TEAM BIO

The team was started by an old Fimir witch, that oversees the large Fimir fortress, close to the old place of Dragonbone. The team has been there for a long time, playing the especially brave (or dumb) Norscan teams in the vicinity of Dragonbone. Recently the Witch, standing in as the coach mostly, was able to endeavour to attract two special entities from the warp and since then the team has picked up some steam and was able to get into contact with a northern CIBBL agent, that was amused by their inept but bloodthirsty style!

Until they got a deal, most off the stuff about the team was mostly made up by local norscans watching the team play. Even the Name "Dreadtilian" was coined by a local drunkard, that could not tell reptilic from amphibic life, but since the name kinda stuck, nobody was fighting that name.

The plan the Witch actually follows with the team is unknow to this day. Maybe they want to please and reattract the attention of the chaotic brothers by outperforming the more blessed races on the pitch?

All things must end, you still owe the world a death:

Heavy fogs are rising around the graveyard, the fog has a quality of wet air, that you can almost taste and tip your fingers into, like pushing into a dirty, heavy liquid. Its stinky and standing in the fog might make the weak of stomach itch and ache. A slender, elegant looking individual in a long cape walks towards the hut, coming closer to the keepers door, something heavy and wet is dragging on the floor. In the fog there are two other big, spiky and muscular figures. They are definetly with long, twitching tail behind them, slappping them ground, kicking up dust.

"I have no use for that one. Put him in the ground and digg him deep. I pay in gold....", a red clawed hand, that has a wild, weird animalistic attraction to it shoots out from the hood, grabs the gravekeepers hand and puts some wet, bloody coins, that seem to be of elven origin into the creatures hand "I will get you steady supply, many kinds will be dragged on your court by the hands and tails of my warriors. The Fog will rise and will expunge the living ...in a maelstrom of blood. I cannot wait for you to put them in their wet, shallow graves." Those words are whispered to him and a forked lightning strikes the air, penetrating the unholy fog long enough to shed some electric light on a demonic, red face and big fangs, that seem twisted into a lusty smile, almost imagining the taste of blood in the air. "Next time, shovel-man." With those words the creatures disappear into the fog, just some clawed traces marking their visit in the wet ground.