Itchy-Tasty is an incredibly social skaven, constantly harassing anything and everything he thinks he might be able to copulate with. Though he is easily distracted, it is almost always in a manner that makes the opponent equally so, and terrified to boot. Opponents tend to describe his tackles and blocks in a horrified stuttering whisper if they can even bear to mention them. His behavior has earned him as many detractors as fans, as people are like to say: "blood bowl is not a family game, but this is a bit much."

Motto: "Does this look infected?"

Quick-Twitch love to run-run and find balls, yes. Me love get ball and run-run till all bad peoples leaves Quick-Twitch alone, yes. Me also love bite-kick other not-rats and eats them, yes. But not all, no. Me shares, yes! Me still keep-keep last one Quick-Twitch kill here in bag, yes. You want, yes? Not fresh, very rotted, yes! Me trade-trade for Warp-Stone so me play-play good ball, yes?

Despite having a long and distinguished career on the field, some may say he's taken one too many blocks to the snout. These days he can be calmly following a route one moment and all of a sudden be tearing into a ballrunner's uniform like it's string cheese. There's no doubt he gets the job done every time, but what kind of coach out there would be willing to put this brand of crazy alongside 10 other slightly saner rodents?

Once a great connoisseur of fine bilge wines, Mikey's career ended spectacularly, like many, in the great Blegger taste-off. No one could decide what colour of brown was the best and the argument degraded into murdering the other party with corkscrews. Mikey's eyes were uncorked and enjoyed with a well rounded Pinot Sludge Dejour and he was forced out of the society due to colour blindness and that his bandages soiled everything. His nose however is one of the most refined in the world and makes an ample replacement for his eyes. He now hates everything of high society and developed his speed running from the law after crashing numerous social events. His nose can smell refinement for miles and the presence of elves and fine wines send him into frothing rages for hours. Now he seeks the pinnacle of low cultural achievement, Bloodbowl!

Noticed at an early age for his political backstabbing ability he finished his gutter runner training with a glowing reference in everything but standing out. He at first entered Blood Bowl field to pad out his CV but since starting it has become so much more to him, his cunning is unmatched and he is just waiting for the day he works out a way to bring on his axe claimed from a Dwarf Chieftain in his final training test.

Created by the foul warpstone-driven machinations of Clan Skryre's Warlocks, the raT-800 is the pinnacle of Skaven technology.

Half machine, half Skaven, this warp-fueled terror moves with an awkward speed unnatural even to the skittering ratmen. Two eerie red crystal eyes orbit independently, designed to acquire and attack targets the approximate size of a ball (or a man's head).

This prototype model has been thrust into such a public setting to showcase to the lessor races the Skaven's military-industrial might and inventiveness. Reliability thusfar is unknown but most likely unstable.

Raised as a house pet for many years, Mr. Squeakers had a good life and was well-raised. When he realized his pitiful situation as some suburbanite plaything, he bit the hand that fed him (literally) and made for the gutters. Through the (ab)use of various drugs and the abuses of life in the gutter, he became twitching schizophrenic beast that would maul anyone and anything. He had a gift fro killing, and was scouted for Blood Bowl and quickly picked up for a roster spot. He responds poorly to anyone calling him Mr. Squeakers (tends to maul those people). He is usually sedated with tranquillizers whenever he is off the field to prevent unfortunate violence. He killed the star quarterback on the last team after being ridiculed for missing a block and being called "the lubbable mister squeakers." He was suspended for a year by the commissioner and allowed back into the league on the promise of good behavior and stockpiles of sedative.

Brother Filthrot is certainly a fast and nimble Skaven, to be sure; but there are many fast and nimble Skaven. What sets this particular one apart, is that some time ago, he got religion.

Or at least, whatever Warp-inspired madness passes for religion among the rat-people. Brother Filthrot preaches... sort of... mumbling in tongues at times, screaming dire premonitions with foam flecking the corners of his snout at others. His eyes are at times wild with 'divine' inspiration, and at others, cold and dead with prophesies of doom and destruction whispered in a fatalistic monotone.

As far as blood bowl goes, Brother Filthrot views the team as his flock, and his participation in the game as a means to inspire them to greater belief. His team-mates variously regard him as an insane and dangerous influence, with bemused indifference, or (among a few of the more fundamentalist-minded rats) fervent devotion.

Claw Hand Luke entered the Blood Bowl as an act of desperation. Abandoned by his friends and family, his only memory of his mother is her spitting on him as she left him to die in a gutter.

With little talents, crippling deformities and a lack of personal hygeine, Luke had few options to make a living. His first attempt at a wage was submitting himself to a freak show at the local circus, which soon went awry when the visitors couldn't bear the sight of him - being instead too disgusted and revolted to look.

The Coach found him starving to death in the storm drain below the circus and was desperate enough to hire him since he needed someone expendable, and Luke was willing to work for nothing more than one meal a week.

Made famous during Cryptbowl VII for sneaking a warpstone rifle onto the field and blowing the head off the Furious Fighting Flaymen's star thrower, Body Flayed. The silence that descended on the field after Flayed's head exploded into a shower of blood and gore was broken only by the shout heard round the Bloodbowl world "Squeak! Headshot!"

Cluny the Scourge is a bad-tempered rat; once, he was a warlord, in command of many a snarl-toothed weasel or unpleasant stoat. He refuses to tell his teammates more than this, though many have overheard him muttering to himself about "bloody squirrels", and he displays an odd aversion to bells and long lists of food. His caution at attacking opponents and well-spoken (if curse-laden) manner are swapped for a berserker rage whenever he meets a religious opponent, his advice to the team to watch out for the deceptive bastards.

At the bottom of any wooden sailing-ship, below the crew deck and the cargo hold, there is a dark and horrible place called the Bilge. The Bilge provides ballast, keeping the ship upright. In theory, it is full of water.

In practice, it is full of the most horrible substance ever encountered this side of the Warp itself. Everything drains down to the bilge, and stays there, forever. The water ages over years, filled with dead ship-animals and their droppings, spilled (and eaten, and shat, and re-eaten and re-shat) cargo, stagnating and thickening and continuously roiled and mixed by the rocking of the ship.

Every once in a while, some poor bastard has to go down into the bilge. Sometimes, it's to clear the pipe that leads to the bilge-pump, used to add or remove water when needed (e.g., when the ship takes on or offloads cargo). Sometimes, it's to inspect the interior bottom of the ship for damage, after she scrapes bottom on a shoal or fouls in a shallow channel.

Sometimes, it's to find and kill the thing that's been lurking down there and eating the crew late at night.

One enterprising captain caught upon a solution to the dilemma of whom to order down to the bilge; he got himself a skaven, and had the thing chained in the cargo-deck just above the bilge-hatch. It earned its scraps to eat by clearing the bilge-pump and performing repairs, and after a while its 'fur' - if you could honestly call it that - had become so matted and horrible from the repeated excursions that the Captain found it was punishment enough, to send any misbehaving crewman down to speak to Bilgediver or bring him his bucket of slop.

Recently freed from his captivity after the ethically-challenged sea-captain lost his ship in a drunken gambling bout, Bilgediver has been sold by the ship's new owner to GSM Trust, Inc. (sight - and smell - unseen) for a paltry sum; ostensibly based on his experience with sewer-based work. With the death of Nosecandy Niggler, the management is forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel - literally - for bodies to put on the line of scrimmage.

Bilgediver smells really really bad, even by Skaven standards. He looks even worse, and has developed a permanent sway, owing to years at sea trapped belowdecks. He also refuses to do anything unless first bribed with food, preferably served in a bucket (because a bucket will float in the bilge, keeping its contents (relatively) uncontaminated, at least for a few minutes).

Lord Pip-Squeek Fluffypelt III (or Fluffypelt for short) is the cuddliest Skaven in the Old World. For real, as he is the current champion of the Old World Skaven Pedigree Cup, a cup he won after all other contestants suddenly went down with poisonous blisters after a mysterious cloaked figured dropped warpstone shards in their drinks. All of them. No-one puts Fluffypelt in the corner.

Lord Pip-Squeek Fluffypelt III used his newfound fame to score a place in the newest Blood Bowl franchise to scour the Old World. His favourite past time is to assist fouls while looking as innocent as possible with his fluffy white pelt and his bottomless black eyes.