On the eve of Armageddon

By Paul Blythe

‘There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth, when you shall see Marouan, and Laurent, and Sebastien, and all the prophets, in the kingdom of Arsene, and you yourselves thrust out.’

I am a seeker of truth. I study the mystic runes and the wisdom of our ancestors to discover a deeper meaning behind the curious, unfathomable goings on this summer.

The signs were there, writ large across the blogosphere for all to see. Amongst the people, the righteous and the unwashed, there were mutterings of discontent, a feeling of uneasiness, an atmosphere redolent of the final minutes before the thunderstorm explodes.

Rumour begat rumour as each unverified account or misplaced explanation of events circulated faster and faster, spiralling ever upwards as the barometric pressure rose a tide of trepidation became a tsunami of desperation as the witching hour of the damned approached.

No naked leaps across a Beltane fire or mystical rites at the solstice could assuage the fears of the many. Mancs maidens availed themselves of their champions (for a consideration of coin), though these orgiastic contortions, bore naught but frenzy’s all too swift release.

The portents of doom were obvious to all from the up lauded Lords, to the humblest grove keepers, precipitation became perspiration. It mattered not if you were true believer or naysayer, whether you spent your energies in silent prayer, cogent debate, everlasting vigil, constant castigation or smoking leaf at the well.

I have delved into the vaults of knowledge, sought inspiration from land, sea and Sky(tm) and though my journey was long and arduous I have now returned to the land of my fathers and can reveal the meaning behind the symbols and the signings. The season of war is upon us.

I bring news from the tribes of the North, though often I found the speech almost unintelligible and the customs bizarre. The tidings may seem disquietingly portentous I fear they may have overreached themselves and on the dawn of the new conflict, they pose a diminishing threat, the true significance of which is not hard to perceive.

The oil rich Citeh tribe of the desert sands have contented themselves with the hiring of mercenaries from all corners of the earth. The glint of their gold lies heavy in the purses of those untested in battle. Their numbers are not trifling though there is little agreement amongst an army consisting solely of Generals.

Their near cousins seem content to rape and pillage and spend their energies in the pursuit of the flesh. They age and though their past victories are legion I fear their best lies dim and distant in memory alone. They place their hope in battle weary veterans and young untested squires but have more of a taste of concubine than blood on their lips.

Living on the banks of the mouth of a once renowned river, now seething in excrement and the miasma of decay.  A once great race scramble through the debris of their once great kingdom, formerly lords of all they surveyed they are now forced to survive hand to mouth, scavenging when once they swept all before them across the whole of Europa. The money lenders have insinuated themselves into the court and driven out the, albeit fading, General, with his greatest champion into exile. The new ruler is hamstrung, with the weasel words of the worm-tongued for council, he is doomed.

Closer to home the former governor of Chukotka, fresh from a host of recent victories has sat virtually quiescent, sitting like a dragon on his hoard, confident that should he be brought to conflict again, victory will be his at any price. He will unleash his Cossacks fresh from the Gulag Archipelago, at a whim to brush aside all who have the temerity to stand against him.

It seems that we are laid to siege by those of hostile intent at all sides. The possibility of survival slim, of victory tenuous at best.

Fear not my brethren for though the threats are real and present, our fighting men are more than sufficient for the conflagration to come. We may not be as strong as we may have been, but we are undoubtedly stronger than we were. We have strengthened more than the majority of our rivals. (See the codex below).  We are well led, in some cases well fed. But above all we have a spirit that will in the end, not be denied. As each battle is joined, remember it, in of itself is just one moment of the war.

But not all is dark and certainly not lost. It would be remiss in the extreme not to bring a modicum of cheer to you.

Be of joyous heart my friends for I bring you tidings of a strange race of Halflings. The live nearby, perhaps even amongst us, assuredly beneath our notice, small as the tiniest of tots. I hear they are a twitchy folk, harmless in the main but consumed by pride and envy. Possessor’s of the Syndrome of the small man, as an Apothecary would say.

If you are by chance unfortunate enough to see one. I say unfortunate as it is said that they are not pleasant to the eye. Treat them not unkindly for they uniquely amongst men, or nearly men, are afflicted by all of the venal sins.

Until the next time, I bid you fare thee well.

Below the Mina Codex, compiling the strength of the foes presently abroad in the land, decipher it at your peril.

ARSENAL  IN: Free 1 + undisc 2 : £ ??

ARSENAL OUT: Loan 8+released/retired 3+free 3 + undisc 2= £??

CHELSKI IN: Undisc 1 =17M

CHELSKI OUT: Loan 8+ released/ret 2+ free 6+ undisc 4= £??

LIVERPOOL IN: Free 2 + undisc 3= 15.8M

LIVERPOOL OUT: Loan 4+released O +Free 2 +undisc 6 = 23M

MAN CITEH IN: undisc 6 = £??

MAN CITEH OUT: loan 10+released/retired 2 + free 2 + undisc 4 = £??

MANIOU IN: undisc 2= £??

MANIOU OUT: loan 8 + released/retired 2 + free 3 + undisc 4 = £??

TINY TOTS IN: free 1+ undisc 2 =£??

TINY TOTS OUT: loan 7+released/retired 1 + free 3 + undisc 2= £??

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If by any chance you found any of that confusing, you might enjoy this.

Wenger: the philosophy, the practice, the revolution