Official Match Thread Season 38 Round 5 - Sin City Swamprats v Dragons FFC @The Underground Stadium

[Raz]

I rasrely remember names.

Who was that guy that hit me in primary school for dating his sister. I dont recall his name. but i remember the bloody nose.

 

[Raz]

But wasn't All-SFA during that Mobbs year if I recall

popularity contests... way too many of them

 

[damicky]

But wasn't All-SFA during that Mobbs year if I recall

He was robbed

 

[Raz]

He was robbed

did we get lawyer to look into it ?

 

[T2B_]

did we get lawyer to look into it ?

He wasn't on the same team as serial_thrilla at the time.

 

[GotTheGoodes]

Oh hai...

Bonz... smoke bomb. Now. Go.

 

[GotTheGoodes]

I always remember the swampies being Swan heavy

Clod & The Milkman for example...

 

[Raz]

Ok time for WEdnesday Training sessions


UPto the bar boys /

One two three // drink
One two three // Drink
One two three // pause and bite that pizza

Now 30 repeats.!

 

[Bonz]

A good wash probably fixes that...

I guess washing him down the drain is a viable option

 

[Bonz]

which cheese is the issue ?

We have all sorts in the locker room.

I usually jsut like the Cheddar for my Cheese toasties.

sataris incoming toastie talk

 

[Bonz]

Oh hai...

Bonz... smoke bomb. Now. Go.

 

[Raz]

And so another day ends .

Qooty is close now

Go the Rats

We need to kick a bag full of Qoals

 

[philreich]

You are putting immense pressure on me to hit a target, I miss the toilet ffs

Your toileting accuracy reminds me of my golf.

 

[Bonz]

Your toileting accuracy reminds me of my golf.

Too much of a draw or cut?

 

[philreich]

Too much of a draw or cut?

Due to my boomerang shots, my mate reckons I have aboriginal blood in me.

 

[T2B_]

Game Teamsheet Day Dragons!

 

[Chief]

Prelude: The Gathering of the Dragon Blades

The flickering light of the inn’s hearth cast long shadows across the wooden walls, filling the room with a warm, amber glow. The taproom of the Broken Wheel Inn was bustling with life; travellers and townsfolk alike shared stories over mugs of ale, their voices a low hum beneath the crackling fire. It was here, at a corner table worn smooth by years of use, that the Dragon Blades convened for the first time since their last harrowing adventure.

Greenery, the group’s deft rogue, arrived first, her leather armour creaking softly as she took her usual seat. She scanned the room with sharp eyes, noting the exits and the faces of the patrons—a habit born from years of living on the edge. With a slight smirk, she produced a small, ornate dagger from her boot and began to absentmindedly spin it between her fingers, her mind on the mission ahead.

Next to arrive was Bort, the dwarf warrior whose reputation for strength and stubbornness was matched only by his love of ale. He strode into the inn with a determined gait, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Bort’s beard was as thick as ever, and his chainmail clinked softly with each step. He greeted Greenery with a gruff nod before ordering a pint from the bar, which he downed in one long gulp before taking his place beside her. “Good to see ya, lass,” he rumbled, wiping foam from his beard. “I hope this venture of ours is worth the trouble.”

Greenery grinned, twirling her dagger once more before sheathing it. “If the rumours are true, there’s more gold in that swamp than we’ve ever seen. And besides, I’ve got a score to settle with those rats.”

A soft voice, melodic yet firm, interrupted their conversation as Ligma, the group’s elven healer, gracefully entered the inn. Her presence seemed to calm the very air around her. Ligma wore the traditional robes of her order, and her long, silver hair flowed down her back like a waterfall. She carried a staff adorned with a crystal that pulsed with a gentle, soothing light. “Gold or no, we must remember that our actions have consequences,” she said, her green eyes settling on her companions. “The Rat King’s influence has spread far beyond the swamp. If we do not act, many more will suffer.”

Greenery and Bort exchanged a glance before nodding in agreement. They knew Ligma’s words carried the wisdom of centuries, and her counsel had saved them more than once.

Just then, the door to the inn burst open, and in sauntered Bonz, the Dragon Blades’ resident bard, with a wide grin plastered on his face. A tall, lanky man with a shock of unruly red hair, Bonz had a wit as sharp as the thin blade slung at his hip, and was as infamous for his bawdy sea shanties as he was for his musical prowess. He slung his lute over his shoulder, his fingers already strumming a playful tune as he made his way to the table.

“Ah, my merry band of misfits!” Bonz greeted them with exaggerated flair. “Did someone say ‘gold’? Or was it ‘rats’? No matter, for I’ve a song for every occasion!” Without waiting for a response, he launched into a ribald shanty about a centre half back who found himself in a rather compromising position with a mermaid and a barrel of rum.

The other patrons in the inn turned to listen, some laughing, others blushing at the lyrics. A serving wench carried over a glass of milk and put it on the party's table, winking at Bonz. Bort rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a chuckle, while Ligma sighed in exasperation, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the hint of a smile. Greenery simply shook her head, unamused by the bard’s antics.

As Bonz wrapped up his tune with a flamboyant bow, Pickitt the Pure, the Paladin leader of the Dragon Blades, entered the inn. His steel armour gleamed in the firelight, and his presence immediately commanded attention. He approached the table with a steady stride, his muscled hand resting on the ivory hilt of his sword, and his expression a mixture of tolerance and fondness as he regarded Bonz.

“Bonz, I see you’re in fine form as always,” Pickitt remarked dryly as he took his seat.

“Why, thank you, Captain!” Bonz replied with a wink. “I’ve got just the tune to rouse us all before we plunge into that steamy, slick, wet... dreadful swamp. But I suppose we should save the best for last.”

Pickitt smiled, shaking his head. “Indeed. For now, let’s focus on the task at hand. The Rat Swamps are a cursed place, overrun with filth and vermin. But within that darkness lies a chance to do something good—and, as Greenery rightly pointed out, to claim a prize worthy of our name. We’ve faced worse before, and we’ve come out stronger every time. This will be no different.”

He placed a rolled-up map on the table, smoothing it out to reveal the twisted paths leading into the heart of the swamp. “We leave at first light. Be ready for anything. The Rat King won’t go down without a fight, and his minions are many. But I trust in each of you to do what you do best.”

---

"Why are you all... Oh! Forgot to remove my fencing helmet. Sorry."

---

The Dragon Blades exchanged resolute looks, their bond forged through trials and victories. They raised their mugs in a silent toast, the clink of their drinks sealing the pact. Tomorrow, they would face the horrors of the Rat Swamps, but tonight, they were simply comrades, united by a shared purpose and a trust that ran deeper than the murkiest swamp.

As the fire crackled and the night deepened, the Dragon Blades made their final preparations, each knowing that whatever the swamp held for them, they would face it together.


- With thanks to OpenAI and their trove of ripped-off creative material.

 

[philreich]

Have the Dragons done their S37 B&F yet?

How do you make a Dragon laugh on Monday morning? Tell him a joke on Friday night .

 

[spookism]

How do you make a Dragon laugh on Monday morning? Tell him a joke on Friday night .

That's a rather generous time frame

 

[philreich]

Now I see why the Rats were desperate for your services.

Only they could like pineapple on pizza.

Some of us do......

 

[philreich]

well after reading the sim reports.

Not many actually do any running. It is mainly

1:00 Punch it from centre
1:10 some one picks it up and kicks / handpasses
1:20 someone else gets it
1:20 this person then kicks to goal and scores.

Occaionaly we get a
2:20 So and so goes for a run and remembers to bounce.



So based on the above. no one actially runs . QOOTY players wil lall end up big and fat if not already that way.

What's this about running? When I've got the ball in one hand and a beer in the other hand, I ain't running - I might spill some.

 

[Bonz]

Due to my boomerang shots, my mate reckons I have aboriginal blood in me.

That's perfect!

If you start at the hole, you can get a hole in one?

 

[philreich]

That's perfect!

If you start at the hole, you can get a hole in one?

I'm actually wearing my golfing socks right now - I've got a hole in one......

 

[T2B_]

 

[T2B_]

Prelude: The Gathering of the Dragon Blades

The flickering light of the inn’s hearth cast long shadows across the wooden walls, filling the room with a warm, amber glow. The taproom of the Broken Wheel Inn was bustling with life; travellers and townsfolk alike shared stories over mugs of ale, their voices a low hum beneath the crackling fire. It was here, at a corner table worn smooth by years of use, that the Dragon Blades convened for the first time since their last harrowing adventure.

Greenery, the group’s deft rogue, arrived first, her leather armour creaking softly as she took her usual seat. She scanned the room with sharp eyes, noting the exits and the faces of the patrons—a habit born from years of living on the edge. With a slight smirk, she produced a small, ornate dagger from her boot and began to absentmindedly spin it between her fingers, her mind on the mission ahead.

Next to arrive was Bort, the dwarf warrior whose reputation for strength and stubbornness was matched only by his love of ale. He strode into the inn with a determined gait, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Bort’s beard was as thick as ever, and his chainmail clinked softly with each step. He greeted Greenery with a gruff nod before ordering a pint from the bar, which he downed in one long gulp before taking his place beside her. “Good to see ya, lass,” he rumbled, wiping foam from his beard. “I hope this venture of ours is worth the trouble.”

Greenery grinned, twirling her dagger once more before sheathing it. “If the rumours are true, there’s more gold in that swamp than we’ve ever seen. And besides, I’ve got a score to settle with those rats.”

A soft voice, melodic yet firm, interrupted their conversation as Ligma, the group’s elven healer, gracefully entered the inn. Her presence seemed to calm the very air around her. Ligma wore the traditional robes of her order, and her long, silver hair flowed down her back like a waterfall. She carried a staff adorned with a crystal that pulsed with a gentle, soothing light. “Gold or no, we must remember that our actions have consequences,” she said, her green eyes settling on her companions. “The Rat King’s influence has spread far beyond the swamp. If we do not act, many more will suffer.”

Greenery and Bort exchanged a glance before nodding in agreement. They knew Ligma’s words carried the wisdom of centuries, and her counsel had saved them more than once.

Just then, the door to the inn burst open, and in sauntered Bonz, the Dragon Blades’ resident bard, with a wide grin plastered on his face. A tall, lanky man with a shock of unruly red hair, Bonz had a wit as sharp as the thin blade slung at his hip, and was as infamous for his bawdy sea shanties as he was for his musical prowess. He slung his lute over his shoulder, his fingers already strumming a playful tune as he made his way to the table.

“Ah, my merry band of misfits!” Bonz greeted them with exaggerated flair. “Did someone say ‘gold’? Or was it ‘rats’? No matter, for I’ve a song for every occasion!” Without waiting for a response, he launched into a ribald shanty about a centre half back who found himself in a rather compromising position with a mermaid and a barrel of rum.

The other patrons in the inn turned to listen, some laughing, others blushing at the lyrics. A serving wench carried over a glass of milk and put it on the party's table, winking at Bonz. Bort rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a chuckle, while Ligma sighed in exasperation, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the hint of a smile. Greenery simply shook her head, unamused by the bard’s antics.

As Bonz wrapped up his tune with a flamboyant bow, Pickitt the Pure, the Paladin leader of the Dragon Blades, entered the inn. His steel armour gleamed in the firelight, and his presence immediately commanded attention. He approached the table with a steady stride, his muscled hand resting on the ivory hilt of his sword, and his expression a mixture of tolerance and fondness as he regarded Bonz.

“Bonz, I see you’re in fine form as always,” Pickitt remarked dryly as he took his seat.

“Why, thank you, Captain!” Bonz replied with a wink. “I’ve got just the tune to rouse us all before we plunge into that steamy, slick, wet... dreadful swamp. But I suppose we should save the best for last.”

Pickitt smiled, shaking his head. “Indeed. For now, let’s focus on the task at hand. The Rat Swamps are a cursed place, overrun with filth and vermin. But within that darkness lies a chance to do something good—and, as Greenery rightly pointed out, to claim a prize worthy of our name. We’ve faced worse before, and we’ve come out stronger every time. This will be no different.”

He placed a rolled-up map on the table, smoothing it out to reveal the twisted paths leading into the heart of the swamp. “We leave at first light. Be ready for anything. The Rat King won’t go down without a fight, and his minions are many. But I trust in each of you to do what you do best.”

---

"Why are you all... Oh! Forgot to remove my fencing helmet. Sorry."

---

The Dragon Blades exchanged resolute looks, their bond forged through trials and victories. They raised their mugs in a silent toast, the clink of their drinks sealing the pact. Tomorrow, they would face the horrors of the Rat Swamps, but tonight, they were simply comrades, united by a shared purpose and a trust that ran deeper than the murkiest swamp.

As the fire crackled and the night deepened, the Dragon Blades made their final preparations, each knowing that whatever the swamp held for them, they would face it together.


- With thanks to OpenAI and their trove of ripped-off creative material.

A merry band of misfits indeed. Bonz as our cheerful bard also sounds about right

Misfits or no, the Rats don't stand a chance I reckon.