World Cup LXV (65) RP Thread

[Vilita]

Prior to the World Cup 64 Finals, The Jungle Cats had just completed their best Qualifying Campaign in history. 18 Matches. 17 Victories. Zero Defeats. Near Perfection.

Then, they opened up their World Cup 64 Group Stage campaign against Osarius. Ranked much lower than the Vilitans at the time, Osarius wasn't expected to be much of a challenge to the Jungle Cats.

They had never lost to Osarius, and weren't expected to start at that point. Two previous meetings during World Cup Qualifying, during World Cup 61, resulted in a pair of victories. 1-0 in Osarius and then 4-2 at home. A follow up meeting against Osarius saw the Vilita & Turori Eel-Cat things run out with a 3-2 victory during AOCAF 34.

Sure, the history wasn't deep, but it was unblemished.

That was, until the near-perfect Vilita Jungle Cats rolled into New Montreal States & Wight and had to square up against an Osarius team that would soon prove itself to punch far above its rank, and become one of the top teams in the multiverse.

It seemed to be an otherwise decent day in the New Montreal States but the Jungle Cats never could find their rhythm. Jungrii Canopii was in net and conceded just one goal on the day, a 26th minute strike by Ezio Grassi. However, the Jungle Cats couldn't get on the scoresheet themselves. The attacking duo of Erocka Lorei and Viji-mara Lawaai just couldn't get things done - and perhaps, such an incident would be the impetus for Calaesa Mitaroka's abandoning of the traditional Vilitan 3-(1-4)-2 formation.

The fluidity of the formations may have been at fault for some of the points lost during the Qualifying Campaign, with the Jungle Cats not familiar enough with their own system to play to their strengths and take care of teams ranked lower than them. However, it could be argued on the flip side, that having experience with the different formations allowed coach Mitaroka the flexibility to adapt the Vilitan look to what fits best to counter the strengths of the opposition.

It resulted in the Jungle Cats best World Cup Group Stage performance in almost 50 editions.

Their reward, perhaps harshly, is a date with an Osarius side that many consider over-rated at the #3 rank, but regardless, third-ranked they are which makes the Firebirds the second highest ranked team left in Saugeais and Pasarga.

Coach Mitaroka's side will certainly be out for vengence, feeling like the defeat to Osarius during the World Cup 64 Group Stage on Matchday 1 put the Jungle Cats too far behind the eight ball to compete and sent them packing to an early exit before they ever really got started.

The question of who will appear in goal for the Jungle Cats, always a hot topic, would seem to have been answered with Nycflala Kater's appearance in the second half of the Matchday 3 fixture against Mangolana, where he held on to the win for Vilita without conceding any goals in the process. Certainly it was an important confidence booster for the Kiiara-Torra goalkeeper who conceded 8 goals in the first two matches of the campaign.

The real question will be, however, how safe is the job of Calaesa Mitaroka at this point?

Of course, the real knock on Mitaroka had to be lack of performance in the Finals. Having strung together a record number of consecutive games unbeaten in the Qualifiers, no one was accusing Mitaroka of failing to do his job taking the Jungle Cats to the Finals. But getting the Jungle Cats back onto the World Cup Podium, not something Mitaroka has done.

Would a perfect group stage performance in the Finals followed by a Round of 16 defeat to Osarius be considered a success to the Vilitan Football Association?

Probably not. Especially with a hot young manager such as Mikala Abellan coming through the ranks at Strike FC.

But then again, the last hot young manager to come through the ranks at Strike FC, win a few titles there and then move on to the National Team setup, was Calaesa Mitaroka himself. Mitaroka was determined to put the question to rest, by leading his team back into the Quarter Finals for just the second time in the modern era.

[Saugeais]

It's almost Friday, you know what that means? it's almost payday! Cutoff time for Pasarga and crew.

Scores

[Polar Islandstates]

OOC: Apologies to those who must be looking at me and thinking I'm coasting without RP - I keep doing the 'write half, fall asleep before posting' thing. As I've written it already, here's the Effed article that was meant to be posted pre-Second Round. I'll post the Bjarnarey chapter (now compressed) when I finish it along with a new Effed article. Hopefully today, as I'm busy all weekend from tonight til Sunday evening.

How about that then?!

The Terns get back to normal service with a clean sheet in the final group stage match against Ko-oren, and they get through to the next round again, keeping our 100% record of getting out of the group stage in World Cup tournaments. I must admit, conceding goals in two consecutive games had raised a little concern, but the defence locked together like a smoothly made jigsaw puzzle and refused to budge. They scored twice at the other end, too, past a team even more defensive than our own.

First things first though, and Rasmussen tweaked his side slightly for the second match against The Sylvanaes Queendom. With one victory under our belts it was imperative that we stayed focused and finished the group qualification at the time of asking. A few tweaks to the line-up, and then just as in the match against Farfadillis, they came flying out of the blocks, with Alexsandr van Sorensen getting his personal account for the tournament up and running with a beautiful free kick from just outside the box. Lassvanil barely even moved.

The Mystical Unicorns are an attacking bunch however, and it wasn't that much of a surprise to see them press us back in the second half and score, when Janwen Undomiel was able to use every single one of those hundreds of years of experience to find the gap between Wien and Oyen-Spekke and slam the ball home past Kirilaunen with a powerful right footed shot. Things would be tit-for-tat for the next few minutes, as well, until Eikr Lillehammer's introduction for Eyvindur Sudesval left Villeneuve and Cornelius with the freedom to play in a more direct mindset. This move paid off once and for all when Saarinen met Kolehmainen's knock-down with a stabbed toe-poke that found the back of the net. Just the slightest of tweaks to the line-up had completely affected the game, and that was that.

Barring a minor natural disaster in terms of goals and results in the other match, the Terns were already through ahead of last night's match against Ko-oren, but that didn't stop them doing a professional job. Ko-orenite football brings with it its own challenges, of course; a hugely defensive style that the Terns have been known to struggle against in the past, and a less than straightforward formation that makes things harder to plan for as far as Rasmussen and Pekarik are concerned.

Rasmussen knew a win was within our capabilities though, and even with resting a handful of key players, the Terns were able to show the quality required to beat them. Second half goals from Zelkeznicar and Illich-Svitych were the different between the two sides in the end, though at times there wasn't a lot to choose form between the two. Certainly make sure you keep your eyes peel for young Juliasterinthen in the future; he had a fine game after coming on the second half, and I'm sure we'll be hearing his name again in the future.

The result puts us through to the knockouts, though, so let's take a look at how we now look when compared to the other fixtures...

Vilita (16) v (3) Osarius
Polar Islandstates (5) v (36) Blouman Empire
Andossa se Mitrin Vega (2) v (13) The Sylvanaes Queendom
Valanora (7) v (42) Pasarga
Saugeais (17) v (6) Starblaydia
The Holy Empire (4) v (19) Eura
Mytannion (22) v (11) New Montreal States
The Archregimancy (10) v (15) Wight

So, some pretty tasty looking matchups, there. Obviously, from a neutral point of view we want to see entertaining games for everyone, even if from competitive point of view we'd prefer the 'weaker' sides to win through, and potentially give us an 'easier' ride in later rounds. That, and rooting for the underdog is just another one of those typically Polarian traits. Of course, things rarely work out like that, and I suppose we'd be happy just to see our rivals get tired out by a bruising encounter, if possible. I will definitely be tuning into Vilita playing Osarius though, where two AO powerhouses go slamming into each other with the winner playing us in the quarter finals should we go though ourselves, and the matchup between ASMV and The Sylvanaes Queendom also looks interesting - its strange just how often those two get drawn together. Saugeais' tie against Starblaydia will be intriguing, with the Knight hoping their home advantage tips the scales in their favour against the Purple Peril of Starblaydia, whilst the tie between The Archregimancy will also be a big draw on the television schedules. That last tie is the one featuring the two teams most closely related in the rankings, and therefore in theory should be the closest and most competitive match. Given both nations' tendency to operate slightly outside of what passes for 'normal' in the Multiverse, I'd say it should also be one of the more entertaining off the pitch, as well as on it. Also noteworthy is the absence of both Audioslavia and Sargossa in the knockout stages. Ha.

And what of our opponents, Blouman Empire? Well, you should already know all you need to know about them. Second seeds in qualifying, we played them twice, and came away unbeaten. We scored a solitary goal at the Nasjonale to wrestle early control of the group away from them, and then in the second half of qualifying and with our lead already looking unbeatable, we slipped to a one-all draw away. It marked the first time we hadn't won this cycle, and ruined our hundred percent record at the time. So, they're no slouches. They know how to get here, and they know how to score and defend. Crucially, they also know how to score and defend against us. It has been a bit of a feature of Polarian World Cups, recently, that we should face a team in the finals that was in our qualification group. Two goalless draws against Kiryu-shi were complemented by a third goalless draw back in World Cup 62, whilst just one cycle later a double over Audioslavia in qualification wasn't enough to stop them beating us when it mattered.

So, the omens aren't great if you look at how teams learn to play against our style. But we do have the quality in our side to punish them when it counts. Alexsandr van Sorensen is having his best tournament in a long time, with the ball seemingly glued to his toes as Villeneuve and Cornelius rush about to give him options. Saarinen is looking sharp and focused, with the support of either Illich-Svitych or Kolehmainen proving a very effective foil so far. Petersen's return to the starting line-up of the Terns has proved to be one of Rasmussen's most important contributions to the side yet, and Soren Rovanpera has applied himself magnificently to the starting role handed to him.

We also have the benefit of having rested many players for the match against Ko-oren: Eyvindur Sudesval has gone about his business quietly and calmly this cycle so far, and his deputy in Eikr Lillehammer was able to step-up and contribute towards the cleansheet just as calmly. Likewise Fabian Vaaraniemi and Jorgen Kirvesniemi, in for Kungas-Vaga and Cornelius respectively. With the arrival of Bosnjakovic and Ekman early in the second half as well, Rasmussen has now used all of his outfield players at least once over the course of the tournament, with third goalkeeper Alexis Sand the only man unlikely to get any game time. But such is expected of the third goalkeeper, I suppose.

The crucial thing that this rotation from Rasmussen achieves, aside from the obvious benefits of rested legs for key players, is that it keeps the players hungry. Everyone wants to win the trophy at the end of the campaign, obviously, but everyone also wants to be on the pitch and making their efforts count towards that fight. We have a fair idea of Rasmussen's favoured starting eleven, yes, but with the ever-present tweaking to match the perceived strengths and weaknesses of the opposition on the day, there are always going to be starting positions up for grabs. This rotation means the players are still fighting to get those starting places. There is no complacency in this squad, and that is a good thing.

The other big factor, of course, is that the Terns remain undefeated this cycle. Through friendlies against Apox and Astograth, eighteen matches in qualification, and three matches in the group stage against Farfadillis, The Sylvanaes Queendom, and Ko-oren, the Terns haven't lost a single game since Mapletish unceremoniously dumped them out of the last Copa. It is an impressive streak, and for Rasmussen and the team it is bound to be a source of pride. We are now at the stage of the tournament however where just a single defeat could see them out of the tournament and on the flight back up north. Which is a shame, granted, but any cycle in which you only lose has to be viewed as a success even before you know the final outcome. We could yet win the thing, after all. Valanora, The Holy Empire, or Vilita would be my picks for that, personally, but we could. Hell, we could go unbeaten and still go out of the tournament on penalties! Thor knows we've got a terrible record from twelve yards out. That's a good point, actually; one of our matches against Blouman Empire has already ended as a draw, let's hope the team are practising their spot kicks.

So, the streak continues. And with the second lowest ranked team left in the tournament standing against us in the second round, hopefully it will for a bit longer, yet. Touch wood, but I think we've got the quality to see things through.

All the best, Terns.

Per Tenebras ad Lucem.

Eff out.

xx

[Polar Islandstates]

Let the record show: I have a tiny man-crush on Felix Saarinen.

Seriously, where has this Felix Saarinen been hiding all his career? It wasn't all that long ago that a Saarinen in his low-to-mid-twenties didn't appear to have a chance in hell of shifting the Kvitchenko-Elmsvikur partnership ahead of him on the pitch. And, indeed, it took him long enough to displace one of Jagr or Illich-Svitych on the bench in the first place. Even back at East Franz, he had to effectively wait until the third striking position became available to him before taking his place on the pitch.

But are we ever glad he's done so, now. It does have to be said that he has always had a decent strike ratio despite being a substitute, but these two goals against Blouman Empire will go a part of the way towards making it even better.

He ran the show! What else can we say, but he ran the show? Using his pace and his direct running he was quickly able to pick up where he left off the last time the Terns played Blouman Empire, and he was unlucky to see his shot in the first five minutes just gently clip the outside of the post and roll out for a goal kick. It was a signal of intent however, and not one that the opposition were able to do anything about. Rasmussen's side have made rather habit of starting well in the tournament so far, and a hammering in the first twenty minutes has often been coupled with a period of consolidation and protecting gains won to close out the half. What happened here, therefore, was textbook.

Illich-Svitych and van Sorensen both had shots well saved in the first ten minutes, but the Bloumany right back Ian Nerden was finding a rested Kohev Kungas-Vaga an incredibly difficult marauding presence to contain, and it was the Northbrook captain's dynamism that was key to the opening goal. Another lung-busting run down the left hand side of the pitch was coupled with a run inside from his club-mate Jean-Eric Villeneuve. A quick one-two followed, and then a driven cross past the face of goal from Kungas-Vaga was met at the back post by Felix Saarinen on the volley - not so much kicking the ball into the net but barely keeping it on the planet. It was an outstanding finish.

For larege periods thereafter, the Terns were happy to soak up the pressure. Wien, preferred to Rovanpera last night because of his positional knowledge, was able to slot straight into the side next to Oyen-Spekke, and the pair formed a brilliant triangle with the ever-patient Sudesval. Barely noticeable at times, Sudesval nonetheless performed an outstanding task for the Terns last night, keeping Robert Schmitz on the right side at all times and making sure he was well aware of the Polarian presence itching to keep him away from the goal at all costs.

The Terns have been a little more swash-buckling in the World Cup proper than then were in qualifying and they kept pressing for a second before halftime, perhaps hoping to punish Blouman Empire in a similar way to how Farfadillis had had their spirits crushed before forty-five minutes were even up. Such attacking nearly undid the Terns however, and when an uncharacteristic lack of control from Illich-Svitcyh led to a quick break from the opposition, only Kirilaunen's fast reactions kept the score at one-nil. Kirilaunen has appeared to just have the shade of Rasmussen's favour recently, and it will be interesting to see if that save has driven another nail into the coffin of Korzhanenko's first team Number One hopes. Rasmussen looked concerned at the willingness of the Terns to go forward when sloppy play like that was creeping into their game however, and he made some drastic changes at half-time.

Jorgen Kirvesniemi continued his ascent into the Twitchers' hearts by coming on for Marten Cornelius, and Vadim Illich-Svitych was replaced by the figure of Alexis Zeljeznicar, who was apparently instructed to sit as a deep striker but playing in front of Alexsandr van Sorensen. It was a tactic that worked, with Kirvesniemi's willingness to run and Zeljeznicar's trickery and youthful fearlessness proving the difference in the middle of the park as the opposition simply couldn't get near it.

Gradually, and with Elden coming on to give the legs of Oyen-Spekke a break, the pressure and frustration on the Bloumany midfield would begin to show, and mistakes started to happen. When one of those mis-controls landed at the feet of van Sorensen with Saarinen running ahead through into space, only one outcome was likely.

Threading the ball magnicifently with next to no backlift at all, van Sorensen clipped a backspinning ball directly into the path of the running Saarinen, who took two touches and slammed the ball neatly into the bottom corner of the net - just where James Solomon had no chance. Such accurate finishing is typical of Saarinen, and even more eyebrow-raising when you consider that he only had three shots all match. All three were on target, and two were goals. The man's on fire.

And he'll need to stay on fire if we're to get past our quarter-final opponents, Vilita.

The Jungle Cats have been in rare form recently, and have neatly dismantled a group full of our own Rushmori rivals (including Sargossa. Shame.) to get this far. They tore apart the supposedly third best team in the world, Osarius, in their third round match, and what's more, they know our tricks.

We may not have any of our own players turning out in the V-League, but we were co-hosts of World Cup Fifty-Nine with them, and that kind of co-operation gives you a sort of insight into the other's mindset.

So, what do we know?

Well, they'll play a more open game. They may have scored nearly twice as many goals as we did in qualifying, but they also conceded nearly four times as many, losing twice in the process. In the group stages of this competition they conceded two thirds the amount of goals they scored. We on the other hand only conceded a third of the amount of goals we scored. And we still averaged a three-one result in every match. So, Vilita's average result of five-threeandabit is eyebrow-raising to say the least. There will be opportunities out there for the taking, especially for Saarinen if he keeps playing like this.

Crucial too, will be whatever midfielders Rasmussen puts out in support of van Sorensen and which of Kolehmainen or Illich-Svitych is preferred on the day to partner Saarinen. Bosnjakovic and Zeljeznicar are, as we've seen, youthfully fearless, but the level heads of Kirvesniemi, Cornlieus, and Ekman could yet be vital to containing the Vilitan talents of Mitaroka, Morasita, and Valjariia.

At the back, we will need our defenders to pack a punch. Vilita may not be as accustomed to quarter-final appearances as we have been in recent cycles (or presumably defeats in them either...), but we already know their strikes can be lethal, and we'll have to give as good as we get. Moliaudo and Adjei will both be capable of threatening, but perhaps the biggest threat could come from a name we already know all too well. Kristofer Kilpter.

East Franz Athletic fans aside, we will already fear the name Kilpter as his name is read out on the team sheet ahead of the match, and should he play for the Jungle Cats against the Terns in our quarter-final tie he could be a foe known all too well by Oyen-Spekke, our senior defender. Will this familiarity be a bonus or a hindrance? Will Kilpter even play? We all know how dangerous he can be in the right situations, we've seen him rifle them in at the Rendahl for seasons now as the only Vilitan brave of foolish enough to make the move to the Federation's frozen tundra, but the Jungle Cats do like to rotate their options - more so than Rasmussen, even - and there is no guarantee we'll even see him turn out.

We've played Vilita twice in the past. Winning once, and losing when it counts. Sounds familiar? We've also got a great big stinking duck to get around when it comes to progressing past the quarter-finals, having crashed out in either this round or the second round every cycle since we finished third. That stigma will stick heavy in the player's minds as they prepare for the barnstormer in Targas, but with one of the players in that third-finishing squad now a coach with the Terns - Steffan Pekarik - he will hopofeully be able to impart upon the players all of his wisdom.

And then there's Rasmussen's tactical masterstrokes, of course. Don't forget those.

And van Sorensen.

It will all come down to those crucial next ninety minutes though, and who knows what will happen when we get there. In some respects, this is almost like unfamiliar territory for our players now, it's simply been that long since we've been any further than this. Coming on ten cycles, now. As long our key players stay fit though, I'm confident we'll get through it. Or at the very least, run them close. It's not going to be a walkover in either direction, and I actually think it looks like the pick of the second round matches. Saugeais will have the home support against The Holy Empire, yeah, and two other sets of co-hosts will play each other in the other two ties, but "Vilita vs Polar Islandstates" just sounds like a classic already, know what I mean?

One thing is for sure; it'll be a great match. Whisper it, but I'd say that Vilita and our very own Terns have looked like two of the in-form teams coming into this tournament, with many pundits abroad tipping the winner of the whole thing being whoever gets past this next match. I don't know about that, personally, certainly both teams have the quality to win it but a lot can happen in tournament football, and it's best to take things as they come rather than make bold predictions, I find.

Whassat? Oh, The Holy Empire, Valanora, and Wight. Why do you ask?

Per Tenebras ad Lucem.

Eff out.

xx



OOC: not time for Bjarnarey See you Sunday

[New Montreal States]

WHAT YOU* THINK ABOUT THE NMS-WIGHT OPPOSITE-OF-A-GRUDGE-MATCH

*"You" being "a typical reader of the New Montreal Presse-Journal Devoir"

One of our reporters caught M. Alexandre Potvin on his way to his job on the second shift at a steel mill in Westmount.

"It's a [inappropriate] shame that we've got to knock them out, instead of getting another shot at the Starblaydis or the Valanorans or someone else that we've never been able to beat."

Meanwhile, one of our business & labor reporters caught an investment banker on his way back home to his villa in beautiful Camden, just across the Main Line border between New Montreal and suburbia:

"I say! These Wightlings do not show any of the proper deference to us bankers, and I hope they get a right proper bludgeoning!"

His colleague at Takthee, Monee and Ruun, Albert Neige, who took great pains to emphasize that he owned a 3.8 million oz. mansion along Naperville Boulevard in East Camden, had this to say:

"The sporting concerns of proletarians are not worth noticing. Incidentally, your sporting pages devote far too little column space to yacht-to-yacht equestrian jumping. Really, is anyone of note paying attention to football, the other sort of football, or baseball? Not in the least."

Angeline Flanagan-Marchmont, a clerk at RAND House, the celebrated English-language dictionary editors based in Outremont, was a bit more jingoistic about the whole affair:

"GO PALADINS! BEAT EVERYONE!"

Ms. Flanagan-Marchmont then vomited on the shoes of our reporter, although since the reporter in question was our Nightlife Reviewer, and his primary assignment was reviewing Outremont's newest bar, Brasserie Querbes (three and a half stars; see page D3), this was perhaps to be expected.

Continuing the bar beat, one of our Valdemont correspondents, on her way home from interviewing the police chief of the crime-ridden city of Summit, stopped at the stations' drunk tank to poll the sort of NMSer most likely to start a football riot in the streets:

"WE'RE ALL GONNA END UP IN WIGHT ANYWAYS! WE OUGHT TO CHEER FOR THEM! TWO AND A HALF [grossly inappropriate] CHEERS FOR THE PLACE WHERE YOUR HOITEY-TOITEY 'REPORTER' ASS IS GONNA END UP, ALONG WITH YOUR HIFALUTIN 'SMARTPHONES' AND YOUR UPPER-CLASS INDOOR PLUMBING..."

His sister, who has the unenviable job of patrolling the lawless industrial wasteland of Westchester Co., just north of Valdemont, and who came to bail her brother out for what she said is the fourteenth time in her life:

"Look, I mean, he's been threatened with excommunication if he keeps yelling that during liturgy, but he's my brother, and I can't give him up that easily...oh, what? Football? I mean, I hope the Paladins win. I'll certainly be watching. But Wight's really good too. I think it will come down to lucky breaks, honestly."

There's a full set of beat writers and columnists covering the match on every other page of this sports section, but I think that pretty much covers it.

[Andossa Se Mitrin Vega]

Valanora. Few names in this sport inspire as much awe, as much respect, as much fear. When schedules are released even the elite programs look over them with a sigh of relief when the Vanorians are in the other half of the draw. And when one looks at their impressive 5 World Cup Championships along with a list of trips into the knockout rounds of the World Cup Proper that few others can ever hope to match, it becomes clear that this is easily the best squad ever to play this game.

Guess who we play next. Yep. Valanora. Somehow we always find ourselves facing the Elven Gauntlet of The Sylvanaes Queendom and the Vanorians, in one order or another, just when we feel we have a great shot at winning a title. And never before have we successfully beaten both sides in one campaign. And yet now we relish the opportunity we have been given. We willingly accept the challenge the Vanorians represent because we no longer fear them. We do not have their rich history of success, but we are their equal on this pitch.

And quite frankly it pisses us off that absolutely no one is giving us a chance to win the Championship. Predictions of a sixth Vanorian title have been made. The Holy Empire has been listed as the favorite. New Montreal States, Polar Islandstates, Vilita, Saugeais, and even Wight have been mentioned and yet no one is willing to give us a chance. It’s almost as if they view us in the same light as Krytenia or Qazox. But we are not those squads. We are the Sea Dragons. And like Audioslavia before us, we will etch our names in history by lifting the Cup. Perhaps our time is now. Let everyone continue to forget us. Let that be their final mistake. Bring on Valanora, hey are the next step in our quest to win a title.

[Saugeais]

And now, live from the Hanging Boar Tavern in downtown Montbenoit, it's the Frank and Walter Show on WSSR, Saugeais's number one sports talk radio.

Frank: We are on the air, and oh boy do we have things and stuff to talk about today. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We're going to make you several promises for the next couple hours or thereabouts. We're going to do the best we can to keep you informed, entertained, and maybe have a laugh or two along the way. And this is radio's best combination of the divisive, outrageous, appalling, objectionable, offensive, and occasionally inhospitable. I'm Frank Harrison.

Walter: And I'm Walter Kovak. Shout-outs to our producers today, Christian Hill, Jason Nyvski, and Xavier Zimmerman, to give us updates, and interns doing their intern-ly duties back at the studio. Check us out at wssr.sau/frankandwalter, that's where you go and listen to us stream live.

Well that certainly wasn't the match I was expecting to see out there, were you? A 4-1 drubbing of Starblaydia? Where did this team have that hidden within them? The defenders shut down most of the Blades' chances with surprising ease, Vincent James made a few acrobatic plays when he needed to, and the forwards just peppered the Starblaydi keeper with shot after shot after shot.

Frank: Oh, Starblaydia were just god awful out there. But you can't take credit away from the Knights, who realized this would be one the biggest matches in their tournament, if not their career, so they went out and made the most of it. And boy did it show, with goals from Casimir Archambault, both Richelieu brothers, and Daley Hart, each of them on a fine display of technical skill. I don't normally get this giddy (because being old and grumpy you aren't supposed to feel those things), but seeing this team in action has made me very hopeful about what else they can do.

Walter: And you made mention about some of the skill and physical prowess some of these goals were struck at the Starblaydian net. Alphonse's should easily win shot of the tournament. He opened up the scoring line in the 23rd minute, but let's set the scene first for those that didn't watch the match or the subsequent highlights. The attacking play started with brother Baudouin trying to find an opening near the right corner of the penalty box. Realizing there was no space, e passed the ball back out to the midfield where it wrapped around to the left side of the pitch, finding Alphonse. He took two touches, then rifled a shot that went dead straight at the high far corner of then net. Blades keeper Dean Prinns did manage to get fingertips on the ball, but it was stuck with such power from 28 yards out that tips of fingers weren't enough to stop it. They only thing that would've stopped the ball going in was the far post and would it bounce away, but the ball caromed of the inside of it after shooting past the keeper's fingers and bounding into the net for the goal.

Frank: It was a thing of beauty, and I just wonder what exactly was Alphonse thinking when he shot it? Did he just figure 'Why not?' at give it a crack? Either way, Saugeais were up 1-0 after that, a scoreline that would be seen all the way until the interval.

Walter: Well, the party started to turn sore after the break, as Didier Bernard allowed a penalty kick just 2 minutes into the second half. Poor tackling on his part, and Starbalydi captain Vincenzo Natrionne was able to knot up the match.

Frank: Casimir received a penalty kick of his own in the 53rd minute, after Blades defender Luciano Ferrucio handled a shot from him. Ferrucio was let off with a yellow card, but the penalty stood, and with the raw power we've come to expect from Casimir, he smashed the ball straight into the right side portion of the net, putting Saugeais back on top.

Walter: They never looked back after that, either. Baudouin ends his international scoring drought by juking out two defenders and curling in a beauty from 13 yards, while Daley Hart continues to prove why he's the best in the business when it comes to being a corner kick target, as he took his position on the near post, and headed in the kick from Julien Leclerc just past a defender marking said post.

So now the Knights are in the quarter finals, a feat that's only happened once before, which was when Saugeais was co-hosting the 60th edition of the World Cup. There, they will face the humble monks of The Holy Empire for the second time ever. When was their first meeting, you may ask? Why none other than during the 60th World Cup. And the result was......well, everything they expected at the time, which was a loss.

Frank: But it was a close loss, an extra time loss if I remember correctly. I was covering that game at the time, and you could feel the electricity in the air when Saugeais scored first against the top 10 ranked opponents. But The Holy Empire comes back and ties it up before the half, leaving the second half to be a battle of wits. Back and forth, no one was budging until the regulation whistle had blown. Extra time was on. But I still swear that one missed call could've sent the game into a penalty shootout had it not been called. 4 minutes into the extra time, I and many other journalists and supporters thought the Holy Empire player was offside before scoring what would turn out to be the game winning goal. It was heartbreaking, and for a journalist it really shouldn't have been. I wanted to remain impartial, but it was too damn hard. I don't know if I;ll watch this match just because of that.

Walter: Well, you don't have to, since our young David Hoag will be there covering the game for our station. But I agree this'll be hard to watch with the memories of World Cup 60 looming in my head as well. Just hope for the best, eh? We'll be back in a bit, as we need a commercial break. I'm Walter, he's Frank, and this is WSSR, Saugeais' number one sports talk station.

[Alasdair I Frosticus]

"....looks like this match is surely going to penalties now."

"Tzimisces must surely be worried that the Holy Empire has failed to score a goal for an extraordinary 210 minutes now - but still might make it through to the quaterfinals..."

"But what's this, Basil.... with penalties imminent, Tzimisces is waving to the fourth official and his squad, and... he's getting Octhar and the Kaled to swap positions; Octhar is being thrown a goalkeeper's jersey, while the Kaled glides into midfield... what can Tzimisces be thinking with this one?"

"Isn't Octhar a telepath, Theo?"

"Ah; I see... well, that's one way to win a penalty shoot-out, I'm sure, though let's hope no one's told Eura coach Kelly Sporadic."

"Absolutely; he might be tempted to say 'fuck you' in advance if someone points out that awkward little detail to him."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

<later>

"Well, not the prettiest path into the quarterfinals, but they all count. Say, Physiotherapist, where is it you come from precisely?"

"Oh, you probably wouldn't know it, Juan."

"Try me."

"Oh, somewhere in the constellation of Kasterborous..."

"Coordinates ten-zero-eleven-zero-zero by zero-two from its own galactic zero centre? Bright, silver-leafed trees and a burnt orange sky at night?"

"Ah; you do know - I'm not wholly sure I'm surprised."

"I'm sorry, but what are you two talking about?"

"We're merely establishing, Simeone, that the Physiotherapist is almost as powerful and iconic a multiverse entity as I am."

"Almost, Juan?"

"Forgive me, Physiotherapist, but you know how these things go."

"Just remember, Juan Tzimisces, that I have a fairly good idea of who you actually are."

"And don't forget, Physiotherapist, that I know who you are."

"Sorry, Juan, Physiotherapist, but you've both lost me."

"It's a big picture, thing, Simeone; a big picture multiverse thing - as legendary and important as you undoubtedly are in the World Cup, we're operating on a different level."

"Should I be offended?"

"Don't be - you're very important; astonishingly so - but Juan's right... he and I operate at a mythic level - it's nothing personal."

"And this Omega.... is he the source of this anomaly?"

"I'm not sure Juan; maybe; probably - but it's something we have to follow through on. But maybe next World Cup; now that the anomaly's been found, let's focus on having some fun here; see how far we can take that dal... sorry, I mean kaled. Can't play football to save my lives myself, but it has been fun to watch. And maybe next World Cup, I can find some other friends to help us...."

[Wight]

.

[Vilita]

Firebirds Doused by Jungle Cats

Lunas, Pasarga :: Vilita Jungle Cats head coach Calaesa Mitaroka had a tough decision to make ahead of the World Cup 65 Round of 16 Clash against Osarius. Well, Ok, he had a lot of tough decisions to make.

His side, ranked 16th in the multiverse - would certainly have been expected to make it to this stage of the competition before it started. After that, however, the bookies would likely have been less certain. On paper, a draw against the third-best team and World Cup 64 Semi-Finalists Osarius would seem to be a losing proposition for the World Cup 20 Champs. The Jungle Cats were the form team in the group stage, however, and were familiar enough with their Atlantian Oceania rivals to feel that, at least going into the match, it was anybodies game. The reality was, at this point in the competition, it was win or go home. Any team could beat any other on any given day. The Firebirds themselves had proven that during their impressive World Cup 64 run that itself was jump-started by a 1-0 upset of the Jungle Cats in the Group Stage.

Coach Mitaroka couldn't help but to think back to that match. It really set the tone for a World Cup 64 that had to be, easily, one of the most disappointing performances by any Vilitan team in any World Cup Group Stage.

Of course, the Jungle Cats were pretty terrible historically in cups held in Vilita & Turori. World Cup 31 and World Cup 63, especially. But, World Cup 64 was a different kind of pain with Mitaroka's side leaving the New Montreal States without so much as a single victory to their name, dropping over 10 places in the rankings. Meanwhile, their old rivals, Audioslavia, the very team that Vilita earned its lone World Cup title over, clawed their way to a second consecutive World Cup victory moving from the mid-50's to the number-one team in the World in just two cups of competition.

If they could do it, so could the Jungle Cats. Mitaroka's motivation was clear. Step 1: Revenge on Osarius. Step 2: Win another World Cup, and pull Vilita level with Audioslavia in World Cup's won.

With the Bulls already eliminated from World Cup 65, they weren't going to pull the three-peat. The path was cleared for someone new to win the World Cup and the Jungle Cats were going to have to get there one match at a time.

The Stadium of the Moon awaited both Vilita and Osarius with a place in the Quarter Finals the prize to the victor. While it wasn't quite the same as Lunar Park, the Stadium of the Moon had its own luxuries, including the world-famous 'Stalking Dragon' pub.

It wasn't the Dragon's that the Jungle Cats were Stalking on this Day, however, it was the Firebirds. After thinking about it long and hard, Vilitan head coach Calaesa Mitaroka opted for a more traditional 3-(1-4)-2 formation - the formation that had long defined the Vilitan style of play.

Retiso Buran returned to the Starting lineup playing the role in front of the defensive trio while, unsurprisingly, Lita Adjei and Kristofer Kilpter led the attack.

Despite the slightly more conservative formation he sent the team out with, Mitaroka encouraged his players to put pressure on right from the start to try to grab the early momentum. They were successful in doing just that 8 minutes in when Steffyn Siazzu played Lita Adjei through and put the Jungle Cats on the board.

It appeared that Amandeep Sahota's Firebirds had equalized just minutes after the restart but Kristen Rees was adjudged to have been in an offside position before receiving the cross from Alex McIntosh. The near-goal emphasized the evenness of the matchup with both sides getting chances. However, the recalled goal for Rees would prove all the more critical in the 23rd minute when Riksa Valjariia scored off a Viliaka Morasita corner kick to double the Vilitan advantage.

The goal was like a an arrow to the morale and confidence of the Firebirds players who had felt the game was still well within their reach only to find it slipping away from them. There was still an hour to play, however, and Vilitan coach Calaesa Mitaroka was well aware of that fact, not looking to force the issue and looking to defend the lead that the Jungle Cats had built up.

Mitaroka was forced into making one change before the half when goalscorer Valjariia had to be substituted after a Tomas Urena tackle left him feeling a little wobbly in the right leg. Vilita's most-capped player of the modern era, Jomur Hulyer, entered seamlessly for the Jungle Cats adding a breath of fresh air into an otherwise tired looking matchup on both sides of the ball.

At 2-0 up, the half time talk was more about not doing something stupid that would allow Osarius to get back into the match, not so much of a ra-ra go 'get em type talk that might be on the cards if the match were a little bit closer on the scoreboard.

Osarius made wholesale changes at the break, with a couple of substitutions and a possible change in tactics while, unsurprisingly, Vilita re-entered the pitch with the same 11 players that stepped off of it before the break. They got right back to the business of scoring goals as well, with Kristofer Kilpter putting the Jungle Cats 3-0 up less than ten minutes into the second half. It was the 18th goal of the Finals for Vilita, leading all teams. However, the ability for the Jungle Cats to score goals was never in question. The ability to defend against them, on the other hand was in doubt. Against the #3 Ranked Team in the Multiverse, however, coach Mitaroka appeared to have found the right formula to keep the ball out of the back of the net.

The shutout ended just after the hour mark when prolific firebirds forward Ezio Grassi unleashed an unstoppable volley after the set-up from the substitute Serena Watts. Watts had been causing problem down the left wing ever since entering the game at the half and finally made her presence felt delivering the juicy ball that Ezio Grassi took perfectly.

The goal really wasn't enough to shift the momentum as the match started to slow down and level out from that point. As the end of the match neared, Amandeep Sahota was sending as many players forward as they could to find a way back into the match. Vilita continuously broke down the attack from Osarius and took the ball to the corner flag, not looking to put the counter-attack together for fear of opening up their defensive lines to a mistake. The strategy worked and the Jungle Cats held on for the 3-1 victory that would send them to the Quarter Finals for just the second time in the modern era.

After a trio of victories in the group stage over local nations from Rushmore, the Jungle Cats had taken a scalp from their own region, leaving a clear path for World Cup 64 Runners-Up Andossa Se Mitrin Vega to take their place as tournament favorites. The Sea Dragons won the "Night on the Couch" trophy from The Sylvanaes Queendom on the Second Round to earn a matchup against Valanora in the Quarter Finals, ensuring that there would be no great prize for the winner of the Quarter Final matchup between Vilita and their opponents, The Polar Islandstates.

	Osarius
:: Goalscorers :: :: 8' Lita Adjei :: 23' Riksa Valjariia :: 53' Kristofer Kilpter	:: Goalscorers :: :: 62' Ezio Grassi :: ::
:: :: Best Player: Steffyn Siazzu :: Worst Player: Kristofer Kilpter :: Shots on Target: 9 :: Corner Kicks: 8	:: Best Player: Serena Watts :: Worst Player: Mario Donati :: Shots on Target: 7 :: Corner Kicks: 6

-------------------------------------------

:: MATCH RATINGS ::

-------------------------------------------
GK:: Nycflala Kater - [5]
D.:: Miiara Makose - [5]
D.:: Kadi Molali - [10]
D.:: Endur Rotropii - [8]
DM:: Retiso Buran - [8]
ML:: Riksa Valjariia - [6]
MC:: Kiroki Mitaroka - [8]
MC:: Steffyn Siazzu - [9]
MR:: Viliaka Morasita - [7]
FC:: Lita Adjei - [7]
FC:: Kristofer Kilpter - [8]
Vilitan Subs Bench:
FC:: Nili Ylimaiina - [5]
M:: Jomur Hulyer - [6]

FC:: Yves Gadois - [DNP]
M:: Manolis Kontalroma - [DNP]
U:: Sipaao Vereaoao - [DNP]
D:: Ritopa Simafela - [DNP]
GK:: Jaqe Planst - [DNP]

Vilita Jungle Cats ::
[GK] Nycflala Kater, [D.] Miiara Makose, [D.] Kadi Molali, [D.] Endur Rotropii, [DM] Retiso Buran, [ML] Riksa Valjariia, [MC] Kiroki Mitaroka, [MC] Steffyn Siazzu, [MR] Viliaka Morasita, [FC] Lita Adjei, [FC] Kristofer Kilpter
BENCH::
[FC] Nili Ylimaiina, [FC] Yves Gadois, [M] Jomur Hulyer, [M] Manolis Kontalroma, [U] Sipaao Vereaoao, [D] Ritopa Simafela, [GK] Jaqe Planst

Vilita Substitutions::
(40) - Riksa Valjariia >>> Jomur Hulyer
(71) - Lita Adjei >>> Nili Ylimaiina

[Valanora]

Valanora Times
That Old Familiar Feeling

That could apply to many things this day as we enter the thick of it when it comes to the World Cup. It could reference that once more the Marauders have found their way to the quarterfinal stage, for what many consider the typical starting spot of the tournament for any Vanorian side. There is also the fact that the Marauders will once again face off against their regional opposition in Andossa Se Mitrin Vega, a side that the Marauders have a very good history against. There is also the fact that each of the matchups here in the quarterfinal stage pair a side against another side that have been cohosts of the tournament recently or are sides that have clashed many times in recent history. For everyone involved in this stage of the competition, there has to be a very odd sense of deja vu, with some clearly hoping for a different set of outcomes.

In this theme, the Marauders and Sea Dragons will be facing off again the quarterfinal stage, just like they did back in World Cup 61, but that is not the only repeat matchup from that stage of that tournament. Indeed, The Holy Empire will get to play cohosts once more just like they did four editions ago with Saugeais. For both the Sea Dragons and the Knights, they will be hoping to not see a repeat of history in this very interesting round of the tournament, as both were victims to the Frosticans and our own side. It is even more intriguing given that Saugeais would find themselves in the same position, given that they were the cohosts of that 61st edition of the World Cup.

What's more is that the cohosts from World Cup 59 are also in a tangle in the quarterfinals, as the Polarians look to stop a rampaging offensive barrage from Vilita. The Jungle Cats have gone through a trio of Rushmori nations and the other cohosts in Pasarga before toppling an Osarius side that just could not find their feet as a top tier side. Though they are not the only ones, with Starblaydia and Audioslavia missing from this stage of the competition. Indeed, of the the eight nations remaining in the tournament, only half of them are ranked in the top ten. While it is natural for a host side to get a boost, the inclusion of New Montreal States, Wight, and Vilita are all surprises which are bound to shake up the post World Cup rankings.

Thanks to the draw, one of those nations is guaranteed a spot in the semifinals, with New Montreal States and Wight, cohosts of the last edition for those of you who had decided to try and forget the last edition, are pitted against each. Indeed, it means that not only is a non top ten guaranteed a spot in the semifinals, but at least half of the semifinals will contend of Atlantian Oceania nations, with our own match meaning that AO will get that nice feather in its cap. While it is a neat statistic, you can be sure that the Valanora squad is not concerned with the AO pride contest against other regions, but on winning the title for Valanora and all of her citizens.

Which brings us back to our match with the Sea Dragons. If one were merely to go by ranks, the the Dragons would have us outmatched, as they have reached the illustrious status of the second best squad in the world after vying with Audioslavia in the last edition's Final, falling in extra time. They have rode that high like a knight rode his steed, with a sense of pride that comes with the elite. They are a hungry nation looking to capitalize on being the highest ranked nation left alive thanks to the string of upsets in these Finals, even going so far as to proclaim that this World Cup is theirs to win in their media. Perhaps they are right, they have a reason to believe so with the form they have been in and lusting for revenge and power.

What they do not have however is history on their side nor a legend like Laborious Hawk to lead their squad. While they have plenty of exceptional footballers, few in the entire footballing community can compare on equal footing to that of Hawk, with even those in the Dreamed Realm holding him to high regard. The ever present captain of the Marauders, soft spoken and quiet except when his words are needed, he has been ever the cutting edge that the Marauders have needed when push has to shove. It is wrong of the squad to ask so much of him and ask it again? It is hard to imagine the side without him or that it would have reached the heights it have had he never been discovered in Hondo's streets by Massimo.

It is his own personal quest for perfection that will be the tipping point in this gigantic clash of Atlantian Oceania powers, set in Rushmore, though a backdrop of domestic trouble brewing for the Sea Dragons. Valanora's allies in Starblaydia have seen to contest an expansion move by the Vegai government and it is unclear how much of a distraction that will be for their players. Knowing that they could return to their home that may be be preparing for war. Hawk and the rest of the Marauders do not have that trouble to contend with. Yet again, it proves that more that things change, the more they stay the same. With World Cup 62, when the Marauders won and cohosted with the Sea Dragons, there was regional tensions flaring. Perhaps all this reincarnation of settings is an omen or perhaps it is all chance. The only certainty is that when the whistle blows, two giants in the footballing community will begin a ninety minute quest for the right to the semifinals. May the best squad win.

[Saugeais]

I ain't got nothing for you this time. Serious mode engaged. Let's see who your semifinalists will be from the Pasarga region, shall we?

Scores

[Pasarga]

Who is going to be seeing red after tonight's matches?

Quarterfinals

[Andossa Se Mitrin Vega]

Valanora. Like a mighty mountain jutting from an unbroken plain, they stood before us barring our path. Since our return in the World Cup’s 50th edition, the Sea Dragons had faced the Marauders four times – and returned home empty handed on four occasions. Their attacking style and star-studded roster had become a puzzle that the Vegai simply could not figure out. And yet somehow the Sea Dragons entered the match against the greatest side in history feeling as if the tide had finally turned.

How this group led by Fylen and Cadye could feel to be the better side was something only they could know. Everyone else in the known NSverse looked over the Vanorian roster and lowered their heads in dismay at the Sea Dragon’s chances. Laborious Hawk. Espy va Drake. Aintôrthea Durosa. Faeron Soldarian. How in the world were the Vegai, unimpressive shadows by comparison, supposed to compete with such players? How were Xataru, Acaugu, Yseele, Panirii, and Kisurano realistically expected to mark such living legends and come away the victors. Quite possibly no one outside of the national squad believed it could be done. Yet 22 players and their staff believed it – and would eventually prove that they were right.

The match was played at Stadium of the Moon in Lunas and perhaps this was one of many signs that pointed to a Sea Dragon victory if one had been attuned to and believed in such things. With the local spiritual focus on the moon the Vegai and their Mother Star deity felt right at home. The cooler temperatures were also reminiscent of the Vegai capital. And yet perhaps the most telling omen was the local ritual walk from the pub know as the “Stalking Dragon” to the stadium. How much more perfectly could things be aligned?

Play itself began with a “business as usual” feel as both sides slowly began to feel each other out. The search for cracks in the opposing armor would consume most of the first half as wave after wave of Marauder attack was systematically repelled by the fluid wall of Sea Dragon defense. All was going as expected as the two previous meetings between the two sides had ended with the Marauders winning 1-0. The crowd of 84,000, split near even in opposing shades of blue, was raucous and ready to celebrate, a chance the fans in darker color received in the 39th minute as hawk fed the ball silky smooth to Allandren Fresco who had beaten Lyxat and quickly made short work of beating Sithias as well. The Vanorians exploded as they saw their side take the lead, something they had never relinquished to the Vegai in four previous meetings. And yet they would not celebrate long. As the half drew to a close the Sea Dragons launched a furious counter attack as Cadye pilfered the ball from Fresco and launched a bomb down the left side that found Yseele neatly in behind va Drake. The quick pass forward to Fylen was expected and challenged by Eleneth. But the defense forgot to mark Syrinici who gathered in the quick tap pass and launched a shot that easily beat Dart to pull the match even seconds before the half came to a close.

The second half would be defined by the sheer skill and will of Laborious Hawk. To everyone who had the pleasure to watch the math, it was clear that he was by far the best player on the pitch, if not in the world, and the Sea Dragons were scrambling to keep even. A task which seemed futile as they were pushed further and further into their own end. But for all the effort, the Marauders could not find the net as the defense somehow managed to hold.

Sometimes heroes are destined to be heroes from the beginning. Laborious Hawk is such. Sometimes heroes are made by the situations into which they are thrust. Situations in which they shine far brighter than anyone could have expected. Such was the case for the Sea Dragons as a pair of 67th minute substitutions would rise to the occasion and prove to be new Vegai heroes. Enter Laken Kim'athu and Ytiya Ny'kalu. Both women were solid players and battle tested and yet the expectations were relatively low as they came on simply to provide fresh legs to mark va Drake and Hawk. In retrospect the move will be seen as one of the most brilliant managerial decisions in World Cup History as the pair came on playing like there would be no tomorrow.

Va Drake in particular seemed to lose some ground as he was immediately harassed and harried, losing the ball to Ytiya more often than not. As va Drake struggled the Sea Dragons took advantage as Ytiya found Acaugu in the middle of the pitch. Inspired by the play of fiery reserves, he moved easily past Haelinde and rocketed a shot that smashed through the hands of Dart to give the Sea Dragons a 2-1 lead in the 79th minute.

The Marauders went into full blown attack mode with va Drake and Hawk inspired now to play at a whole new level. The Vegai were beaten back and scrambled to find defensive position to slow the onslaught. Sithias proved his worth in net as he stopped six shots in the next four minutes, shots that should have leveled the match. But the defense recovered enough to keep the Vanorians out of the net and it seemed as if perhaps the match might just be won by the Sea Dragons.

The last chance for the Marauders would come in the 88th minute as Cadye cleared a cross from Neltanta, awarding va Drake a corner. 84,000 fans held their breath as the corner was launched, each knowing just what this moment meant to both sides. Sithias came off his post and saw his hands beat the head of Hawk to the ball by less than a hair’s breadth. The punch sent the ball spinning down the pitch where Laken beat Durosa to gain possession. The fresher leg again showed themselves as the Vegai reserve quickly outdistanced herself from her adversary. Only Dart stood between her and the net as she sped down the middle of the pitch, tired players from both sides trailing after her. As she moved close enough for a shot, Dart made the only move that he could with so much exposed net to either side and closed hard on the ball. Laken’s shot was a complete mess as it was caught just off the grass and pounded downward. Luck was with her as Dart dived for the ball and just missed as it bounced over his outstretched hands and continued to bounce toward the goal. From out of nowhere Hawk sped in from the side in an attempt to clear the ball – an attempt that was less than a second too late as the ball crossed the goal just before he made contact. And that was it. The match was over.

The Vegai fans took their turn to explode as the Sea Dragons finally managed to move past the mighty Valanora 3-1.

Next up is a semifinal match with Polar Islandstates. This is a side we respect even if they are from Rushmore. We have only faced them once before as we advanced with a 4-2 extra time in the round of 16 during World Cup 59. Perhaps Maggie will shine on us once more.

[Alasdair I Frosticus]

The semifinals again.

Juan Tzimisces sighed; this was so often where he'd been caught out in the past trying to give rousing speeches to his squad in a bold attempt to carry them through to the final; a bad habit he was now trying to break.

Instead, he had simply sent the squad home after the usual round of training. "It's only Wight", he had said, before adding, quite truthfully, that "most of you have faced stranger things before, and I think it likely you'll face stranger things again"; at which point Susan Foreman had laughed and muttered something about 'Sensorites'. Tzimisces had decided he didn't need to know the details; not yet, anyway. In any case, he'd emphasised the need to relax and not get stressed, to which three members of the squad had quite reasonably pointed out that they were incapable of getting stressed, so they quite literally had nothing to worry about.

Whether that made Tzimisces feel any better about facing the Sondry Folk at football was another matter entirely, but then the Wightlings did rather seem far more obsessed about the Holy Empire than the Holy Empire did about a bunch of mundies, however exotic. He'd even heard rumours that some in Wight saw their second round victory over the Archregimancy as a means of giving the Basileus a 'bloody nose'. He laughed; as if the Basileus gave a winged polychrome rat's arse about the Sondry Folk anyway. Ah well, it wasn't really part of his job description to worry about Mundy obsessions so long as they weren't actively dangerous.

On the brighter side, the Saugeis result had at least proved that the team hadn't entirely forgotten to score, after an excruciating 210 minutes where the squad had gone without scoring a single goal; actually, make that 270, since it had taken Lethbridge-Stewart's 60th minute opener to finally break the deadlock, after which Yates' 75th minute goal had made the relief complete. He could still coach, and Simeone was still an able assistant; even with this motley assortment of oddities.

He allowed himself a moment to think of the bigger picture.

The neutron flow anomaly here in Saugeis had proven something of an anti-climax; removing the broadcasting station had been all that had been necessary to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow, and send Atlantian Oceania, Esportiva, and Rushmore back to their proper place in the spacial continuum. It had been all too easy.

But then the Physiotherapist seemed genuinely worried about this Omega; he'd said something about 'protecting the Eye of Harmony' which - if it meant what Tzimisces thought it meant - had far greater ramifications for the multiverse than this neutron flow problem.

But that was for another World Cup; for the here and now, he could enjoy another World Cup semifinal.

Whatever he thought about Wight's obsession with giving the Basileus a metaphorical bloody nose, at least matches against the Sondry Folk were always entertaining.

And even apparently ageless immortals of immense but subtle power don't usually object to being entertained.

[Wight]

.

[Polar Islandstates]

Prologue
The Concrete Museum
Accidents Will Happen
The Popular Peoples’ Front of Bjarnarey for the Bjarnese
Professor Know-Nothing
A Brief History Lesson
Boris, QC



Confrontation on the Floater

**
From the case notes of Wolfgang Lillehammer, PI

”Wolfgang?” asked Timo Skye incredulously, “Is that you?”

“Yes, it is. I’m fine, by the way” I said gruffly, attempting to pick myself up and get on my feet, brushing entire constellations of broken glass pellets from my shoulders as I did so, I looked around, noting with disdain that nobody had bothered to come to my aid, “No, don’t worry, it’s fine. I’ll get myself up.”

“But, what are you doing here?” continued Skye.

“Yeah, I’d clear off if I were you – they’ve taken to chaining people up around here.” interjected Ragnorak, gesturing with his handcuffed wrists as the rest of us tried to work out with narrowed eyes whether he was being serious or not.

“Well,” I said, brushing myself down and grimacing as I flexed a bruised knee, “I had a hunch about where you might be, so I came to investigate.”

“Through the window?!”

“Yeah, well, I had a hunch that the door might be, you know, locked. You being hostages an’ all…”

“Hell of a shot, though.” Noted Dima Koolhaas.

“Obviously I hadn’t expected to pretty much land on your laps like this,” I said, wincing as my shoulders and knees reminded me I was getting too old for this kind of thing, before gesturing at the surroundings and continuing, “How long have you been here, anyway?”

“Since we got taken from The Barge, pretty much. We were dragged out under the cover of those smoke bombs and then were taken straight here,” said Juliana Veneberg.

I looked around. All the hostages were there, and all were safe. They didn’t look particularly uncomfortable either. They must have had access to bathrooms, beds, meals, all that kind of thing, as there was no evidence of any meal detritus in the room, nor any grubby newspaper or anything like that. The room was small, but had enough space to contain the seven of us comfortably enough despite the lack of furnishings. Aside from the large hole in the wall where the window used to be that was caused by yours truly, there was no other source of light, and a distinct scent of mildew mixed with dense body odour filled the air. Despite their relative comfort, I guessed they hadn’t washed in a while. Timo Skye, Vauxhall Jansen, Dima Koolhaas, Magnus Ragnorak, Juliana Veneberg, and Ingeborg Newquay; all were safe. It was a relief. Particularly with the deadline for the safety of Newquay and Jansen just hours away.

“So you’ve just been, what, riding around on the Floater?” I pressed, “Nobody who works here has discovered you?”

“Nope,” sighed Koolhaas, “these must have been some out of use storerooms. There’ve been a fair few cutbacks ever since the digital media boom, you know, and we’ve never even come close to being discovered so far as I’m aware. Until you appeared through the window, of course.”

“Nobody’s been down here at all? Not even security?” I pressed, “Someone must be guarding you, surely?”

“Well, we assume so,” replied Veneberg.

“And you’ve not been tempted to just, make a lot of noise? Or put something up to the window, I mean,” I questioned, baffled, “you’re pretty much just touring the city, after all…”

“Not really, we’ve been warned against that kind of thing pretty vigourousy,” responded Ragnorak, pointing to a CCTV camera in a moment of unexpected lucidity, “they said they had ways of making sure we’re not up anything like that, and that we’d be punished pretty heavily if we did so.”

“Shit,” I said slowly, “so if they’ve got access to the Floater’s CCTV they’ll know I’m here?”

“Pretty much,” answered Newquay, “I assume whoever it is works here, or, knows someone who does.”

“Whoever it is?” I quoted, “You mean you don’t know who’s behind this?”

“’Fraid not,” chimed in Jansen, “the only people we see are balaclava-clad goons that bring us food, or lead us to the dormitory area. We share three beds between us, but we spend the days in here.”

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Playing I-Spy, mostly,” replied Ragnorak.

“So then,” I said, confused, “you mean to say you’ve got no idea why you’re here?”

“Well I don’t know about that,” answered Skye,” clearly we’re being used as leverage for some reason or other. Something about clearing out Little Wight, I gather, though I can’t say our Wightling friends here have been treated any different to the rest of us.”

“You haven’t?” I asked, beginning to sense all wasn’t what it seemed.

“Nope,” replied Newquay and Jansen in unison.

“In fact,” continued Jansen, “I’d put money on the ‘anti-Wightling’ stuff being bollocks, as I’ve been treated just fine, just like the others have. They’ve not even mentioned any kind of Wightling prejudice when dealing with us, which you’d assume would have come up a couple of times had they actually been driven by an all-powerful hatred of my people.”

“Aye, it’s true, they’ve not said much at all, really,” added Ragnorak without looking at me or anyone else, rather disconcertingly choosing to address one of the mould-ridden walls instead.

“So, how long will I have to wait until you get fed?” I asked, eager to confront one of the organisers of this kidnapping. At this point, even one of the henchmen would have satisfied me.

No sooner had the words left my mouth than there was a thump and a loud moan from the floor above.

“What was that?” asked Veneberg.

“It can’t have been any of our captors,” pondered Skye out loud, “we’ve not long had the last meal taken away.”

“Printing presses starting up again?” suggested Koolhaas.

“They don’t go to print til the evening, though, I’ve been here before,” continued Skye, “besides, you ever heard a printing press moan like that?”

I worried for a moment, thinking of the CCTV camera, then twigged.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, that’ll be Boris.” I explained.

“Boris?” asked Jansen.

“Yeah, Boris. He’s an, umm, associate, of mine…”

“An associate?” asked Skye, hurt.

“General dogsbody and informer,” I hastened to clarify, “he’s no sidekick.”

Satisfied with the answer, Skye smiled, his ego sated for the time being. Emphasis on ‘for the time being’.

The thumping above us started moving. Chatter was heard between individuals.

“Are you sure that’s your associate?” asked Newquay, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“Pretty sure, why?”

“Well, who’s he talking to, for a start?”

“Could be anyone, it’s Boris. Why, does it matter?”

“We’d always assumed that the floor above is where our captors had been staying,” said Koolhaas slowly, “so, quite possibly, yes.”

This news unsettled me, but I passed it on to the back of my mind and tried to pass it off as misinformation. It had to be. Boris had landed on the deck above me, right? Rather than crashing through the window like I had. Hadn’t he?

I’d soon find out. The approaching sound of footsteps creaking on the stairs outside the walls of the room reverberated, well, around the walls of the room. I looked at Koolhaas. He looked at me. For a second, I thought I was wrong.

And then in stepped a short fat man squeezed into an unsuitably formal piece of clothing. I formed my facial muscles around the words ‘ha, I told you so’, but my breath stuck in my throat. Against all the odds, there were apparently two short fart men squeezed into unsuitably formal outfits in Bjarnarey that day.

“You?” I gasped.

I recognised him immediately. Tiny black, supercilious eyes looked back at me from their mounting in a mass of blubbery flesh. A slick film of sweat covered his exposed skin, as the exertion of even going down one flight of stairs left him gasping for breath. A choppy shock of dirty blonde hair barely covered his dome-like scalp, and even at a distance his halitosis was noticeable. He sneered, and the image was complete.

Artur Poplaberg. The heir to the Poplaberg fortune, and the host and financial backer of the party at the concrete library.

“Yes, me,” he responded with a bark, “took you long enough to figure it out, Mr So-Called-Detective.”

“Actually, his name is Wolfgang.” said Ragnorak, rather unnecessarily and with an air of haughty derision that at no point in his life has that man ever deserved.

Wisely, Poplaberg chose to ignore this outburst, and instead fixed me with a steely gaze.

“Well, Lillehammer? Figured it out?”

“Uhh…” I started, my brain trying desperately to figure out what the clues I had so far would mean, “…something that required research on your part?”

“…well, shit,” snorted Poplaberg with a ripple of fat that worked its way up and down his figure at least three times before stopping, “can’t you do any better than that? I thought you were supposed to be clever, Lillehammer. You sunk the Old Mayoral Building, after all.”

Of course, his Christiansen fixation, there had to be something in that. I decided to improvise.

“You researched historical locations of old Christiansen buildings, and you want to get your hands on it. You don’t strike me as a xenophobe, your father’s business empire is built upon the labour of immigrants, so I’m guessing the bid to get the people to leave Little Wight means that’s where you’ve found one of the buildings in your research?” I said, rather making it up as I went along, hoping it’d stick.

“Hmm, not bad,” conceded Poplaberg.

Well, if you throw enough shit…

“But do you know why I want that building in particular?” pressed Poplaberg.

I considered risking it, but didn’t trust my luck not to run out, and merely shrugged in response as the hostages backed away slowly, nervous.

“Ever since I was a boy it has been my dream to uncover the legendary gold of Sveine Bjarne!” continued Poplaberg, rather dramatically.

“Gold…” I muttered, “why is it always gold?”

“Quiet you,” he snapped, “if you don’t know what I’m talking about then you wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have a dream! Years I’ve been researching this stuff, years! Without any friends or siblings whilst my father worked at the business I had nothing to occupy myself. I needed a hobby. It became local history. For decades now I’ve been friends with Aalesund the younger, working hard on Christiansen buildings and completely and blissfully unaware of the work his brother was doing in these very islands on the whereabouts of the gold.”

I looked at Koolhaas and Skye and raised an eyebrow. Poplaberg was in fully blown ‘evil supervillain giving away the plot’ mode.

“So you can imagine the glee, the sheer joy, the utter exuberance I felt,” continued Poplaberg, clenching his fist in celebration and completely unaware of how cliched he sounded, “when we realised that all rumours, all myths, all trails gone cold and then found again, were leading to the undeniable conclusion that if the gold exists, it’s in the basement of a Christiansen building.”

“Uh-oh…”

“I know!” he rambled, “talk about a coincidence!”

“Let me guess,” interrupted Newquay, “in Little Wight. Hence the threats.”

“Indeed!” crowed Poplaberg triumphantly, rather more pleased with himself than he had any right to be, given it was the Aalesund brothers who’d done all the research. “So, as Plan B, I kidnapped the lot of you and tried to get rid of the people of Little Wight so I could excavate at will, looking for the old sunken Little Wight Community Centre.”

“Wait, ‘Plan B’?” I queried. The words had run through me like ice. If a man could happily stage an armed kidnapping, even postponing it a night for maximum impact, and then keep them hostage and attempt to instigate a xenophobic witch-hunt all in the name of a gold rush and still only consider that ‘Plan B’, then what on earth was ‘Plan A’?

“Yes, that’s right, Plan B.” he confirmed, “you think I want to waste hours upon hours of work just diving willy-nilly all the time for a building I don’t know the whereabouts of? Only a madman would do that.”

Once again, I looked at Koolhaas and Skye and raised an eyebrow.

“No, only as a last resort would I go for that, but I had to make sure I had the option. Hence the attempt at extortion and getting the Wightlings out of there. It was a bluff, and you largely called it. I have to deal with that.” said Poplaberg, “but fortunately, I have my Plan A.”

“Which is?” asked Veneberg.

“Well, getting the precise map from Aalesund, of course! That way I’ll know exactly where I’m going, and you lot would all be free to go.”

“…and are you getting it?” asked Skye, rubbing the cuffs on his wrists.

“Of course!” laughed Poplaberg, “one of my men is on his way here right now!”

The hostages breathed a sigh of relief. I looked at Skye as we felt the Floater wheel around a corner in the Norscanal.

“Except you can’t go now, obviously.” said Poplaberg, flatly.

“But, but, you just said…” stammered the young Jensen, confused.

“Yeah, but that was before your saviour Lillehammer here co-erced the plan out of me.” chuckled Poplaberg.

“You hardly needed much encouragement, Artur,” I said, rolling my eyes, when we were interrupted by the presence of another man in the room.

I recognised him as a journalist with the Floater. Of course. Who better to sneak around the city and ask awkward questions in the city without raising any eyebrows than a journalist. He handed Poplaberg a piece of paper.

“Sir,” he said, slightly out of breath, “intercepted from Professor Aalesund, as you asked. The location of the Christiansen building in Little Wight.”

“Ha!” shouted Poplaberg as the journalist-cum-criminal-henchman made his way back up the stairs, “you see?! You see!! I’ve got it! It’s mine!”

We watched as he held the map aloft. Sure enough, on the curiously familiar looking lilac tinted piece of paper was a map of Bjarnarey, with a big fat black cross on the border of the shale island and Little Wight, circled in red, and labelled with a word I couldn’t quite pick out.

“Ha, he’s got a nerve,” continued Poplaberg, “think he can double cross me, does he? Well he can’t have it…”

“Not so fast!” said a new voice, interrupting this latest confusing outburst from Poplaberg.

I looked up, hopeful. None other than Officer Kolberg thundered down the wooden stairs and appeared in the doorway behind Poplaberg, barely visible behind his rotund mass.

“You?!” exclaimed Poplaberg, “how did you find me?”

“We bugged Wolfgang,” she said sternly.

“Hey!” I interjected. “Civil rights, et cetera…”

“Sorry Wolfgang,” she said apologetically, “means to an end and all that. We heard everything, Poplaberg. Give me the map, you’re going nowhere. Artur Poplaberg, I am arresting you for th-…”

“I don’t think so,” said Poplaberg, wheeling around and pulling a gun from his top pocket, “I think you’ll find it’s you who’s going nowhere.”

Kolberg looked at the gun nervously. As did I. As did the hostages. By the looks of it, Kolberg and her support wouldn’t have considered the possibility that the guy would be armed.

“Artur,” she said slowly, hands in the air, “think about what you’re doing. We’ve already impounded your recovery ship, and we’re stopping the Floater at the next bend…”

“Well then,” snarled Poplaberg, an air of desperation entering his voice, “I’ll just have to steal another one, won’t I?”

He gestured with the gun, and Kolberg did as she was told, entering the room as he rotated around her. He chuckled, smiled another ugly smile as he realised he had us all where he wanted us, and locked the door.

“So long, guys, I’ll send you a postcard from Navel!” he shouted, and we heard his heavy footsteps bound up the stairs, wooden planks creaking in protest at every step.

Immediately, Kolberg and I ran to the door, attempting to use our shoulders to barge it open in order to give pursuit. Nothing doing. It was stuck fast.

“Now what?” asked Kolberg.

“You didn’t bring a radio?!” I asked, slightly out of breath. Kolberg shrugged, looking slightly foolish. “Well where are your colleagues? Surely they’re on the way?”

I looked up as the unmistakable sound of a speedboat making itself away from the Floater filled the twilight air. It was looking like we’d ran out of time.

“At some point, yeah,” she confirmed, “but you know what flatfoots are like. Slowpokes.”

I looked around at the hostages. If they hadn’t worked out how to get out of there so far, they were unlikely to help now, but I needed to get out. There was some nutter about to steal a very big and very heavy boat out there, about to sail into one of the most densely populated areas of the city. He was wild with passion for his task, at the risk of taking whatever chances it took to get to Bjarne’s gold, and that would make for a potentially lethal combination if nobody stopped him.

Things felt desperate.

Suddenly, there were more footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, ponderous footsteps. I looked at Kolberg. The key unlocked slowly in the door. Kolberg looked at me. The door swung open.

“How the hell did you land through that window?” asked the man on the other side.

“Boris!” I exclaimed, rushing towards him with Kolberg, “Thank you for introducing me to an entirely new feeling; being genuinely pleased to see you.”

Slightly taken aback, Boris said nothing, but blinked in response.

“Listen,” said Kolberg, “see to it that these hostages are set free safely, will you? Wolfgang and I have a madman to stop…”

And we both rushed up the narrow wooden staircase, out onto the top deck of the Floater, and into the Bjarnese twilight. Time to stop Poplaberg.


The story will continue in Pursuit

[Polar Islandstates]

Oh, happy day!

I think I'll say that again.

Oh, happy day!

We're through! We made it! We're past the overhanging duck of the quarter final appearance for the first time since we finished third all the way back in World Cup 57, and at long last we're through to another semi-final. Which, of course, does have the unfortunate consequence that we now have to face another overhanging duck in that in two attempts we've never won a World Cup semi-final. But, you know, first things first; the match.

Vilita didn't make it easy, we knew that much would be true before the game. What followed during the game however, was another perfect execution of Morten Rasmussen's tried and tested defensive formation. With East Franz Athletic team-mates Oyen-Spekke and Kilpter near enough cancelling each other out down our left-centre, the main threat in the early proceedings came through the ever-dangerous Adjei, who had the measure of Rovanpera in their first battles. Two shots stung the palms of Kirilaunen before the defence tightened up, with the goalkeeper growing in stature every match and telling his defence just what he thought of the amount of protection they were giving him at first.

The team responded to his verbal bombardment before it was too late however, and with Kungas-Vaga and Petersen finding plenty of space to advance into down the flanks, the defence found themselves bolstered by the hanging back figure of Eyvindur Sudesval, who once again had a blinding game. For me, his was the man of the match performance in the centre of the park, being the lynchpin that the Terns revolved around, fighting for every ball, and always providing an outlet. He just seems to read the game so well, and knows where to be at any time. Switching to what was effectively a three-man central defence when the Terns were in possession, the extra width achieved through the wing-backs' presence in the attacks allowed the midfield to begin to play around with pulling the Vilitans this way and that, that way and this, until they eventually reached breaking point in the thirty-fifth minute.

A period of patient attacking possession saw the Terns find themselves outnumbered at the back, and when a long ball up towards Adjei seemed to have the entire team cut out it was only the sharp game-reading of Sudesval who was able to intercept and ping the ball right back up the pitch again. Collecting the ball on his chest, Alexsandr van Sorensen rolled around the challenge of Kiroki Mitaroka and slipped the ball through to Villeneuve. His one-two with Illich-Svitych on the edge of the box lead to the Northbrook midfielder wrong-footing Makose and Molali with a dummied pass to the rapidly approaching Saarinen. With the Jungle Cat defenders struggling to regain their balance and return their momentum to the correct direction, Villeneuve was able to take the time to put the ball onto his preferred left, and deftly sidefoot the ball around the dive of Kater and into the back of the net.

From there on in, it was time to batten down the hatches.

As predicted before the game, the Jungle Cats attack was in full fluid flow after the break, and the nerves of Oyen-Spekke and Rovanpera were tested several times. Wien replaced Rovanpera on the hour mark as a precaution after an uncharacteristically early touch of cramp for the Axel Heiburg defender, with Lillehammer replacing the goalscorer Villeneuve not long after that to add another defensive presence in the midfield and flood the park with a literal line of bodies that the Vilitans would struggle to get through. With van Sorensen dropping deeper and deeper, Rasmussen pulled him off in favour of Anders Ekman, pushing Cornelius up in more direct support of the now deeper Illich-Svitych with Saarinen acting as a lone target man, and it was Ekman who became the beating heart of the side. Always looking for the pass out wide to the full-backs, his short accurate passing got the Terns out of many sticky situations in the second half, truly, his was a performance to be proud of.

The Jungle Cats began to tire late on, as the Terns' natural stamina began to come into play just a little, though that didn't stop them from rattling Polarian nerves and Kirilaunen's crossbar in the eightieth minute when Kristofer Kilpter lost his marker in the box as we've seen him do so often in Divisjon One and launch a powerful header past the despairing palm of the goalkeeper. Fortunately for us, the bar bounced off the bar and onto the feet of Dima Petersen, who wasted no time in hoofing it to safety.

That was the last meaningful attack that the Jungle Cats could muster, and though they recorded a handful more shots of target before the referee blew the whistle for the end of the match, they were mainly from long distance, and easily dealt with by Kirilaunen.

Half the Terns collapsed at the final whistle, and those that didn't collapse turned and jumped into the excited onrushing figures from the substitutes bench, who had been forced to watch the tense second half helplessly from the sidelines. A World Cup semi-final awaited, and a long overdue one at that. Our opponents? Andossa Se Mitrin Vega, who beat Valanora for the privilege.

What do we know about them, then?

Well, like Vilita, they come from AO, and, again like Vilita, we have a mixed record against them. Beating them in one Brevity Cup match when Ackermann-Finn scored the only goal of the match (yes, that long ago), they got their revenge not long after in another edition of the same tournament by hammering us four-one. In our most meaningful match to date however, we drew in normal time, only to see the Terns knocked out by the Sea Dragons on penalties. The crushing part was that that was at Axel Torvig Park, in our own hosted World Cup, in the second round.

Clearly, this is a defeat that still needs exorcising.

They'll be hard to beat, utilising a defensive 'Tidal Surge' formation that is more reserved than ours, and was once the ultra-defensive style of play that Joachim Schwartz modelled his tactical preferences after. A distant memory now, Schwartz's time of deadly dull matches is gone, but Rasmussen has retained a part of the spirit that saw the Tidal Surge used as a blueprint for early Pythagorean iterations - the utilisation of several flexible players that change role according to phase of play, for example.

So, it's going to be an intensely tactical game, as Rasmussen pits his wits against his counterpart, Pygan Ust'dar. Jonasei Ariq’Alara is long gone, but the equally capable Fylen Kel'tas and Syrinici Tia'bel will likely be a handful and a half at the back for Oyen-Spekke and Rovanpera, and I'd expect to see Kirilaunen called into action fairly early on. Acaugu Eld'mosu scored a powerful goal for the Sea Dragons against Valanora in their previous match, and he'll be hard work for Sudesval to contain.

At the back, Panirii Ther'tai and Lyxat Im'untu will provide he main obstacles for Saarinen and Illich-Svitych, though with his qualities I'd expect to see Kolehmainen brought on before too long to test the waters.

The Vegai are the highest ranked team left in the competition since Audioslavia's exit in the group stages, and even though Vilita's victory over Osarius shows that rankings are just numbers that can easily be overcome at this stage of a tournament, its still indicative of the fact that they're a quality side and will have had to earn that rank in the first place. This will be no cakewalk. This will be the tensest ninety minutes you'll have watched all cycle. This will be the biggest threat to the Tern's unbeaten record this cycle that they've yet had. This will be difficult, and if we want to advance into our first ever World Cup final, we're going to have to bring our best game possible.

Andossa Se Mitrin Vega are chasing their second successive final appearance, and they will be itching to go one better than the second place they achieved last time around. Morten Rasmussen and Steffan Pekarik have done their work. They've done their preparation, and now it's up to the players to do their bit. Alexsandr van Sorensen, Julius Oyen-Spekke, Kohev Kungas-Vaga, Iulian Kirilaunen, Felix Saarinen, Jean-Eric Villeneuve, and all the rest of you. It's up to you now; do us proud. Do us proud, and we'll sing our hearts out for you in the stands. We'll do our bit.

What's more, both teams will be playing with the memory of former coaches that have recently passed away. They'll be wanting to win it in memory of Mace, and we'll be wanting to win it in memory of Yarbin. It's going to be emotional, but just imagine if we won, guys. Just imagine...

Per Tenebras ad Lucem.

Eff out.

xx

[Saugeais]

One team will play for ultimate glory. The other, a less shiny, more bronze-ish glory. Cutoff for the first semi final match is right now!

Semi Final #1

[Pasarga]

Who is going to reach higher ground?

Semifinal

[Alasdair I Frosticus]

Dear Mr. Booah,

Thank you for your recent letter to the Basileus stating that Wight's 4-2 victory over the Holy Empire (which you insist on referring to throughout as 'your asylum') and "your stooge Tzimisces" proves that His Imperial Majesty's mother was "a gerbil", that his father "smelled of gooseberries", and that you "blow raspberries" in his Imperial Majesty's "general direction".

Alas, who did you say you were again - and why precisely should His Imperial Majesty care? This information was not wholly clear from your charming, if gramatically erratic, missive.

Please also note that there were several instances of misplaced possessive apostrophes within your letter, and that you misspelled both 'Glimmung' and 'Heldscalla'.

As to the F-text of the Codex Frosticus, we're unsure of the identity of the document you claim to own, but we can assure you that Mr. Tzimisces deposited the authentic F-text within the rare manuscript room of the Imperial Library following a recent trip (as judged by your timeline) to Ordinary Reality.

His Imperial Majesty is regrettably a very busy man, so your letter has not been forwarded to the Imperial Palace for his personal perusal; but I have been authorised to write this reply on behalf of His Majesty, though not in his name.

Sincerely Yours,

Jose Vatatzes
Fifth Junior Trainee Intern to the 17th Sub-Junior Undersecretary of the Lesser Red Inkwell

[Miskatonic University]

Futility 101, B_uA in Futilitarian Studies
Room 23, Faculty of UnHumanities, Black Mass College, Miskatonic University.

Dear Mr. Booah,

Thank you for your recent letter to the Basileus stating that Wight's 4-2 victory over the Holy Empire (which you insist on referring to throughout as 'your asylum') and "your stooge Tzimisces" proves that His Imperial Majesty's mother was "a gerbil", that his father "smelled of gooseberries", and that you "blow raspberries" in his Imperial Majesty's "general direction".

Alas, who did you say you were again - and why precisely should His Imperial Majesty care? This information was not wholly clear from your charming, if gramatically erratic, missive.

Please also note that there were several instances of misplaced possessive apostrophes within your letter, and that you misspelled both 'Glimmung' and 'Heldscalla'.

As to the F-text of the Codex Frosticus, we're unsure of the identity of the document you claim to own, but we can assure you that Mr. Tzimisces deposited the authentic F-text within the rare manuscript room of the Imperial Library following a recent trip (as judged by your timeline) to Ordinary Reality.

His Imperial Majesty is regrettably a very busy man, so your letter has not been forwarded to the Imperial Palace for his personal perusal; but I have been authorised to write this reply on behalf of His Majesty, though not in his name.

Sincerely Yours,

Jose Vatatzes
Fifth Junior Trainee Intern to the 17th Sub-Junior Undersecretary of the Lesser Red Inkwell

Professor Aquinas held up the letter at the end of his lecture to the first-year undergrads. The projector was displaying an enlarged version, for the benefit of latecomers and slackers in the back rows of the lecture theatre. "Comments please..."

Several hands were raised, tentatively. The Professor named his contributors, one at a time, largely without engaging in further dialogue.

Polyeides: "He misspelled 'grammatically'. Which, given the context of the comment..."

Osprey: "I think it's fair enough. We give them a football lesson, they return the compliment with a spelling lesson. And gramar critique."

Palatine: "Did you mean -"

The Professor: "I think it was deliberate, Palatine."

Brussony: "Pique. |pēk| ORIGIN mid 16th cent. (denoting animosity): from French piquer ‘prick, irritate.’"

St. Mawgan: "I wonder if this Jose Vatatzes wrote the letter unauthorised?"

Trudgain: "I think it was probably dictated directly from the two-headed beast himself. After all, he's hardly going to admit being piqued by a bunch of ragged Wightlings, is he?"

Osprey: "Or thrashed, for that matter."

[general laughter] The Professor: "Alright, alright, thank you, calm down." [/general laughter] "Let's not fall into jingoism, this is an academic space."

Sridhar: "I note your correct use of the apostrophe, Professor. I could hear it in your tone."

Sachitano: "The name Jose Vatatzes is familiar, Professor. Would I be right in thinking we've heard of him before? I can't place him, but..."

The Professor: "Anyone?"

Bonaux: "Wasn't he caught with the choir boy in the apse? And gently admonished?"

Michaelstow: "That's right (apostrophe included, deliberately), and then removed quietly from the community, while the choir boy was ex-communicated or something."

Archilus: "And now hes promoted to the Lesser Red Inkwell."

Palatine: "Did you mean -"

Archilus: "Whoops, sorry, yes, I meant, now he's promoted to the Lesser Red Inkwell"

The Professor: "Very good Bonaux, Michaelstow. Final analysis?"

Osprey: "Yes. Us, and not them."

The Professor: "Quite."

[Saugeais]

Just came back from playing a few pickups sets of tennis, trying to get my Andy Roddick on. Actually, I was more like his fourth cousin Frankie Roddick.

But back to the matter at hand, the third place match is upon us. Bronze medals for one, diddly squat for the other.

Score

[Polar Islandstates]

OOC: Sincere apologies for the size of this... beast. As you probably guessed from the amount of RP-less MDs this cycle, there have been plenty of times where I've not been able to finish and post a started chapter of this RP, and consequently the ned to conclude it neatly has sort of crept up on me. I was going to sit on this until such time as I finished the upcoming Effed RP that is coming up later, but I decided to post it now and give the hosts a chance.


Prologue
The Concrete Museum
Accidents Will Happen
The Popular Peoples’ Front of Bjarnarey for the Bjarnese
Professor Know-Nothing
A Brief History Lesson
Boris, QC
Confrontation on the Floater




Pursuit

**
From the case notes of Wolfgang Lillehammer, PI

We reached the top deck of the Floater just as the first of the police boats were mooring up. Kolberg immediately hopped in the nippiest looking one, grabbing the rope from the bemused flatfoot as she did so. I followed dutifully, keeping my eye out for trails leading away from the floating newspaper offices that might indicate the direction Poplaberg would have taken.

“There,” I shouted, pointing at a faint white trail of churned up water that lead between rows of rocking buildings, “he must have gone that way!”

“To the docks?” exclaimed Kolberg over the sound of the boat as she fired up the powerful engine, “But I already told him we’ve impounded his boat?”

“Yeah, but this is Poplaberg,” I yelled back as she wheeled us away from the Floater and down the canal, “he’s armed, and he’s capable of hiring goons to kidnap six people as a backup plan – I don’t think we need to worry that he’s up to no good.”

Kolberg didn’t answer, but nodded as the cold air whipped around us. I’d travelled in Bjarnarey by boat thousands of times, but very rarely at speeds like that. Strictly speaking, only police boats have the license to go waltzing past the speed limit like we were doing right that minute. With the changing nature of the Bjarnarey waterline on a daily basis it rarely pays for people to break the speed limit, and in fact the limit had even been lowered a few years ago following a series of unfortunate incidents involving the removal and relocation of a five storey block of flats onto a prominent Norscanal corner. Fortunately, Kolberg was not only a pro-driver, but had the up to date police maps of building whereabouts in the city.

Not that this made for any less of a terrifying ride. Rope bridge, docks, pontoons, piers; all went flashing by the in the blink of an eye as we weaved our way through the narrow side-canals rather than take the longer route of the nonetheless safer Norscanal. At that time of evening it should have been quiet, but instead Kolberg opted to continue racing down the narrowest of channels, scraping the side of the boat off a mooring’s railing in a hail of blue sparks. I gritted my teeth and held on for dear life as she engaged the engine again, whipping the wheel around with the calmness of a veteran driver. The already cold air transformed into the coldest of arctic blasts at that speed; a wall of ice that our faces were being grimly pushed through. Lights from the higgledy-piggledy houses of Bjarnarey raced past my eyes, their un-metered tick, tick, tick giving the impression of a music video that had lost all sense of rhythm.

With a roar, the haughty purr of the engine noise reverberated off the wooden walls around us, siren wailing its discordant chime as a brief warning to anyone who might have been around a corner. Like some kind of ghastly television cliché, a pile of wooden packing cases had slipped from their precarious position on a series of bollards ahead of us, with a couple of them bobbing innocently in the water. No problem for Kolberg however, who could sense the docks, and therefore Poplaberg, were close. Setting her jaw, she accelerated, finding an extra reserve of power that I didn’t know the boat even had, and we powered through the boxes, shattering them at a speed that gave me splinters from the very air itself. Ducking a flying fragment of wood, Kolberg turned the wheel violently, and we disappeared down a channel I didn’t know existed, and can’t have been there long.

Suddenly, the echoes fell away and we burst from an effective alleyway into the wide-open space of the docks. From squeezing through channels two neighbours on opposing sides could have shaken hands over, we were now arcing a path through the open waters of the Docklands, dwarfed by some of the colossal ships that were now surrounding us. It was quite the juxtaposition.

She slowed down, and turned to speak to me.

“That’s Poplaberg’s boat, there,” she said, pointing to a yellow and red emblazoned converted fishing trawler, “we’ve got armed police on it already though, I can’t see him trying his luck there, not without his goons.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, turning to wave sarcastically as a bunch of men in handcuffs were being led onto a police barge in front of us, “looks like your guys have found most of them already.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Kolberg without ever actually sounding like it, “but I’d rather find Poplaberg himself, if possible.”

I nodded and patted her on the shoulder. No more talking. Sat behind her, I scanned the quays and endless mooring points of the Bjarnarey Docklands for evidence of the psychotically driven and possibly delusional treasure hunter on any of its piers or walkways, but could see nothing.

Not that this actually meant Poplaberg wasn’t there. Bjarnarey’s docklands grew organically from the original mooring points, and they had never bothered to organise themselves or restructure into a calm and hierarchical docking system like in the other main commercial ports. The Sokhorosk Linii warehouses backed onto individual fishermen’s docking areas, whilst the fishmarket at the other end of the docks was bordered directly by the pleasure cruisers of the Bjarnese elite. Somewhere amongst the rabble, the navy, icebreakers, and lifeguards found space for their own moorings, whilst the police and the port authority were left to cling to whatever dockside real estate they could muster.

We sailed between two container ships, one leaving, the other docked, and trying our luck sailed directly across the path of the tugs pulling the monstrous Redsea craft out of the docks, and our views of all of the docks was obscured for a moment. If Poplaberg had gone to ground in that lot, we didn’t stand a chance of finding him – not if we were acting on our own.

“Any sign?” I shouted.

“Nothing,” called Kolberg back without looking at me, “let’s do another circuit.”

Our entire search depended on Poplaberg sticking to his promise to go and find Sveine Bjarne’s treasure in whatever boat he could find. In the heat of the moment, he’d been mad enough and crazed enough to it, of that I had no doubt, but in the journey to the docklands had he perhaps lost his nerve? Port authority boats started patrolling the docks, as did other police boats. Clearly, the word had gotten out at what we were up to, and we now had help. All the same, if Poplaberg had gone elsewhere, or hidden, I doubted we’d uncover him.

“Perhaps we were wrong to assume that that trail of white surf was a sign of him heading to the docklands,” I suggested to Kolberg, thinking out loud, “perhaps we should have followed him, rather than taking the shortcuts to his assumed destination.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded, before freezing in mid-breath and excitedly applying the throttle once more, “or perhaps you’re wrong to worry, and we were right all along! Look!”

Following her outstretched finger with my eyes, I saw what she was getting at. A small fishing trawler clad in a sort of dirty green colour was on the move on the opposite side of the docks, backlit by the dock floodlights. At this time of tide, that would be an extremely unusual move by any fisher captain of a craft of that size, and when you added to that the large silhouette in the bridge window it didn’t take a genius to add two and two together. Already aware that Kolberg wouldn’t be able to hear me over the din of the rapidly accelerating police boat, I patted her on the shoulder excitedly and crouched up in the boat, thrilled by the adrenaline of the chase. I looked around for a radio to alert the other boats in the docks, but there didn’t appear to be one in the boat. Did these police never travel with a means of contacting each other?

The trawler had a headstart on us. A significant one. Those things would never be able to match the police boat for speed, but what they lacked in straight line knottage and manoeuvrability they more than made up for in mass and momentum. Poplaberg’s headstart told, and despite Kolberg’s gifted efforts with the speedboat, we were unable to reach him before he turned into the canals that led towards Little Wight.

Stuck behind him, siren blaring, Kolberg grew frustrated as the width of the canal left no space for us to overtake or pull alongside. She made a gesture to me, indicating that I should think about climbing up onto the boat and confront Poplaberg, but I didn’t fancy it. For one, he had a gun, and for another, there was no way I was walking down the bow of the speedboat to try and climb the sheer back walls of the trawler’s superstructure. The grubby name Camella bore down on us, stencilled in foot-high letters on the back of the trawler. The Camella was proving a worthy adversary so far.

Wielding her like a battering ram, Poplaberg was turning and twisting his way through the narrow canals that approached Little Wight, forcing other vessels off the main canal and into small inlets, and just barging through any piers that stuck out into the main passage of water like they were toothpicks. I thought about what would happen when we got to Little Wight with a worried expression on my face; even by Bjarnese standards the canals of Little Wight were unusually tight and twister, with only enough space for kayaks in many instances. Poplaberg was showing no signs of respect to personal property in his pursuit of his childhood dream, and I was concerned that lives would be lost if he was to just start driving through overhanging buildings willy-nilly. Certainly, the Camella looked built enough to handle that kind of impact as many times as you wanted, and Poplaberg was getting some impressive speeds from her.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

The hits kept coming, and the Camella kept going. Canals, piers, bridges, and pontoons rushed past as we pursued the lumbering mass of the small trawler, which now looked huge in contrast to its surroundings.

A foghorn blasted from the bridge of the trawler, accompanied by an expulsion of horrific smelling gas that vented from the exhausts in front of us. Choking slightly, Kolberg dropped back in her pursuit. Certainly, there was no need to follow so closely if we weren’t going to be climbing aboard – anybody would have been able to track that kind of destruction with their eyes shut. A piece of wooden detritus resurfaced in front of us, and Kolberg slowed suddenly to avoid hitting it. The wooden mess was unrecognisable as a part of whatever it had been a part of, but it did give me an opportunity to suggest something to Kolberg without having to strain my vocal chords to do so.

“Kolberg,” I yelled, grabbing her attention with a wave of my hand in front of her face, “could you get me up alongside? He’s going to kill somebody at this rate.”

“Alongside?” she asked in a puzzled manner, her brain rather more preoccupied with getting the prow pointing in the right direction again, “Why would you want to get alongside?”

“I reckon I can climb up from there,” I clarified, “I wouldn’t be able to do anything from behind it.”

“Well, I’m not sure there’s enough space to get alongside that thing, you know?” she replied, keeping a safe distance from the rampaging path the Camella was cutting for herself through the canals.

“Fine, then take the side canals,” I suggested, “get me ahead of where she’s headed, and I’ll climb a building and jump on.”

“Jump?!” she exclaimed, “Have you got a deathwish?”

“Just do it,” I shouted back with urgency.

Kolberg shrugged, and then spun the wheel, taking us down a small side-canal. After a second or two to think about it, she’d clearly reasoned that without backup, that was the best plan for all concerned. Weaving and bobbing between the buildings, I was impressed with her knowledge of the Little Wight canals. Clearly, she’d done her research and was well up to date. The sounds of roaring engines and splintering wood reached us off to the right, it certainly wasn’t going to be hard to keep track of where Poplaberg was with the Camella. Opening the throttle, we raced down one of the few long and straight channels in the district, zooming underneath bridges and whizzing past balconies and walkways. I ducked instinctively as Kolberg whipped the wheel around and guided us back to the main canal.

It had worked. Off in the distance, we could see the tip of the Camella’s mast sticking over the top of some soon-to-be-rattled buildings. With no canals large enough to even consider taking the mass and breadth of the Camella between there and here, Poplaberg would have no choice but to force his way down his current path towards us.

I pointed to a nearby building that looked climbable, some kind of clock tower by the looks of it, and Kolberg pulled up alongside the pontoon directly adjacent. I hopped out, and was about to ask Kolberg to wish me luck, when a crackling sound from the dashboard of the speedboat caught us both by surprise.

“KZZZH, Kolberg, is that you? KZZZZH”

To say we both jumped would be an understatement.

“Thor’s beard where the hell did th-… hello? This is Kolberg?” offered my companion, leaning hesitantly towards the dashboard.”

“KZZZH, Kolberg, if that’s you, press the red button to talk. KZZZH”

“Oh, erm, hello? Kolberg here.” she said officiously, locating and pressing the button.

“KZZZZH, what’s your position, over? KZZZH”

“We are in pursuit of Poplarberg, he is aboard the trawler Camella, and racing through Little Wight. Attempting an intervention. Over?”

“KZZZH, negative, negative, do not risk it, wait for back-up. Over. KZZZH”

“What? Why? We’re right on top of him.” said Kolberg, looking to me with confusion written all over her face. I glanced in the direction of the rapidly approaching noise. A little too close, for my liking.

“KZZZH, new evidence has come to light, we need to examine it. Over. KZZZH”

“What new evidence?”

“KZZZZH, we intercepted Professor Aalesund on his way to the Floater. He was holding a map to a location in Little Wight, on the south end. We are preparing a trap. Let Poplaberg move into it. Over. KZZH”

I looked at Kolberg with a face that said clearly that something wasn’t adding up here. Wherever Poplaberg was headed, it sure as hell wasn’t the south end of the district. We were heading in near enough a due westerly vector since we’d left the docklands. I shook my head.

“Negative,” she continued into the speaker, “negative he’s definitely coming west. He already got his intelligence from Aalesund from a corrupt journalist associate. Over.”

“KZZZH, then what have we got? We took it from the hands of Aalesund himself, over. KZZZH”

“Ah, shit!” I shouted, interrupting, “which Aalesund?”

“Oh, crap, you’re right,” said Kolberg, before leaning into the microphone to ask, “which Professor Aalesund have you got there, over?”

“KZZZH, Professor Troels Aalesund. Why? Over. KZZZH”

“And he’d definitely been on his way to Poplaberg? Over”

“KZZZZH, he’s made a full confession, over. KZZZH”

“Then what the hell did Poplaberg’s goon intercept?” I pondered out loud. Kolberg looked at me blankly, before we both made the same realisation at the same time. The Camella was fast approaching, and we could see her now, but even that impending event paled in our minds’ eyes as we put two and two together. It was chilling.

“Unless he intercepted a document for Magnus Aalesund…” I started.

“…who was waiting for an up to date map of Little Wight for a dig.” said Kolberg, finishing my sentence.

“What colour was the sheet?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“A sort of lilac,” answered Kolberg grimly, “the same shade as the ordnance survey use up at the cartographical headquarters in Volonovsk.”

“Thor’s beard…” I muttered, by now keeping a very close eye on the approaching trawler, ripping and snorting her way through the hardwood piers as she got closer and closer, “…so Poplaberg isn’t on his way to a sunken Christiansen building at all, he’s…”

My breath caught in my throat. My blood ran cold.

“…on his way to what?” asked Kolberg innocently.

“Remember that thing Poplaberg found so funny?” I asked, eyeing up the approaching trawler nervously.

“…no?” said Kolberg, slowly.

“When he thought Aalesund had made notes that indicated that he would be double-crossing him?”

“That was when I wasn’t there, I think.”

“What kind of one-word note would have that effect on him, do you think?” I continued.

“You’ve lost me.”

“What kind of pronoun, a form of the possessive case that can be used as a predicate adjective, that might be the homonym of a rather explosive metal-encased noun that was often found scattered around the lagoon when the Ellismare Empire and grenlund were at war, casting their eyes north to attempt to safeguard their convoys’ routes?”

“Possessive predicate what?” she said.

“Mine!” I yelled.

“Your what?”

“No, not mine, a mine! Poplaberg thought he was reading a note from Troels Aalesund on a map showing the location of the gold, a note that indicated he planned to double cross Poplaberg.” I explained.

“Right…?” said Kolberg, indicating with her eyebrow that this was also what she had understood of the situation.

“But what he was really looking at was Magnus Aalesund’s ordnance survey! The lilac maps are produced by the cartographers up in Volonovsk, right? And he was waiting for one before starting his dig? He told us at the university!” I yelled, waving my arms exasperatedly, “And he was waiting for exactly this reason! We’re still finding old military mines in the lagoon from the defences put up around the time Ellismare and Grenlund were knocking seven shades of shit out of each other. It was a warning, not a premature piece of gloating.”

The colour drained from Kolberg’s face as the reality dawned on her.

“I’m getting on that boat,” I said, turning and starting to use the footholds to climb my way up the clock tower, “you’d better alert the services, go!”

Poplaberg had been expecting map showing him where to dig. Instead, he was headed explosively for the one spot he explicitly shouldn’t do so. There was no time to waste.

“Ah, hell,” said Kolberg as I scaled the tower, one storey up already. She was leaning towards the radio as she pulled away in a fit of exhaust smoke, and I heard her alerting the authorities as she did so, “Alert all units, alert all units…”

The Camella was fast approaching. I could see the black flint beneath Poplaberg’s brow through the bridge window as she got closer and closer. He spotted me, and swerved towards the clock tower, the boat looming out of the encroaching Bjarnese gloom like a whale in the depths. The prow crunched into the base of the tower, just missing me. He manoeuvred the wheel and made to accelerate away again, but I was alert, and not for the first time that evening I found myself flying through the air onto a moving vehicle.

I landed in a crumpled heap on the deck.

A corridor of visibility allowed me a view into the back of the bridge from where I lay, in between coils of rope and a pile of nets. Either Poplaberg had assumed I’d be too stupid to jump, or he’s assumed he’d knocked me into the drink. It had to be one or the other, because he wasn’t even looking over his shoulder to entertain the possibility that I was on board. That, or he was too psychotically focused on the task in hand he hadn’t even registered my potential presence.

I lifted myself up, and quickly strode my way up the metal staircases on the exterior of the bridge, the rusted metal feeling clammy in my hands as the night drew in. Just about keeping my footing as Poplaberg continued to drive the boat through pier after pontoon after quay, I as good as fell through the door to the bridge, finally drawing a recognition of my existence from the crazed driver, even if he didn’t take his hands off the wheel.

“Go away, Lillehammer,” he shouted, never taking his eyes off the path in front of him, “leave me to my business!”

People screamed in houses around us as the boat slammed past their bedroom windows, dragging entire walls of splintering wood down with hideous groans as it went by. I thought of the effect an explosion would have on a densely built community like this.

“I can’t let you do this, Artur!” I shouted back, “there is no treasure! You’re headed for a mine!”

“No, it’s mine!” he yelled back, slipping the boat up another gear. The deck lurched uncomfortably from side to side as another quayside bit the dust.

“No, not mine, mine!” I shouted, wondering if everyone I met that night was going to have taken the same stupid pills.

“No, mine!” he shouted again, getting angrier.

“Listen,” I tried to explain, approaching him hesitantly with my palms held aloft unthreateningly, remembering he had a gun, “you’ve got the wrong map; you’re not headed for the gold, you’re heading for an explosive device. It’ll kill you.”

“No, you listen,” he said aggressively, finally snapping and turning to face me, drawing the gun out of his inside pocket and jabbing it in my direction as he did so.

My eyes flitted between his eyes, the gun, and the un-manned controls of the boat, set to plough straight through whatever was ahead of us if he wasn’t paying attention. I broke out in a cold sweat – as if there was any choice in that in the Federation.

“Listen here, Lillehammer,” he continued, with acid in his voice and a look of pure mania in his eyes, “you’re not going to stop me. Nobody is. I’ve worked too long and too hard for this discovery to just give it up now. I need to be remembered! I need to have my name in the history books! No more will I just be a rich man’s son! I’ll be a hero! A discoverer! An archaeologist! A social hero to the people of the city! I’ll be important! I’ll have stepped out of the shadows and I’ll have done something with this obsession of mine. This fuels me. This is my life blood. And no two-bit private detective is going to take that away from me.”

I looked at him as calmly as I could, trying to talk him down from this pedestal of insanity.

“Fine,” I started, “but you’ve got the wrong ma-…”

“You just want the gold for yourself, don’t you?” he spat, his face betraying his contemptuous paranoia, “you want to be held aloft by the masses as the man who found Svein Bjarne’s gold!”

“But Artur, you needed help and kidnappings to get your ‘research’ done in the fir-…”

“Shut up!” he interrupted, taking a step closer as the ship crunched its way through another walkway, shuddering hideously, “shut up! The gold is mine, goddammit, mine!”

He raised his hand as if to hit me with the handle of the handgun. I ducked the obvious move, and succeeded in knocking the firearm out of the window of the bridge. Poplaberg hardly seemed to noticed however, and he continued the attack, landing blow after blow into my mid-riff. Heavy, leaden strokes that sent the air coursing out of me like rush hour traffic. He shook me by the shoulders and yelled something incomprehensible in the fury and rush of the attack. Trying the free myself, I clawed at his face and attempted to poke his eye.

He reeled back in first pain, then anger. He stepped forwards and punched me again before I could regain my breath. Two quick jabs with his right hand that both landed with catastrophic force onto my temple. Those rolls of fat were concealing a surprising amount of muscle, and the sheer mass of his heavy arm lead to rolls of thunder behind my eyes. I saw stars.

One last punch sent me sprawling. Punch-drunk, the next few moments passed as if I was in a dream, rendered helpless and struck dumb by the force of those punches that had knocked all sense and comprehension from my head. They seemed to stretch on forever, but in reality couldn’t have lasted longer than thirty seconds or so.

Ears ringing, I watched as he returned to the controls and we careered through another pier, or was it a building, now? I was too out of it to focus on specifics, but there was distinct intensifying in the noises coming from outside.

The bridge lurched from side to side, and I slowly raised myself to a crawling position. I had to stop him, but the world wouldn’t come into focus, and

Suddenly, there was silence outside. No more crunching, no more splintering; just the noise of the engine as the Camella accelerated. I caught a glimpse of clear water. Had we swung into open whilst he was away from the controls? Where was Little Wight? I saw the shale island ahead of us. This should have been prime real estate for a place so overcrowded as Little Wight, surely?

With a slow realisation I noticed that Poplaberg was laughing manically as he pulled levers and flicked switched on the bridge. I glanced drunkenly behind me, trying to make the world stop spinning. The rigging had swung out, and he was lowering a battered old net. Whatever twisted logic that was currently working through his brain had clearly suggested to him that fishing the shale away would be a good plan. The engines whined in complaint, but Poplaberg pressed on.

“Artur…” I started, weakly holding out my hand in protest, but he didn’t hear me, and I instead chose to focus my remaining energies into getting away from the front of the bridge as the shale peaks loomed over us and jutted into the night sky like the teeth of the city.

It could have been my imagination, but I could have sworn at that moment in time, just as the Camella’s hull made its first lunge into the loose shale shore of the island, that there was a strip of lilac cordon tape fluttering in the air above us.

Somewhere below the surface of the water, metal hull made contact with long buried metal spike. The mine exploded.

With a metallic clatter, the front of the ship’s superstructure exploded in a ball of sudden flame and gas. Jets of steam and water flew past me as I was thrown into the dark oblivion of the open water.

Above me, the front half of the ship cannoned backwards and into the building that floated on the other side of the clearing, signifying the start of Little Wight.

The fire in the explosion disappeared as soon as it had appeared, but the shale sent flying into the air by the force of the dilapidated mine was now flying through the air like little black daggers. Before I even hit the water, I felt my flesh being torn in the hailstorm of volcanic needles.

Plunged into the water, the icy saltwater lapped at my veins and open wounds like scalpel blades, only marginally better than the shale that had inflicted the injuries in the first place. Nonetheless, the shock revived me, and I kicked to the surface of the water.

Hauling myself onto a piece of driftwood no doubt dislodged by the Camella on our way in, I surveyed the damage with what ambient light was available to me. A large crater in the shore of the island was being rapidly filled by slipping shale and the ever-present waters of the lagoon. Smouldering in front of it, the half of the Camella that had saved my life was sinking slowly into the water, upside down and back to front after the fore of the ancient explosive had sent it spinning.

Behind me lay the shattered remains of a boating school – the building the front of the Camella had flown into, and the presence of which had ensured the area immediately around the mine had been mercifully free of residential buildings. The front of the ship was just a mangled wreck. Twisted and destroyed beyond any passing recognition, it had got itself hooked around the main buoyancy support of the old boating school, and the two were now locked in a battle of the physical sciences – trying to ascertain which of the two would succeed in their fight between floating and sinking.

If Poplaberg had survived that, I thought, then he was even luckier than I was.

Hearing approaching sirens in the distance, I coughed up blood. I awaited my rescue patiently and let the cooling hands of unconsciousness rock me to darkness as a scattered shower of shale continued to tumble into the lagoon from the vast nothingness of the sky above me.

** ** ** ** **

It was two days before I was allowed to leave hospital, but by then all the loose ends had been tied up.

Poplaberg had been killed, of course, with various bits of him discovered around the twisted bridge of what remained of the Camella, and his henchmen had all been arrested and were in the process of having cases against them prepared.

The explosion had been heard all around the city, with many in Little Wight fearing that Poplaberg had come good on his diabolical promises in the demands video. However, aside from a handful of empty residential blocks that backed onto the boating school and the school complex itself, the exploding mine had done next to no damage to any other innocent party. That boating school and its reserved patch of open water next to the shale island had saved many lives, though quite what would have happened had it happened at a time the school had been in class didn’t bear thinking about.

Kolberg was offered a promotion over Klimpt’s position the next week as a result of her heroism in the lead up to my rescue from the scene of the explosion, but she turned it down, instead taking the decision to retrain in the navy.

There was a late twist a couple of days after the explosion, as the papers discovered that the owner of the Camella had insured his boat for a suspiciously large amount of money just days before the explosion. This turned out to be a pure coincidence however, and the fisherman in question was allowed to retire happily to Terra Scotia.

Even Boris came out of the incident well, as the chance to dress up as a lawyer appeared to have left a lasting impression. He immediately enrolled at law school, and is currently working his way through lectures and exams on his way to becoming a barrister. Though, he chose to fund his education by opening a drag club in the city centre, so whether it was the rough and tumble of law or the thrill of dressing up that had appealed to him more was up for debate.

As for me, I was fine after a couple of weeks of limping – which takes no small amount of effort in the ever-rocking and always shifting landscape of the Bjarnese canals, let me tell you. When all was said and done, it was just another case in the life of a Bjarnerey PI.

And then of course, what should be waiting on my desk when I finally went back to work, but a pile of letters of appreciation from the freed hostages, and an invitation from the manager of a wind-farm installation company off the coast of Ellismare.

Apparently there’d been some disappearances recently…


Fin.

[Wight]

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