. He had eaten the Goblin later. Quickly he painted the block sign with the found color rests and drew in crude lines a provisional "M" over it. Moments later, he waved the boys over.

   "This is da sun and this are da mountains and that's an M. M like Maulers!". 

Greetings from the Chaosbunker!

Dino