They say Tahl Veyne’s got reflexes sharper than a vibroblade. Around here, that means the difference between a quick death and walking away with the prize. Not that he’s a talker — more like a shadow that moves faster than you expect.

When Deathbone put together his Hive Bowl crews, word is he didn’t just pick muscle — he picked the ones who’d make the chaos count. Tahl? He’s the one who takes the fight straight to the guts of it, carving a path with that claw of his before anyone can blink.

His armour’s light, but tough enough to soak up a hit or two. And he moves like the tunnels themselves are his home — weaving through crowds, dodging every blade and bullet like they’re just dust in the air.

People around here don’t cheer his name much — not loud enough, anyway. But if you’re smart, you keep an eye on him. Because when the dust settles, it’s usually Tahl who’s still standing, still holding what matters.

Fresh from a failed research rotation in the coolant sluice systems beneath Sector XIII, Beth’s reassignment to Darkend Springs was supposed to be temporary. She was too impatient for data work, too reckless in her handling of plasma coils, and far too fond of drawing attention with glow-etched graffiti tags on Van Saar plating.

But Hive Bowl didn’t ask for perfect. It asked for potential — and Beth had it, buried somewhere beneath the swagger and discharge burns.

She was issued a plasma pistol — a rare privilege — mostly because no one else on the team volunteered to use something that could vaporize its owner mid-match. Beth didn’t flinch. She grinned.

In practice drills, she’s inconsistent — her aim is sharp, but her positioning is a mess. She talks back during briefings, gets distracted by crowd noise, and still thinks Hive Bowl is more show than strategy.

Tahl keeps her on the roster anyway. Not because she’s ready — she isn’t. But because when she does fire true, the shot lights up the tunnel like a second sunrise.

Blayze Varn doesn’t talk much during team briefings. He doesn’t need to — the smell of melted insulation in his work gear usually says enough.

He came up through Van Saar waste incineration crews, where shotgun blasts were used as ignition starters and problem-solvers. Somewhere along the way, Blayze learned to enjoy the heat. He started tweaking ammo loads, splicing in chemical cocktails for bigger flashes. Eventually, someone got hurt — someone important. That’s how he ended up in Darkend Springs.

He joined the Hive Bowl crew with a battered shotgun, a fused rebreather valve, and a habit of standing just a little too close when things go volatile. Tahl Veyne warned him twice about spacing and trigger discipline. Blayze listened both times — and ignored both.

He’s not reckless out of pride. He’s just curious — about what fire does when it’s trapped in a corridor, about how long a charge takes to catch, and what happens when you lean into the spark instead of backing off.

So far, the only thing he’s burned is a practice dummy and a third of his own glove.
But the tournament hasn’t started yet.
And Blayze is already tinkering.

Grutt arrived with the first supply convoy that brought the exotic food to Darkend Springs, dragging his hammer in one hand and a half-eaten sump-ox leg in the other.

He doesn't talk much. Doesn’t seem to understand a lot of the training briefings either. But he understands the whistle, the weight of his hammer, and the direction Tahl points him in.

Hive locals call him a mutant, or worse — a beastman. He doesn’t seem to mind. His shoulders are too broad, his bones sit wrong under the skin, and something about his posture makes people keep their distance even when he’s standing still.

In drills, he’s slow to start but impossible to stop once moving. He doesn’t time his swings — he just leans into them, and the echo of metal meeting body usually speaks for itself.

Tahl gave him one instruction:
“Hit what they don’t want you to hit.”
Grutt nodded. That seemed fair.

Kreg doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to.

By the time the rest of the gang gets into position, Kreg’s already been there an hour, sighting lines and watching shadows. No one saw him arrive. No one ever does.

He’s small, even for a ratling — all sharp eyes and soft steps. His lasgun barely makes a sound, and neither does he. Some think he’s shy. Others think he’s strange. Tahl thinks he’s necessary.

Where Nibs makes noise, Kreg vanishes. Where others bicker, he listens. He’s got the best aim of any of them, and he never brags about it. Just checks the charge, adjusts his sling, and gets back in the crawlspace he calls a nest.

Once, someone joked he must have been here before the Hive Bowl started. Kreg didn’t answer.

He just smiled.

Lucen Halvyr wasn’t built for direct combat — and he’s the first to admit it. His range work is shaky, and his laspistol has spent more time on the floor than in a proper grip. But what Lucen can do is move.

Fast, twitchy, and always a few feet ahead of whatever just exploded, Lucen was pulled from Van Saar mobility trials — not because he passed, but because he survived a reactor test sprint that no one else volunteered for. That, and he had a knack for repurposing lab-grade kinetic dampeners into personal energy shielding.

He joined Tahl Veyne’s Hive Bowl roster by outrunning two other recruits during a mock rush drill and ricocheting off a crate wall to snag a loose ball. No form. No plan. Just instinct and fast feet.

Now he trains as the team’s mobile screen — not because he wants to protect anyone, but because the shield fits, and moving first beats thinking later.

Lucen doesn’t know the rules of Hive Bowl.
He just knows that if you move fast enough, you don't have to.

Nobody saw Nibs arrive. He was just there one morning — curled up in a shipping crate marked “Ammunition – Fragile,” gnawing on something that probably wasn’t food.

Ratlings are rare in Darkend Springs. Not just because of their size or their habits, but because most don’t survive long. Too small, too soft, too clever for their own good.

But Nibs? Nibs survives everything.

He’s got a nose for leftovers, a gift for disappearing, and a habit of climbing things he shouldn’t — rooftops, pipelines, backs of passing gangers. His autogun’s older than he is, but he’s tuned the scope himself, and when Nibs lines up a shot, somebody’s going to limp.

He’s not a fighter. He’s a survivor with a trigger finger.

Tahl didn’t recruit him. He just kept showing up to drills until it was easier to hand him a uniform than throw him out. Now, he’s on the roster, perched somewhere above the playfield, muttering odds to himself and occasionally asking if “headshots count as style points.”

No one trusts Nibs, but they don’t count him out either.

He’s always watching.

If Grutt is the wall, Rask is the wire — tense, humming, and ready to snap.

Rask arrived far later than Grutt, stinking of heat fungus and foreign pollen. Where Grutt loomed in silence, Rask never stopped moving: twitching fingers, shifting eyes, murmured jokes in a dialect no one recognized.

He talks more than Grutt — too much, some would say. Laughs to himself during drills. Taps the edge of his chainsword like it’s a tuning fork. His humor is jagged, but his instincts are sharper.

Rask fights like he’s trying to outrun a scream in his head, charging corners before his teammates call them clear, baiting hits just to parry back. More than once, he’s been pulled off a target long after the whistle blew.

Still, he’s fast. Real fast. And when the blade starts to roar, even the Van Saar duck.

Tahl watches him carefully. Not to see if he’s loyal — that’s a lost cause — but to make sure he’s always pointed the right way when the frenzy kicks in.