As the near-record crowd gathered in the Hackers’ woodland stadium (Fire Safety Certificate in the post), the tension between the opposing fans mounted palpably. After all, the dwarfs sneered, these weren’t just posh, silver-clad, poem-reciting, spike-eared, tear-shedding, dress-wearing, horse-loving High Elves... these were Wood Elves, the Friends of the Foliage, the Lovers of the Leaves or, in the ancient dwarfish, Grun Dron Noh-Noh (Trans: Touchers of the Furry Folk). These lunatics didn’t even wear armour!

As the home team faced off against the Dwarf Warhammerers though, the jeers and chants of the crowd were but a distant murmur. The Hackers, having convincingly defeated the Grinning Moons in their last game, were fast hoping to become the giant killers of the league, if their opponents stood but a little taller, at least...

Their morale (and bowel control) loosened a little as they watched Flint Churnblade waddling onto the field, his balance up-ended by the roaring chainsaw that was brandished above his head.

‘Zipper’ Hare-Foot was in fact heard to comment when he saw the smoke billowing from the back of the dread-machine, ‘That can’t be good for the trees!’

Girth the Treeman was however, more worried about the other end.

As the game began, the shout of ‘ONE...! TWO...! THREE...!’ went up on the side-lines. It was not, in fact, the coaching staff timing the start of the elves’ plays, but rather the tally of touchdowns which the Hackers had managed to dance past the dwarf lines in quick succession.

Then the second half began, Flint cranked his chainsaw, and the payback began...

The dwarfs struck at the heart of their opponents with a surgical precision that would make even a Dark Elf assassin proud, with Flint chopping and booting his way through the elf lines until he was finally sent off for a blatant foul that utilized the assistance of no less than six other players!

By half way through the second half, most of the Hackers were languishing in the dug-out, either unconscious or badly hurt – but all of them quite thankful that they were still alive!

Once again, the cursed number 6 journeyman came off worse with a serious injury which ended his career for the Hackers, and all the while, the dwarfs inched slowly towards the end zone, eventually getting the ball over the line as the last of the spectators were donning their cloaks and heading for the exits.

As Bobart Fleetfoot looked up to the stands to celebrate his score, he realised that the Dwarf Warhammerers were the only people left in the stadium and that night had fallen.