The footprints told it all, like a replay. The pitch had been soaking wet from long rains when the match started, and the surviving grass tufts were now even more rare on the mudfield, emptied now where havoc had reigned scant minutes before. Marks of running feet crisscrossed the mud, detailing the game, in between beer cans and bones. The footprints were smudged over in large, gory craters were Bull Centaurs had fallen and Hobgoblins had been nailed hard under layers of diving opponents. Some had even survived.
The referee had survived, too. Unprotected, exposed, a lone voice of order among chaos upon the arena of death, dodging lethal projectiles and aggressive thugs while the roaring spectators had you completely surrounded in their thousands, each one of them a raving madman with throbbing veins on his forehead. At best. The fans’ surging enthusiasm and wroth depths of dismay were a monster with a life of its own, howling and frothing in bloodthirst. No wonder an honest guy took some tips from wherever he could find them. Extra cash was always welcome, especially if it could pay you to get away from the hellhole that was a Blood Bowl stadium. The referee wondered whether he’d survive the losing team’s wrath. Well, a smart guy didn’t shy away from taking bribes from both directions…
He could still see the half-buried remains of his predecessor in a corner, exposed by a mob brawl. The referee nodded sagely. Aye, the footprints told it all.