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Ripper looked at the big Black Orc. Then he looked at the team coach. Then back at the Black Orc. He was male, broad as a wall, built like a siege engine, and wore the wounded expression of someone who had personally been insulted by gravity. “Is that your queen?” Ripper asked suspiciously. The coach gave him a tired look. “Oh yes,” he sighed. “That one is a real drama queen. As much as a Snotling runs past too fast, he will yell foul and spend the rest of the half making the apothecary convince him his ankle is not broken.” Ripper silently cursed Stibble. Of course the Halfling had heard the word queen and assumed crowns, courts, and royal wisdom. Of course Ripper had been sent to investigate. And of course the “queen” turned out to be a Black Orc sitting on a bench, wrapped in enough armour to survive a collapsing stadium. His name, according to the coach, was Neymaw da Silva Stompus Jr. Ripper hated the name immediately. Not as much as he hated the thought of any Orc..... and Black Orc especially.... collapsing under a bit of rough contact. But still just enough to want to smack him in the head for the name alone. Neymaw had earned his reputation over three seasons of dramatic falls, heroic groaning, and injury claims so exaggerated that even the apothecary had started bringing popcorn. The coach explained this with the flat, dead voice of a man who had seen the same act too many times and still somehow had to pay for it. Ripper did not believe it. Not fully. There were players who exaggerated pain. There were players who stayed down longer than necessary. There were even players who screamed for a foul after being tackled by someone smaller than their boot. But this was a Black Orc. There were standards. Ripper stepped closer, raised one thick finger, and poked Neymaw in the shoulder. It was less an attack and more a punctuation mark. Neymaw’s eyes widened as he immediately folded. He slid from the bench with a gasp, hit the floor on his side, clutched his shoulder, and began making the sort of wounded noises normally reserved for battlefield amputations, tragic theatre, and nobles discovering taxes. Ripper stared down at him as something dark inside Ripper stopped being professional. Ripper leaned forward, every scar on his face tightening with disgust as he yelled with all the force his lungs could muster. “Get up, you overstuffed sack of whimpering shame. I have seen Snotlings take worse hits from falling sandwiches. You are a Black Orc. Act like one! And stop crying over a poke before I give you something worth crying about, you disgraceful, soft boned, theatre loving pile of [redacted]......." Neymaw gave one final, delicate gasp as he grasped his chest. Then his head fell back... much too white for a Black Orc.... When Ripper returned to The Blitz! office, he carried a large gift basket filled with sausages, cheese, two dark bottles, and a small card tied to the handle with black ribbon. Stibble looked up with bright, hopeful eyes. “How did the queen interview go?” Ripper placed the unused notebook on the desk. “The Queen has sadly departed.” Stibble gasped and pressed both hands to his mouth. “Oh no. So soon? Did she say where she was going?” Ripper considered this. “Down,” he said casually. Stibble nodded solemnly, misunderstanding everything. “Then I must bake farewell muffins for the queen.” Maxwell looked at the gift basket. “Ripper. Where did you get that?” Ripper sat down. “Gift from the coach,” he said, smiling broadly.

And now in week 4 we get some OWA coached by @MuminSlayer. This promises to be a tough one, as we are giving away over 400k in inducements.

It was a pleasure playing against you, thanks for uploading the match!

Week 3 is here and we get yet another Necro team, this time it's @Borke's Necro.

It's week 2 in the King of the OCC tournament and this week we get @Smiling Tom and their Necro!

With The Rat King interview ruined, soaked, and officially declared “too damp for publication,” Stibble Erkwhell did what all great editors do after disaster. He learned absolutely nothing. “The problem,” Stibble announced, standing on a chair in The Blitz! office, “was that we interviewed the wrong kind of royalty.” Gary Spitstorm leaned back in his chair. “Meaning?” Stibble smiled. “A prince!” That was how Gary ended up in the locker room of an Imperial Nobility team minutes before kick off, holding a notebook, a pencil, and the deep suspicion that he had been tricked by someone shorter than his desk. The room smelled of polished armour, expensive oils, nervous sweat, and the kind of confidence usually found in people who had never had to carry their own luggage. At the centre of it stood a young nobleman in immaculate kit, surrounded by attendants adjusting straps, brushing dust from his shoulders, and generally behaving as though he might shatter if exposed to reality. Gary coughed as to make notice of himself. “So you are Prince Albrecht von Somethingsomething?” he said. The nobleman turned slowly and looked at Gary as he had seen a toad. “Prince Albrecht Valerian Augustus von Hochensnob.” Gary studied him with care, the polished boots, the perfumed hair, the spotless gloves, the attendants orbiting him like frightened moons. “That’s a lot of name for not much prince.” The locker room went still. Prince Albrecht’s smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?” Gary closed the notebook with one finger still marking the page. “You don’t look like a proper prince. Not like one I met years back. Big fellow. Shining armour. Sword. Jaw like a castle gate. Had just rescued a damsel from a burning tower and looked like he’d do it again before breakfast..” The attendants looked horrified. The prince stepped forward, moving with the stiff dignity of a man who believed walking was something nobility should not have to do too often. “I will not be insulted by an orc with a pencil.” Gary looked down at the pencil. “Fair.” He said and tucked it behind his right ear. “You have no understanding of bloodline,” the prince shouted in anger. “No understanding of refinement. No understanding of what separates nobility from common brutality.” Gary smiled. It was a small smile. The kind that suggested common brutality was willing to explain itself. The prince slapped the notebook from Gary’s hand as trying to make some sort of point. The notebook hit the floor and slid beneath a bench. Gary looked at the prince. “I guess you owe the notebook an apology.” “I owe no apology to the likes of you.” he said. That was the last complete sentence Prince Albrecht Valerian Augustus von Hochensnob managed before kick off. Gary's fist crossed the space between them with surprising speed. The prince raised one elegant hand, perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to call an attendant, perhaps to request a formal declaration of hostilities. There was a sound like a melon being introduced to a brick as Prince Albrecht folded backward over the bench, legs briefly pointing at the ceiling, before landing in a heap of silk, polish, and suddenly questionable breeding. By the time team staff dragged Gary away from the locker room, the match had begun without its prince. When he returned to The Blitz! office, Stibble was waiting with hopeful eyes and a tray of crown shaped biscuits. “How did the princely interview go?” Stibble’s face fell as he noticed the bloody notebook. “No interview?” Gary did not look up. “Interview?” he said, reaching for a biscuit. “No!”

Here we go again, this time with a quick filler tournament until the new version is released. The King of the OCC tournament has started! Match 1 sees me going up against @Leman_X_Russ and his Orcs.

Maxwell Quillford stood in the early morning mist, questioning every decision that had led him to this exact moment. He had secured an exclusive interview with none other than The Rat King. Admittedly, Maxwell had never heard of The Rat King. But Stibble had been very eager about the scoop, and when Stibble mentioned words like castle, court, and royal banquet, Maxwell had accepted the assignment before anyone else could claim it. The fact that everyone else had hesitated, even Gary Spitstorm, should, in hindsight, have been treated as a warning. Now Maxwell stood in his finest and most expensive clothes before something that, by sight and smell, could best be described as a sewer trying to pose as a building. Maxwell made a note never to breathe again. From the darkness came a wet shuffling sound. Then a shape emerged. It was large abd it was covered in patchy fur, broken scraps of cloth, stolen ribbons, and what appeared to be a crown made from bent cutlery, bottle caps, and one very optimistic spoon. Maxwell swallowed. “Your… Majesty?” The creature raised both arms. “Yes yes. Rat King.” Maxwell waited. Nothing else followed. “Thank you for agreeing to this exclusive interview with The Blitz!.” Now, many readers will be interested to know how you came by your title.” The Rat King scratched himself with royal confidence. “Yes yes. Rat King.” Maxwell’s quill hovered. Then something above him groaned and Maxwell looked up, just as a pipe burst. Sewer water fell on him like a royal blessing from a very angry god. His finest and most expensive clothes absorbed it immediately. His notebook sagged. The ink ran. The interview dissolved into a brownish blur of titles, contradictions, and regret. The Rat King raised both arms. “Yes yes. Rat King.” By the time Maxwell returned to The Blitz! office, his boots had lost value, his coat had lost dignity, and his entire week had filed a formal complaint against him. Stibble looked up eagerly. “How did it go?” Maxwell placed the dripping notebook on the desk. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Gary leaned closer, sniffed once, and grinned. “Smells like a front page.” Maxwell closed his eyes. Stibble clasped his hands together. “So is he really a king?” Maxwell looked down at his destroyed clothes. Then at the puddle forming around his shoes. Then at Stibble. “Yes yes,” he said. A pause. “Rat King.”

I do now crave some Cup Cakes!

There are many sounds that can cause panic in The Blitz! office. A legal summons. A coach demanding a correction. Gary Spitstorm saying, “I have evidence.” But none of them caused quite the same reaction as Stibble Erkwhell humming outside the door. Maxwell Quillford looked up from his notes, his face tightening with quiet dread. “No,” he whispered. Stibble entered with a tray of frosted cakes, each wearing a tiny paper crown. “Good morning! I brought cupcakes!” The room froze. The staff had survived press conferences, goblin legal threats, unsolicited poetry from losing coaches, and Gary’s three-week insistence that every article needed the phrase “meat-based evidence.” But cupcakes were different. Because cupcakes had become permanent. Since Madeline Grimshade’s assassination, nothing had been stable. Her office remained sealed, partly out of respect, partly because nobody knew whether the traps had been disarmed, and partly because the last person who touched the handle had been briefly promoted to smoke. Then came the question of leadership. No one had been eager to take command. After Madeline Grimshade’s assassination, the editor’s chair had stopped looking like a prize and started looking like a target. No one knew why she had been killed. Not for sure. There were rumours, of course — rival papers, furious coaches, unpaid debts, offended nobles, and at least one theory involving a cursed headline. But rumours were only rumours. The only thing the staff knew for certain was that no one could say whether the assassin considered the work finished. Even Dwig Ironbeard, who had wanted Grimshade’s chair for years, took one look at the sealed office door and decided ambition was best enjoyed from a safer distance. So, in one of the most cowardly decisions ever made by professional cowards, they gave Stibble “a chance.” Stibble cried. Then he baked. And he had not stopped. “Stibble,” Maxwell said carefully, “we discussed this.” “We did! And I listened!” “You did not.” “I did! You said we cannot keep having cupcakes every morning.” “Yes.” “So today,” Stibble said proudly, “I brought cup cakes.” Gary leaned forward. “Say that again.” “Cup cakes! Because it is the King of OCC Cup! Fit for kings, queens, nobles, dukes, honorary barons, disinherited barons, and anyone who once found a crown in a ditch and felt royal.” By now, the staff of The Blitz! had eaten cupcakes for so long that sugar had become less a food and more a workplace condition. Maxwell had developed a formal cupcake intake ledger. Dwig had begun charting frosting colours against staff absences and refused to share his findings. Gary claimed he could hear his teeth thinking. Ripper had openly stated that he would rather drink troll vomit from a warm helmet than eat another cupcake. Stibble looked at them all, glowing with pride. “So,” he said, “I made enough for the whole Cup.” And that, regrettably, was how The Blitz! officially launched its King of OCC Cup coverage: not with a royal decree, and certainly not with dignity. But with, stomach aches, and the quiet regret of several life choices that had somehow led them all to this room.

Group A Pidpad - Frog Salad - Old World Alliance - Ballztothewalla - Goatvomit & Gasmasks - Chaos Chosen - RTSD - Blood & Thimbles - Vampire - bob152 - Bugman's Worst - Dwarf - Stahlburg - Lovecraft Dreamers - Chaos Chosen - Tribble - Nibblers - Necromantic Horror - mbCARMAC - Everton Reserves OCC - Chaos Chosen - Group B Juiblex - All-star United - Dwarf - txlanhualpec - REIKSTATDT GUARDIANS - Imperial Nobility - ArcticAntarctic - After Dinner Desserts - Khorne - Wenteros - Bearded Beerchuggers - Dwarf - djikicigo - Accordion Soul Crew - Orc - Haugster - Scale Fates - Lizardman - Tys123 - Fling the F'ing Fling - Halfling - Group C Borke - Who's Afraid - Necromantic Horror - Smiling Tom - Royal Apothecary Society - Necromantic Horror - MuminSlayer - Only Wins Allowed - Old World Alliance - Spydyr - LizOrcamen ColaGuzzlers - Lizardman - Leman_X_Russ - Heisemer Boyz - Orc - tubragg - Turf Marauders - Chaos Renegades - Group D BeaWolf - Rock Bottom - Chaos Dwarf - raspel - Raspel's Bellydancers - Halfling - bjj hero - Numetal never dies - Wood Elf - Maniehl - Not Quite a Coven - Dark Elf - Javelin - Never-were Horrors - Necromantic Horror - Alessus - The Skull Smashers - Khorne -

Two groups with 7 coaches, that means coaches in those groups get a week off at some point depending on the schedule. Two groups with 6 coaches, that means coaches in those groups get a week off after Matchday 6. Top 2 go to the play-offs. Not sure if we can seed play-offs, but if we can first place teams will play second play teams in the first round, and teams from the same group will be on opposite halves of the play-off tree. Sign up as soon as possible, we start on Wednesday May 6th.

The draw has been done, so this is closed.

You can put me with "The Skull Smashers" Khorne in if you need to even up the numbers

We can try to figure something out. I expect a few signups close to the stream.

@Pidpad if there's still room and and forgiveness for a late comer, mbCARMAC with "Everton Reserves OCC" would be happy to participate!

Javelin - Never-were Horrors - Necromantic Horror -

Tribble Nibblers (Old team) Necromantics

Maniehl Not Quite a Coven Dark Elf

Up to 21 now, I think 24 would be a good number (and if there's more we'll adapt of course).

If you need an extra team then Tys123 Fling the F'ing Fling (New Team) Halflings But if you have an odd number then happy to sit out.

Reminder, this closes tomorrow.

Saturday 2nd of May at 1500 UTC on https://www.twitch.tv/alessustv

bjj hero Numetal never dies Woodelf

Haugster Scale fates, or something Lizardmen