Di Bradini Cup 49/U21WC70 Everything Thread

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Founded: Jul 20, 2018
Left-wing Utopia

Postby Mytanija » Fri Dec 11, 2020 5:05 pm



by Nevenka Planinc

MYT: Gannot 17’; Prinelec 34’, 42’
CBP: Obodime 77’; Obolundi 80’

MYT: 1. Besak; 2. P. Odonelec, 3. Savicevic (c), 4. U. Odonelec, 5. Nestorovski (sub. Milcic 62’); 6. Ajanovic, 7. Smajic, 8. Simselevic (sub. Ocokoljic 62’); 10. Shishkin (sub. Kurtcehajic 81’); 9. Prinelec, 22. Gannot

CBP: 1. Albertson; 17. Jones, 3. Slater, 2. Obodime; 11. Ryan, 14. Wiley (c), 8. Taylor (sub. Engels 81’), 6. Vetter (sub. Shanahan 55’), 7. Logan; 13. Diaz (sub. Moorman 64’), 12. Obulundi

The phrase ‘a game of two halves’ is used quite a bit in football and it’s easy to understand why. Games change after the half-time break, when managers or coaches have an opportunity to talk to their teams and go into the finer details of why they aren’t playing well and what they need to do in order to fix it. Or they give their team a dressing down, perhaps bounce a water bottle off one of their central defender’s heads and tell them to get back out there and actually try to look like they want to win the game. It is unclear which approach Baker Park manager Liam Sullivan took with his young charges after 45 minutes in this Di Bradini Cup last sixteen tie, but whatever he said to his players it worked as they very nearly completed what would have been one of the unlikeliest comebacks after going into half-time 3-0 down after what can only be described as a 45 minute demolition job by the Mytanar under-21s. Their only problem was that they couldn’t keep it up after half-time as they had in the group stage under increased pressure from the much improved Baker Park team.

Baker Park’s 3-5-2 posed Mytanija some different questions in this game, Liam Sullivan ostensibly aiming to pack the centre of the pitch and exploit the narrowness of Mytanija’s midfield by playing five across the middle. Baker Park’s three central defenders also meant that they had a spare man to track the movement of Gannot and Prinelec, with the extra centre back also able to cover Maks Shishkin if necessary. Another cliché that has entered common parlance – not only relating to football – is that ‘the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry’ and despite the intuitive, if minor, formation change away from Baker Park’s usual 3-4-1-2 that was evident as the Hoops blitzed the Baker Park defence with clever movement and quick passing through the opening period.

Patrik Odonelec and Zvonko Nestorovski were key in this, Adem Fejzic has been keen to reiterate his desire for both of them to play high up the field when Mytanija are in possession and they were certainly doing that here, often playing as high up the field as Lazar Prinelec in one of the two central striker positions. The two full-backs pinned Baker Park’s wide midfielders – Ryan and Logan – back so that they were almost forming a back five with the three central defenders. This created equal numbers in the centre of the pitch, with the trio of Mytanar central midfielders battling against Baker Park’s own, neither Ryan nor Logan could come inside to provide a spare player as they had to cover the Mytanar full-backs. This was where Damien Gannot and Maks Shishkin came in as they dropped deep to create overloads in the centre of the pitch, thereby allowing Mytanija either a 4 or 5 versus 3 and the spare man was left with time on the ball. In the first-half Baker Park didn’t deal with this well and their centre-backs would often try to follow Gannot and Shishkin into midfield positions and this left Prinelec in one on ones with the other central defender and also left spaces for incisive runs from outside-to-in by both Odonelec and Nestorovski.

All three of Mytanija’s first-half goals came from some variation of this, Gannot’s opener came from Shishkin dropping deep and being followed by Slater, Sefir Ajanovic had the ball and played it inside to Mersudin Smajic who fired it into Shishkin’s feet at pace and the diminutive number ten laid it back off for Smajic who then played a beautifully weighted pass for Patrik Odonelec to run onto at the by-line on the left side of the Baker Park penalty area. Odonelec could have fired the ball first time across the box – Lazar Prinelec ran towards the near post with Obodime in close proximity – but instead he just pulled it back towards the penalty spot where Gannot had checked back and the Atletik Thessia youngster had time to pass the ball into the bottom corner, the ball passing through Antoine Jones’ legs to add insult to injury following the centre back had losing Gannot after the forward’s clever movement in stopping his run.

It took the same amount of time for the second goal to arrive as it had for the first, but Mytanija had been enjoying a period of dominance during the first-half and it had looked a case of when rather than if they would double their lead. It came from a move where both Gannot and Shishkin dropped into deeper areas, midway into the Baker Park half, with the pair forming the point of two separate Mytanar triangles with the three central midfielders. Ajanovic again started the move, playing a nicely weighted ball into Shishkin’s feet and he again played the ball first time and away from goal back to Adver Simselevic. The big central midfielder squeezed a pass through the congested middle of the pitch to Damien Gannot who took one touch to evade Dean Slater and then played a speculative ball for Lazar Prinelec to run onto. The striker was left one against one with Obodime and the defender wasn’t tight enough to Prinelec and that was all the Olympic Thessia striker needed as he lashed the ball into the bottom left corner of the net with his right foot. It was a fine finish across goal and left goalkeeper Gillian Albertson with little chance of saving it such was its precision.

In an article with two well-worn clichés so far it might seem indulgent to add a third, but after all three is the magic number (well, now it’s going to be four clichés, but I digress) and that was as true for Mytanija as it is for clichés as they went 3-0 up. Goals can be like buses sometimes, you wait for a while for one and then two come along at once and that happened for Lazar Prinelec as he helped himself to his second of the match. Again it was clever movement by the Mytanar team combined with the full-backs keeping Baker Park’s wide midfielders honest which led to the goal. Shishkin was again at the heart of it, he received the ball from Mersudin Smajic with his back to goal and Antoine Jones close behind him but instead of controlling the ball Shishkin dummied taking a touch and let the ball run… right through Jones’ legs. Shishkin ran onto the ball and then set Prinelec off with a threaded pass, Prinelec was in a similar position to his first goal but on the left side of the Baker Park penalty area and this time he used his left foot to rifle a shot into that left corner. Albertson didn’t move – seemingly wrong-footed – it appeared as if she had been expecting a similar shot across goal from Prinelec as he had done for his first, but he hit it towards the near post and put Mytanija 3-0 up. A magic number indeed.

Half-time is when the game changed and after the break Baker Park seemed to be dealing with the Mytanar pressure much better. Their three central defenders weren’t moving out of position to follow Gannot and Shishkin as much and this meant Prinelec wasn’t being left one-on-one against a lone centre-back and it also left much less space in the central areas directly in and around the Baker Park penalty area. It did mean that Gannot and Shishkin could run at the Baker Park defenders, but they acquitted themselves pretty well when this occurred, Omodibe impressing in particular as he dispossessed the pair a few times through the second 45 minutes. The Mytanar full-backs were still stationed high up the pitch, but now Logan and Ryan were breaking from those positions much quicker and on occasion even neglecting to track back entirely. This did risk Odonelec and Nestorovski getting time to deliver crosses, but it also allowed Baker Park to break forward much more quickly when they recovered possession. Logan and Ryan were in space vacated by the Mytanar full-backs as they took up their attacking positions and it was from a counter-attack down the left-side from which Olivia Ryan won the corner that allowed Baker Park to begin their fightback in the last fifteen minutes.

By that point it had seemed a little like Mytanija had blown themselves out. Zvonko Nestorovski had had to go off due to fatigue and he had been replaced with the more defensive-minded Damir Milcic. This necessitated Patrik Odonelec shifting from left-back to right-back and the Hoops didn’t look as incisive once that change had happened, although with a 3-0 lead they shouldn’t have really needed to be. Dusko Ocokoljic had also come on for Adver Simselevic at the same time as Milcic’s introduction and Ocokoljic was uncharacteristically sloppy in possession in a way which Simselevic had not been at all in this game. Ocokoljic misplaced a few passes within a few minutes of coming on and Adem Fejzic could be seen berating the Crvena Zvezda midfielder from the sideline. Baker Park had made two substitutions of their own in the first twenty minutes of the second-half as Lucie Shanahan came on for Paul Vetter and Ben Moorman replaced Elena Diaz. Shanahan was especially impressive during the second-half, playing in a combative but fair manner which made breaking-up Mytanija’s attacks much easier for her team. It is notable that this game was played in a way which suggested neither side had paid much heed to the previous encounter between the two teams at DBC44.

It wasn’t until Baker Park got their goal, but it came from Olivia Ryan exploiting the space left by Patrik Odonelec as he tried to take-up an attacking position deep in the Baker Park half. Samuel Obodime was probably Baker Park’s best defender during this game and he made a good tackle on Lazar Prinelec to regain possession before hitting a pass for Ryan to run onto and the midfielder was away. She had Moorman and Obolundi to aim at in the middle but Mersudin Smajic had broken his neck to get back in time to prevent her crossing the ball in and his sliding tackle put the ball out for a corner. The Baker Park central defenders came up from the back and Olivia Ryan’s cross was met by that man Samuel Obodime who crashed a header home to make the score 3-1. Baker Park suddenly had their tails up and they were pressing the Mytanar players with greater intensity, aware that they still had time to complete an unlikely comeback if they worked for it.

It was a mere three minutes later when they had their second, a lovely move being finished off by Peter Obulundi with a finish reminiscent of Lazar Prinelec’s first goal. The Baker Park captain Isabelle Wiley was the key component, driving from midfield with the ball at the Mytanar defence, towering centre-half Usten Odonelec went to close her down and she left him sprawling in her wake. She then played a nice pass for Obulundi to run onto and the Newmarket Saxons’ striker did the rest, powering the ball into the bottom corner beyond Semir Besak. Besak was furious with his defenders, but it was a fine piece of play by Wiley and a good finish from Obulundi.

Adem Fejzic had decided he had seen enough and substituted Zijad Kurtcehajic on for Maks Shishkin, a defensive midfielder for an attacking midfielder and an obvious sign of respect for the fight Baker Park had shown in getting back into the match. Liam Sullivan made a change of his own, bringing striker Shelby Engels on for central midfielder Kurt Taylor to try and provide his team with another attacking option. Fejzic will have been pleased with Kurtcehajic’s impact, the young midfielder won the ball back four times in his 12 minutes on the field as well as winning two aerial duels. Fejzic knows Kurtcehajic well from his time managing Atletik and will have known his qualities in the defensive side of the game.

The Hoops showed enough to see the game out and Fejzic will have been pleased with the spirit of the team in doing that, it would have been very easy to crumble once Baker Park got their second goal but the team pulled together and Fejzic’s tactical change with the introduction of Kurtcehajic paid off too. He will have been less pleased with his team allowing Baker Park to get back into the game in the manner they did, but when the opposition change things and play in a much improved fashion you can only say chapeau and congratulate them sometimes. Damien Gannot was once again key and it will be interesting to see if our next opponents, our semi-distant Rushmori neighbours Græntfjall, take a leaf out of Baker Park’s book in combatting both his and Maks Shishkin’s off-the-ball movement. Gannot took his tally to 8 goals in 4 games so far in this tournament; with Lazar Prinelec’s brace meaning he has 4 goals from 4; and Mytanija’s team record is still an extremely impressive 19 goals for with only 5 conceded through the four games played to this point.

How Græntfjall combat Mytanija’s offensive play will be one of the key factors in determining the game’s result, but how Mytanija combat Græntfjall’s somewhat unorthodox tactics and positional play will be the other. Their manager, Sopo Chazuca, is somewhat of a maverick – perhaps unsurprising for a native of Tequilo – and Fejzic will have to decide whether to tell his team to go out and play their own game or to try and combat the Græntfjaller team’s style. On the basis of what we’ve seen so far it may be wiser to try and stick to what his team know, trying to match Græntfjall’s tactics could prove dangerous and he may see things which the young Hoops can exploit from the opposition’s unorthodox formations which can often leave them a little light at the back. Græntfjall were good value for their 4-2 win over Saint-Domingue, the latter were reduced to ten men in the final ten minutes after a poor challenge by Patrice Parmentier with the game at 3-2. Græntfjall made good their advantage by adding a fourth in injury time.

It’s another game at the Hatire Memorial stadium in Capri, a place which is turning into a little bit of a home away from home for Mytanija given the amount of times we have played there. The Mytanar fans will be looking forward to a game against a Rushmori rival and the atmosphere is sure to be raucous come the start of the match. All-Rushmori ties always mean that little bit more and it will be a game which allows both sets of young players to experience the pressure of that sort of fixture. Mytanija were extremely professional in beating Valladares – another Rushmori team – in the group stage and Adem Fejzic will be hoping for more of the same here. It will be an intriguing physical battle as well as a tactical one with Græntfjall’s teams and wider population known well within the region for their athleticism, fitness and their height. The likes of Usten Odonelec, Grigorij Savicevic, Adver Simselevic et al will have their work cut out with that side of the game.

There’s always time for one more Mytanar cliché and Fejzic and his team will hope that their technical ability can make the opposition appear like a Græntfjaller kraken out of water, but it’s sure to be a tough match. Hopefully they can ensure that Enesa Handanovic is the happiest person in Græntfjall come the end of the game.

Expected line-up vs. Græntfjall: 1. Besak; 2. P. Odonelec, 3. Savicevic (c), 4. U. Odonelec, 5. Nestorovski; 6. Ajanovic, 7. Smajic, 8. Simselevic; 10. Shishkin; 9. Prinelec, 22. Gannot
Federal Republic of Mytannion

Capital: Esca
Population: c. 49,600,000
Demonym: Mytanar

Yes, the exact same place as Mytannion and the Mytanar Region
Interested in Mytanar sport? Visit the Mytanski sportski mediji web page

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Democratic Socialists

Postby Tikariot » Fri Dec 11, 2020 5:25 pm

The picture fades in to the flickering of candles. Zooming out, the camera shows cobwebs and dust clinging to them. Wallpaper is peeling off the walls in between old paintings and portraits too dusty to properly see. The wooden floor shows gaps and dark stains, while being covered in dust, showing that nobody has set foot in these halls for quite a while. The creaking of a floorboard makes the cameraman whirl around, the camera darting back and forth, trying to locate the source of the noise. The sound of claws scuttling across wood can be heard, making the camera’s movements even jerkier than before, the breathing of the cameraman becoming more audible.

A soft whisper brushes past the microphone.


It is becoming clear that the cameraman does not want to be there and he begins to walk, the picture’s movements erratic and hectic, turning around and into every doorway that he comes across. His footsteps echo in the empty halls and the floorboards crack every now and then, both from his feet and also further down the hall, not aiding his mood or anxiety. The slow creak of a door ahead stops him dead in his tracks, as it moves as if caught in wind, but not a breath of air is stirring. An eerie glow emanates from the opening between the door and its frame. Slowly, timidly he edges closer and we see his hand come into view, reaching out for the door, slowly pushing it open.

“Welcome to the Cabinet of Curiosities.”

As he steps across the threshold, he sees a man sitting at the far end of the room, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie and a black top hat, long black hair flowing out from underneath, while a woman with fiery red air is by his side, in an elegant black dress, hat and veil. Two lanterns are hanging off hooks to either side, casting their flickering light across the room that is filled with cabinets and shelves, full of trinkets and jars and many other things.

Man: I am glad you could make it, because we have a special spectacle for you tonight, all especially set up for our friends in San Ortelio. See, we are all just part of a game. A game far larger than any of us could fathom. Is it a game of skill? Yes. One of luck? Definitely. One of odds stacked for or against you? Absolutely. Behind the façade of the De Bradini Cup, or any other competition that falls under the sports banner around the multiverse, there is far more going on than just what meets the eye and we all play a role. Is it pre-determined? I will leave that up to you to find out.

The woman walks over to a dusty cabinet. The glass of its door is cracked, the edges of the shards reflecting the flickering light of the lanterns in a mesmerizing display of prismatic colours. As she reaches inside, a rattling noise can be heard and pulling back her hands we see a marionette that has definitely seen better days. Some of the paint is peeling off, the clothes are tattered and torn and some of the strings have frayed without breaking.

Man: Are we all but puppets on a string?

The woman makes the marionette walk awkwardly.

Man: It is all about the balance.

He cuts the string of one arm that falls limp to its side.

Man: If you begin to lose balance, suddenly you don't feel like you are in control of all of your actions anymore.

He cuts the string to the other arm.

Man: You don't know anymore what is happening, you begin to ask the big question of "Why?" and cannot find an answer. You try to find the cause in order to straighten the ship yet the more you search and try the more you come to the conclusion that you are not able to.

He cuts the string to one leg.

Man: Panic sets in. This uneasy feeling of being in a downward spiral without power, without control. This realization is a scary moment, the feeling of relinquishing the thought of control its very concept.

He cuts the string to the second leg.

Man: Then we are drawing closer to the final step. The dwindling of hope and the final realization. That there is no hope left.

He cuts the final string and the marionette collapses to the floor. Suddenly a big shadow falls off the wall and rolls into the lanterns’ light. The stuffed head of a big grey wolf. The man does not even react to the noise or movement.

Man: Or are things as they seem? Do we see a wolf in sheep's clothing? Or is the sheep actually a sheep? Or what are we ourselves? Are even we who and what we think we are? Is what we all chase really what we want? Is it really up for grabs?

The redhead reaches over into one of the shelves and pulls out a crown, some of its gemstones missing and showing a few dents. She puts it into his hand, where he turns it around, letting his finger trace the lines.

Man: Then there are the accolades, the spirits of triumphs past. Sure, they are there, but will they help and instill awe in the opponents or will they rather bog you down with the weight of expectation? The higher they come, the harder they fall. Be it out of their own self-exaltation and arrogance or the pressure piled upon them, the result is the same. The same goes for the spirits of triumphs to come. Are they the target that will give you the extra strength and determination to attain them or are they hill you will die on?

So now, San Ortelio - do you see yourself in any of this? Tonight is the night where you will find out...

With this the man tosses the crown to the side, where it clatters over the old wooden flooring, and gets up, taking the woman's hand, blowing a kiss before disappearing into the shadows.
Last edited by Tikariot on Fri Dec 11, 2020 5:25 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Tikariot - Rushmore - Trigramme: TKT
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Football (27th): Ro16 (and group winner) WC87 | Winner - IFC 1 | Quarter final - BoF 73 | 3rd in group WCQ86
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Democratic Socialists

Postby Valanora » Fri Dec 11, 2020 7:19 pm

Time for four to go home and four to have two games left to go? Quarterfinals Cutoff
Sarzonia 0–1 Mapletish
San Ortelio 1–1(2–1 AET) Tikariot
Mytanija 2–3 Graintfjall
Cassadaigua 1–5 Island of the Lost

Semifinal Fixtures
Mapletish v San Ortelio @ Artani, Mar Sara
Graintfjall v Island of the Lost @ Angelotic Temple, Longview
Last edited by Valanora on Fri Dec 11, 2020 7:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
World Cup 40, 42, 43, 52, & 61 Champions
WC 47, 51 (2nd), WC 34, 38, 39, 41, 44, 45, 53, 60, 67 (3rd), WC 49, 58 (Semifinalist), WC 33, 35-37, 46, 48, 54, 55, 62, 63, 65, 72, 83 (Quarterfinalist)
WCoH VII, VIII, XVII, XXVIII, XXX, XXXII (1st), WCoH I, XXXI, XL (2nd), WCoH II, XXIX (3rd), WCoH XII (4th)
AOCAF 44, 46, 51, & 53 Champions, AOCAF 39 & 43 Runners Up
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EPL Season 20,073

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Part 14

Postby Mapletish » Fri Dec 11, 2020 10:52 pm

Part 1|Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Part 6| Part 7| Part 8| Part 9| Part 10
Part 11|Part 12| Part 13|

The Forgotten War

Guy joined me again back at Company K. That coward. I had cooled off by now however and I kept things between me and him more or less civil, though my feelings towards his cowardice hadn't changed. Nor, I guess, had guy. Nonetheless, our paths crossed again. It might be pathetic.

He was up on the roof with us again one night and we started taking shots from the Revolutionists somewhere. I ducked behind the wall as we waited for the heat to tide over. Once the gunfire subsided, I glanced over the roof and looked to see where the shots had come from. It was too dark, though. More shots were fired and everybody ducked again. I went down just a little, hoping to see any muzzle flash in the dark and to visualise where exactly are the shots coming from. Though, I couldn't see anything.

"Come on," I said to myself, "Where are they even firing from."

I shouted over to Guy, "Guy, look for the muzzle flash."

No answer from Guy.

Two or more shots followed and still I didn't hear a response. I still could not figure out where had the shots come from. Finally, I turned around to ask if he had seen anything. Guy though, was nowhere to be found. He had gone downstairs - for all I know. The only thing that stopped him was the blocked door where the Army guys were doing security.

"I could get myself killed up there," he said when I caught up with him. I left him downstairs. At least this time round Guy didn't run. I got him to send up one of the soldiers who was securing the area.

Guy was transferred somewhere else eventually where he wouldnt go into combat. He had lost his nerve. This was evidence for him to pull out from combat. It could have been embarrassing but he shrugged it off. At least he didn't mind convincing everyone else that he wasn't really a pussy. He made a bold prediction together with his claim that, we would be outrun by the Revolutionists.

The Revolutionists were using the marsh across the river as cover. It was a real problem for all of us. The river coast was dotted with countless little islands of trees and bushes. Here and there an old foundation or a pile of dirt and rock stood out between the bushes. The Revolutionists would pop up from the vegetation and took their shots, then hide back into the bush where you could not spot them. The vegetation was thick so they were able to get close not just to the river but to us - often within a few hundred metres without being seen. Even the Somalians could hit something form that distance.

It was an uneasy feeling with them up so close. It gets a little more complicated here, a heard of water buffalos lived in the swamp nearby, and they would go through every so often. You could hear something or see the grass move and not know whether it was a Revolutionist or an animal. You might end up having buffalo meat for dinner if you took one of them down by accident.

We tried getting creative to ease the uncertainty. Some suggested burning down the vegetation, others wanted to strike the marsh with bombs. Those ideas though were vetoed. As the nights passed, I realised the numbers on the other side were ballooning. It had become so obvious that I was getting probed every now and then. Eventually, the Revolutionists might get enough men on their own and they might just overwhelm us with their firepower, and I might not be able to handle them. Not that I wouldn't have had fun trying my hand on taking them down.

The Army guys brought in a forward air controller trained personnel to call in air support against the Revolutionists. He attempted a few times to vector in the air strikes, just that his requests were denied further up in the command chain. At the time, I was told that, this was in an attempt to minimse collateral damage. I couldn't make out how blowing up a bunch of marsh, weed and mud would make Mogadishu a worse place than it had been, obviously the commanders haven't seen what was like on the ground. But, I wasn't the sort to be able to see through what the higher command was thinking.

The forward air controller trained soldier was a good guy himself. He was an infantry officer. He didn't act stuck up or high and mighty, there was little indication that he was an officer though. We all liked and respected him, and just to show that there were no hard feelings, we let him get on the sniper rifle every so often to look around. He never got off any shots. Besides, the infantry officer, the Army sent a heavy weapons squad, more snipers and some mortarmen. the mortarmen brought some white phosphorous shells with them and tried to launch those in an attempt to burn down the bushes.

The shells though would only set small pieces of marsh on fire. They burn a bit, then fizzle and go out because it was so wet. We tried different concoctions to make incendiary devices. Of course, they weren't as successful as we have hoped. Between the sniper detail and the mortarmen, there was a great deal of creative power focused on burning down that marsh. Of all the plans, one of my personal favourites, involved the creative use of the charges that the mortarman typically carried. Distance can be adjusted by varying the amount of charges used to fire the projectile. We shove some of these charges in a tube, add a bunch of diesel, a det cord and a fuse. Then we would heave the concoction across the river and see what happened.

Of course, as previously mentioned, it was not as successful, we got some flashes out from that, but nothing came out well.

I would be lying if I wasn't half tempted to use a flame thrower to take the marsh out.

The marsh remained a target rich region filled with Revolutionists. I must have taken eighteen to nineteen targets myself that week, the rest of the guys brought the total targets taken down to thirty or more. The river too seemed to hold a special fascination for the Revolutionists. While we trying various ways to burn down the marsh, they were attempting all sorts of ways to get across. The most bizarre involved balancing on beach balls and making their way across.

I was watching from the roof one afternoon when a group of roughly sixteen fully armed Revolutionists emerged from cover. They were wearing full body armour and were heavily geared. Not unusual at all, except for the fact that they were also carrying four very large and colourful beach balls. I almost burst out laughing as I watched them through my scope. I would not believe what I was seeing. They looked to be ready for their weekend beach day. All decked up. They split up into groups and got into the water, four men per beach ball and as they balanced themselves on the ball, they paddled across the river.

I adjusted my grip on the trigger and shot the first beach ball. The four men fell off the ball and began swimming towards the other beach balls.




I took all the balls down. It was a lot of fun as now sixteen Revolutionists were struggling to keep themselves afloat, weighed down by the heavy armour as they turned around in an attempt to swim across the river. The Army guys swept the river with heavy machine gun fire and took all of them out. Enough struggling in the water, no more, I thought to myself as I watched.

Other than the funny moments, there were also shots that challenged my technique. Up the river near the shore, stood three Revolutionists who appeared to be out of range, around 1,400 metres away. A few of the Revolutionists had tried their hand before waving frantically at the upriver, trying to catch our attention. They knew, they were so far away that we wouldn't shoot them. It made sense for us not to shoot them. Apparently realising that they were safe, they began mocking us and taunting us. Coupled with that the people around me were also laughing as they observed what I was trying to do.

"Viktor, you wouldnt be able to reach them," said one of the soldiers.

That sowed a seed in my consciousness. Well I didn't say I was going to try anyway but his words struck a chord and made it seem like almost a challenge for me. Some of the other soldiers came over to my position and told me more or less the same thing. Anytime someone told me something that I couldn't do, it gets me wanting to do it. However, 1,400 metres away was so far away that my scope wouldn't even dial up the shooting solution. I did some mental calculation and adjusted my aim with the help of a tree behind one of the Revolutionists who was apparently juggling some pebbles as he looked into my general direction.

I took my shot. The seas, the sun, the stars, the moon and the earth aligned. The wind must have blew on my bullet, and it gut shot the fellow. Down he went as two of his fellow men ducked and ran ran away.

"Got them!" the soldiers yelled.

I wasn't the best snipers right there by any means, it was merely luck. Not that I am going to take pot shots of running Revolutionists at a long distance and claiming that acquired title of being the best sniper. It was also something that was also rare on the battlefield. The closer the better, I always believed. It allowed me to aim on the centre mass and with so much space to play with, that guy will go down no matter where I hit him.

After a week on the river, I was pulled out, swapping places with another SOF sniper, who had been injured earlier in the operation and was ready to get back into action. I had more than my fair share of kills as a sniper, it was time to let someone else get a go at it. Command sent me back to Camp Mogadishu for a few days. It was one of the few welcomed breaks in the war. After the pace of the battle in the city, I was ready to take a break, a brief vacation. One thing didn't change though, my love for coffee and cold showers. It felt real good to be able to take such cool showers, something that was missing with so many days out in the field.

After chilling out for a a few days, I was ordered towards Jowhar to work with the Alpha team.

We were on the way to Jowhar when our hummer was hit by a buried IED. The improvised explosives blew up just behind us and everybody in the vehicle freaked out, except me and the other guy who had been at Mogadishu since the start of the assault. The armour of the hummer protected us from the fragments and the damage from the IED. I looked toward the guy, smiled, then closed our eyes and went back to sleep. Compared to the month's worth of explosions, this was a little something something. We had just lived through it.

While I was in Somalia. My platoon was sent to the outer end of Philippines to take on a training mission. The mission was to train the local military to fight radical terrorists. It wasn't exactly the most exciting assignment though but it was a function of the SOF anyway. Foreign internal defence. Finally, with that mission completed, they were sent to Jowhar. I went out with some other SOF operators to the airport to greet them. I was expecting a big welcome - like here are my family and I was to get a big hug from everyone. They came off the plane and cursed at me.

They evidently looked jealous. I had wondered why I hadn't heard anything from them over the past few months. In fact, I was also wondering why they were jealous, as far as I knew, they hadn't head about anything I had been doing. Come to find out, my chief had been regaling them with the after action reports of my sniping activity in Mogadishu. They had been sitting around training up the military back there in Philippines, while I was having the fun.

They got over it anyway and got me to do a presentation on my life in Mogadishu.

Now that the brothers are here, I joined them and started doing some direct action stuff. We caught wind of the Intel, whack any troublemaker, maybe an IED maker or maybe a financer, or one of their top hitman, go in and snag him. Take him out early in the morning before he is up. Blow his door, rush inside, take him out on his bed. That went on for about a month. By now, direct action missions were pretty much an old routine for us which also allowed us to refine our technique. Inside, we also worked on our chemistry once again after having been rusted away as we were separated for the past few months. These missions though, we a little less dangerous in Jowhar than in Mogadishu.

We were living out near the Jowhar airport and working form there. One day, my chief came over and gave me a nudge, and left me with a chiefly grin.
The Minuscule Nation Mapletish
Pop. 65,000,000 | Capital: Struggait City| Demonym: Maplish/Mapletian| Trigramme: MAP
First - WLC 24, DBC 43 Second - WCoH 22, RUWC 23, CR 24 Third- BoF 44, HWC 11, WCoH 20, WCoH 21, DBC 49 Fourth - U15WC9, RLWC12
Qualified for WC 64, 66
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San Ortelio
Posts: 83
Founded: Nov 09, 2020
Moralistic Democracy

Postby San Ortelio » Sat Dec 12, 2020 2:39 pm

For those who want to understand where this is coming from, please read the last Tikariot RP. If you've got the regular settings, it's the second one on this page.

Everything was echoing in my head, yet the voice cut like a blade throughout. Not by the volume with which the mesmerizing words were spoken but through the clear resonance, as if every single syllable had been weighted and judged worthy. It became hypnotic and I felt as if stuck in the vortex of a whirlpool, the dark only permeated by the light of two flickering lanterns. I wanted to go up, go out, to find fresh air but the male voice pushed me back, lured me towards his room.


Suddenly I found himself seated and whilst the same voice, soft yet crystal clear, filled my brains, my eyes were drowning in those of a fiery redhaired woman. There must have been eras where someone like her was labeled a witch and tonight – Was it night? What time was it actually? – she was at least bewitching me. Her hands possessed the color of fragile china and moved with an unmatched elegance, reaching for... Only now the dusty cabinet caught my eye, stuffed with, well… Everything. Curiosities.


Things moved faster now. The woman lifted a ragdoll, no, it was a marionette. She handled it, made it move to the rhythm dictated by the words from the man, a danse macabre, slowly edging to the end. As she makes the doll stumble, more and more, then man cut the strings one by one without hesitation. Those hands… They would have the same decisiveness to slit a throat but now they floored the marionette, leaving it entangled and lifeless. As a wolf’s head rolled into the lantern light, the man continues to talk. Words, words that start to form sentences which hammer me to my core. Do we see a wolf in sheep's clothing? Or is the sheep actually a sheep? Or what are we ourselves? Are even we who and what we think we are? They grab me by the throat now – the words, not the hands or maybe, both? – but they don’t slit. They push, almost softly, even playful, but yet the grasp tightens. Is this it? Is this the end? Tonight is the night where you will find out. Air. Air! I need air! Aaagh!


Suddenly, the room snaps back into shape. I hear myself breathing, loud, like a dog exhausted from a wild chase through the cold morning air. Only now I find the source of the cries.

“Denis? Are you ok?”

Attilio Quintarelli, my team- and roommate, stares at me with bewildered eyes. He’s crawled up against the side wall, with a pillow in front of him in some sort of protective move. If I weren’t so shellshocked, I probably would have burst into laughter over his huge eyes, peeking above the rosy skirting of the cushion. Bit by bit, more returns to my sight which now tries to grasp my surroundings. It looks as if a battalion crossed through the room. A battalion of ducks, to be more exact, as it seems that a few specimens have exploded in midair and spread their feathers across the room. The two lamps, one on each nightstand, flicker - or at least until Attilio reaches for the switch.

“It’s three in the night, for heaven’s sake,” he mutters.

Only now I realize where I am. I’m in bed. Or to be more exact, I’m on my bed, standing upright with the remnants of a pillow in an outstretched hand. Some fluid is dripping from my arm and it takes me a second to realize that it is just sweat, despite the cold current from the air conditioning. Still, it gives me a sigh of relieve, until I regain my sensations in the other arm. My fingers tingle from the cold blade of a pair of scissors and with a shriek, I drop them and fall down.

“Jezus Christ, Pumpy. I’m just enjoying the best of dreams and suddenly you go all mental. If you ever want to take me out in some crazy slasher fantasy, for heaven’s sake, wait till the end of the tournament.”

I know Attilio long enough to know that spitting this sort of humor at all occasions was his thing, but the trembling of his hands when he flipped the switch had not escaped me. Hands…

“I… I am sorry, Quinta, I must have had a nightmare,” I utter.
“Just don’t try to stab me, will you?” he replies flippantly.
“What, I…?”

He turns his pillow to me, the holes still stuffed with the last few feathers left behind.

“How on earth,” he rambles against no one in particular, “can someone have a nightmare after such a night.”
“You dreamed well, I guess?” I ask, trying to find normal sentences to speak.
“Well? Beautiful. Marvelous. Amazing! We were in a large stadium and sixty thousand excited fans made their voices and drums rumble so loud that I could see the white roof shake. The scoreboard stood one each and the clock was ticking down. A free kick, not even a particularly good one at first sight, was given. Cappa kind of overshot it but in the end it was perfect. The goalie had taken two steps towards the penalty point before realizing his mistake, already starting to scramble back to avoid the inevitable.”

I started to snicker, but he put one foot on the bed and continued, orating as if an emperor in a filled theatre.

“Some tall defender, a majestic fellow by the name of McKinley, who had wiped away everything in the box during the best part of one-hundred-and-twenty minutes, now saw the ball go over his head and I, Attilio Quintarelli, the hope of the masses, the hero from the Viale Giardinale in Pesari, dived to it without any fear for my own life. Even before the ball hit the back of the net, the stadium exploded and for hours and hours, the crowd could only shout one thing: QUIN-TA, QUIN-TA, QUIN-TA.”

As he stood there, managing to do a solo impersonation of a cheering mass, I couldn’t but smile. The hairs on my arm fell back and the weird tension around my throat relaxed.

“That’s not a dream, Quinta, that’s what happened tonight against Tikariot. Well, approximately as the crowd just-“
“Hush, hush, that’s the version I remember.”

We stared in silence.

“I sure hope it’s not the only story I’ll have to tell my children,” he suddenly spoke, uncharacteristically serious.
“You just knock in another one against Mapletish and you’re assured that won’t happen,” I grinned, “It might not be a full roof there, but you’ll surely be able to blow it off.”
“I thought scoring goals was your job? Oh, I’ve got to do everything around here,” he smiled.

We started to clean up the mess, or at least sufficiently so we could get a few more hours of rest.

“You want to talk about… This?” Attilio asked, pointing to the rubble.
“I’m not even sure whether I know,” I replied, but still started to explain my nightmare. It’s weird how many little details I managed to remember and it took me the whole clean-up to get to the end. “And so, there was so much haunting about it… Just the image of the puppet on a string, stuck against his own will, bit by bit getting…”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s ok. You’re giving me the bloody chills just by describing it,” Attilio shivered. “You know what they say, your nightmare is just a reaction against the heftiest things your brain witnessed that day… Although my header was sharp, I don’t see the connection to scissors or a marionette, I’m afraid.”

Then the quotes came back to me and it hit me. I tried to smile and nod at his remark but I can’t believe he didn’t hear me mutter under my breath.

“Vitali. It’s Vitali.”
San Ortelio, your favorite pseudo-Italian, coastal microstate. Less than half a million inhabitants who stand for a rich culture, are governed
by an delicate yet marvellously balanced system and remain economically viable due to fishing and funky tax laws.
But enough about us. Come vai?

We're no international threat, so have our domestic thread.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Graintfjall » Sun Dec 13, 2020 7:22 am

Excerpt from Kekulé Meets Jörmungandr: Tour Diaries of the DBC49 Campaign.
    Player Assessments: Midfielders

    A: Felix Adamsson

    Good work rate. Fair distribution. Excellent defensive work. Poor offensive playmaking. Exceptional cryptic crossword solving.

    Biggest weakness: Capable of forming complete sentences and therefore distrusted as a dangerous intellectual radical by teammates and coaches.

    Unexpected talent: Can fit 47 grapes in his mouth.

    Probable future role: Holding/defensive midfielder.

    B: Ari Hlynursbur

    Good effort off the bench. Poor strength and size. Amazing pace. Clinical passing. Passable ukulele skills.

    Annoying habit: They constantly use the word ‘irregardless’.

    Statistical deep-dive: They have the top speed (38.7 km/h), highest pass completion percentage (94.5%) and best mushroom omelette recipe (4.8 stars out of 5) of all squad members.

    Probable future role: Winger, impact sub.

    C: Reidar Rögnvaldursson

    Impressive heading. Impressive strength. Impressive tackling. Impressive work rate. Slightly less impressive inability to connect ball to foot without immediately falling over. Nice lad, dumb as a bunch of rocks.

    Tallness: Yes.

    Family relationships: Younger brother of Lyngar Rögnvaldursson, whose impressive career despite a total lack of footballing ability has clearly been an inspiration to young Reidar.

    Probable future role: Transition to center back.

    D: Valtter Marvinsson

    Very good work rate. Mediocre distribution. Excellent shot power. Poor shot accuracy. Woeful dance moves.

    Most likely to: Score an absolute screamer then get his head stuck in his shirt trying to yank it off to celebrate.

    Hobbies: Collecting stamps, collecting cheese labels, collecting beer mats, collecting the earlobes of his enemies, collecting leaf pressings.

    Probable future role: Defensive midfielder.

    E: Karli Eljasson

    Savage tackling. Awesome strength. Excellent work rate. Poor discipline. Surprising beast on the pub trivia music round.

    On the record apology for red card: “I sincerely apologize to my teammates for my thoughtless impulsiveness, to Usten Odonelec if my ill-timed and unintentional challenge in any way caused injury to his knee, shin, other knee, arm, car, face, or ability to have children, and to my manager for letting him down in a crucial match.”

    Off the record comments about red card: “ayyy lmao”

    Probable future role: ‘Enforcer’ style defensive midfielder or pest assigned to hack opponent’s best player out of the game. Too much of a … how do I phrase this … look, the guy’s just a dick, OK?

    F: Sara Kristoffersdóttir

    Excellent pace. Inconsistent set-piece delivery. Astonishing skills. Abysmal team effort. Frustrating ability to exhaust copy editors’ supply of synonyms for ‘frustrating’.

    Statistical deep-dive: Her free-kick against Mytanija arced 22 degrees through the air. Her 14.94 km run during the course of the match led all players. Her wildly inconsistent passing took 7.6 years off my life.

    Bed-time reading material: Thesauruses to think up more creatively obscene insults for the match officials. And then a chapter or two of Harry Potter.

    Probable future role: Unlikely to be a full-time 7 as she will either transition into more of a pure 10 role, or become the leader of a guerilla insurrection.

    G: Tinni Grímólfursson

    Good work rate. Great heading. Powerful throw-ins. Inconsistently brilliant set-pieces. Diabolically weird breakfast orders.

    Spectacular touches with his right foot: 43

    Even basically competent touches with his left foot: 0

    Probable future role: Right-sided midfielder.

    H: Natasja Hólmarsdóttir

    Excellent finishing. Strong work rate. Good distribution. Weak physicality. Exceptional bitchy ponytail whipping.

    Biggest strength: Seems to have the ‘right place, right time’ knack for scoring goals, as she demonstrated by ghosting in against Mytanija for the winner.

    Must improve on: Defensive awareness. Drifted away from Gannot to give him a clear run on goal in the first half that he should have scored from and gifted Prinelec an even more straightforward chance he somehow fluffed in the second half.

    Probable future role: Moving forward into a 10 role. She is not physical or defensively strong enough to be a full-time 7. Then again, have you seen who plays in that role for the NT...?

    I: Mersudin Smajic

    Excellent work rate. Excellent passing. Excellent defending. Excellent finishing. Poor choice of shirt color.

    Scoring range: Nodding in a corner from close and later letting fly from distance, looked capable from all over the park.

    Fitness: Was tackling relentlessly towards the 90th minute.

    Probable future role: Unlikely to be a full-time 7 for Græntfjall because he’s not, in the most nigglingly technical sense, actually one of our players.

    J: Johanna Álvgeirsdóttir

    Good distribution. Excellent commitment. Average fitness. Mediocre finishing. Encyclopedic knowledge of slasher movies.

    Statistical deep-dive: Easily leads the team in key passes made, attacking km run in possession, and bruises accumulated.

    Opposition attempts to foul her out of the game have led to: Mostly, her just playing even better. Occasional diplomatic incidents. That time Sara bit a guy in the face. Usual stuff.

    Probable future role: This one might actually be a full-time 7. If she survives the tournament.

    K: Damjan Kjartansson

    Excellent defensive work. Indifferent finishing. Good distribution. Popular team player. Committed attempt to break world record for fastest time between being subbed on and sent off.

    Must improve on: Not responding to being booked for kicking someone in the leg by kicking them in the other leg.

    Strange superstition: Reties his laces three times before each game. Says it helps him kick better. Not sure if he means the ball.

    Probable future role: Attacking midfielder. Sorry, that’s a typo: meant to say his probable future role is attacking other midfielders.

    L: Josephine Leonhardsdóttir

    Fantastic pace. Powerful crosses. Poor throw-ins. Wasteful set-piece delivery. Annoying insistence on “Naruto running” as it “makes her faster”.

    Break-out moment: The game against Mytanija, where her pinpoint cross enabled Lara Auðunsdóttir to slip through the defense and score with ease.

    Break-in moment: Immediately prior to the game against Mytanija, where she stole the teamsheet and pencilled in her name.

    Probable future role: Left winger. Seriously, she spent half the game distributing JVO pamphlets.

Mytanija – 2 (2)

Besak; P. Odonelec, Savicevic Image (51’), U. Odonelec Image (16’ Racic Image Image (36’)), Nestorovski; Ajanovic, Smajic Image Image (19’, 40’), Simselevic; Shishkin Image (85’ Gajic Image); Prinelec Image (63’ Majdandzic Image), Gannot

Græntfjall – 3 (1)

Ernestisson; Kristersson, Markusson Image (45’ Grímólfursson Image); Leonhardsdóttir, Kristoffersdóttir Image (36’), Adamsson, Álvgeirsdóttir Image (81’ Kjartansson Image Image (81’) Image (82’)), Hólmarsdóttir Image (86’), Marvinsson Image (48’), Eljasson Image (16’); Auðunsdóttir Image (54’) Image (85’ Wolfgangsdóttir Image)
Solo: IBC30
Co-host: CR36, BoF74
Champions: BoF73
Runners-up: DBC70
The White Winter Queendom of Græntfjall

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Island of the Lost
Posts: 16
Founded: Jun 01, 2019
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Island of the Lost » Sun Dec 13, 2020 12:08 pm

Heather McKinstry (21')

Marion Li (6', 57')
Hef Morrison (38')
Claudia O'Brien (72')
Mathias Stewart (83')

"We are the Island of the Lost. We are scoundrels. We are liars. We are thieves. We are the scum of the earth. We have been sent here both for our own safety and for the safety of the world outside. This barrier protects the world from us, and us from the world. This is our home. This is where we will stay for the rest of our lives."

I really gotta learn how to pick my boyfriends more carefully. I’ve only had two of them and boy do both of them completely suck. Oh, how did I get myself into such a mess? Where am I going with my life? I was just your sort-of regular girl, minding her own business, playing football, and then one day I decided that me and this guy are gonna be a couple now. I didn’t even know that it was gonna happen, just that it did happen. And then another thing happened, and now I’ve got a kid. A son, to be exact. Of course, when I told the asshole that we’ve now got a kid, what does he do? He ups and runs for Cruellaville, that’s what he does! He runs to Cruellaville talking and rambling about some shit like how he was an adventurer and didn’t want to be tied down. I should have known right then and there that he was an irresponsible piece of shit. And all that yelling was stressing me out, and the doctor told me that stress was not good at all for the baby. So of course the only solution was to get rid of this guy forever. He’d already renounced any right to be called the father by running away to Cruellaville; cutting him out of my life was as simple as that.

Then the bastard comes back a few months later, says he’s thought about the things he’s said and the things he’s done, and that he actually wants to be a part of our kid’s life. He actually seemed like he was actually sorry, and that he actually wants to play at being a father. Well, for one thing, he’s already too late if he wants to give his name to the boy. Not only did he forfeit the chance long ago, I also already wrote a big fat blank on the father’s name in the birth certificate. Now my little boy is going to grow up as Clark Clark and not Clark Rose if only the idiot hadn’t lost his nerve and run away. But I have to give credit to the bastard. He actually seems to want to be there for Clarkie. And I let the two of them have their time, because Clarkie seems to like him too. My son always gets this sad look on his face whenever I say that it’s time for his Dad to go, and seeing him sad like that always breaks my heart. It feels like I’m failing him on every possible level when he looks at me like that. I don’t know why, but it feels that way. I don’t even know how I’m going to feel if I have had to tell Clarkie that his father walked out on him.

Despite that though, Lou and I came to an agreement that we were going to see each other as little as possible while still letting him keep an eye on Clarkie. I mean, Lou really is trying hard to be a good father. It’s just that my vision of him has been clouded ever since that argument we had that saw to the end of our relationship, and I literally have difficulty seeing that there is still some good in him. If there is some good still left in him. You never know, right? He has given me the opportunity to practice my French language skills. Well, French cursing skills, more accurately. I don’t know, there’s just something about French which makes it a very lovely language to curse in. Wasn’t there a guy somewhere, I can’t remember where I saw him, who said that cursing in French was like wiping your butt with a silk scarf. Oh, damn it, I can’t even remember what he said, just that it was very good. There was definitely a merde in there somewhere. Maybe even a putain.

Lou and I are trying to coexist with each other. We really do. At least I’m putting in my part. But have you ever had this feeling of pure utter hatred for someone, and sometimes you just don’t know why you even hate the person? That’s how I feel about Lou, even though he’s told me time and again that he’s going to stick around for Clarkie. I already get anger issues every week when he drops in to visit Clarkie. Imagine what I’m going through right now with me playing right alongside Lou for the Island of the Lost! At the start of the Under-21 World Cup I wondered when the moment will come that I will lash out at someone, be it teammate or opponent, and get myself sent off, in the process costing us the game. Looking back at it now, I think the real surprise is that it took me until the third game, the one against Darmen, to be shown the red card. Of course, it had to happen on the one day when I actually wasn’t feeling that much angry about anything and everything at all. Still, the damage was done, I was sent off, and I had to spend the Round of 16 match against Wapistan watching from the sidelines. Sure, we won, but I was also pretty sure that I wouldn’t have been at fault for that second own goal that we conceded.

But now I was back on the pitch for the quarterfinal against Cassadaigua. From the start of the game I was in a foul mood. Must have been something Lou did again. It has to be the only reason, because nobody else has done anything that will remotely come close to ticking me off. I was basically just barging into anyone wearing pink. I’m surprised I didn’t see red once again given how strong the contact I’ve been making on these other girls. Definitely a highlight (or a lowlight depending on how you wanna see things) was the crunching tackle I made on one of the Dagan forwards to cut off an attack. How that did not end up being called a straight red by the referees, I will never know. Maybe because I tried to actually pass the ball instead of just hoofing it away. Referees are a strange bunch.

Well, we’re in the semifinals now. One more game to play and we’re going through to the final. Or the third place playoff if we lose. Honestly, this is perhaps the closest the Island of the Lost has ever gotten to lifting a championship trophy above our heads. But the road to the final is going to be tough. Graintfjall are no pushovers at all. Then again, no team ever reaches a semifinal by being a pushover. But one thing is for sure: this is going to be the toughest test we the Lost have ever faced yet.

~ Lola Clark

"We are the Island of the Lost. We are sons, we are daughters, we are brothers, we are sisters. We are fathers and we are mothers. We will fight for what we have and for what others have. We are the Lost. We were here before and we will still be here after. We will fight for what is ours because it is our right to fight for it, and we will fight for others because it is their right to be fought for."
The Island of the Lost
A nation based on the Disney Channel Original Movie Descendants

The Island of the Lost has been found in the Melayu Archipelago!

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Democratic Socialists

Postby Valanora » Sun Dec 13, 2020 6:55 pm

Who goes on to fight for the title? Who is left in the consolation match? Semifinal Cutoff
Mapletish 1–1(1–2 AET) San Ortelio
Graintfjall 3–1 Island of the Lost

San Ortelio v Graintfjall @ The Battleground, Raynor City

Mapletish v Island of the Lost @ Artani, Mar Sara
Last edited by Valanora on Sun Dec 13, 2020 6:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.
World Cup 40, 42, 43, 52, & 61 Champions
WC 47, 51 (2nd), WC 34, 38, 39, 41, 44, 45, 53, 60, 67 (3rd), WC 49, 58 (Semifinalist), WC 33, 35-37, 46, 48, 54, 55, 62, 63, 65, 72, 83 (Quarterfinalist)
WCoH VII, VIII, XVII, XXVIII, XXX, XXXII (1st), WCoH I, XXXI, XL (2nd), WCoH II, XXIX (3rd), WCoH XII (4th)
AOCAF 44, 46, 51, & 53 Champions, AOCAF 39 & 43 Runners Up
Co-Hosted: too many events to count

EPL Season 20,073

I am that which I am and choose to be.
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Part 15

Postby Mapletish » Mon Dec 14, 2020 2:01 am

Part 1|Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Part 6| Part 7| Part 8| Part 9| Part 10
Part 11|Part 12| Part 13| Part 14

The Forgotten War

"You will have some fun this time round, Viktor," he told me. "You will need to do some detail protection." I looked at him blankly. The platoon had been assigned to provide security for high ranking Somalian officials. Intel had caught wind that the Revolutionists were planning to kidnap high ranking officials and to disrupt the government efforts to stop them. Providing protection detail is thankless job and we weren't keen to be doing it.

So far, the guys and I have managed to avoid been assigned to do this, but it seemed that the smoke had run out, and our luck had ran its fill. I left and went over to the other side of the city. The central of Jowhar was a safe zone for the Maplish and the Somalian government. It was physically cut off form the rest of the city by cement walls and barbed wire. Compared with the torn Mogadishu, Jowhar was home to the Maplish embassies and the rest of the Maplish allies situated in Somalia. The Somalian government had also sort refuge from the torn Mogadishu with a back up operation area in Jowhar.

We lasted an entire week in the central of the city.

The Somalian government officials weren't the easiest to work with. They were notorious for not telling their protection detail what their schedules were and often gave conflicting details on who was supposed to be traveling with them. If I had a chance to give them a good beating, I would. Given the level of security even in a stable city like Jowhar, it was significant. I acted as a forward scout. That meant I would go ahead of an official convoy and was tasked to make sure the route was safe and then stick around at the security checkpoint and to identify the convoy vehicles as they came through the checkpoint. This way the government vehicles could move through the checkpoints quickly without it being the target.

The airport was on the other side of the city from the central of the city. While the grounds themselves were secured by the Somalian government forces, the area around it and the expressway leading to the entrance of the airport still came under occasional fire from the Revolutionists who were not afraid to ambush any vehicle convoys around the area. This meant that Maplish and Somalian government convoys were sweet sweet targets. I had to stick with my radio communication with one of the guys in the convoy. He fired me up with the details on who was in the group, how many vehicles we had and the like. While I told him about how the situation up front in timely fashion.

As the convoy pulled through the checkpoint, we counted the vehicle train.

All good with a Maplish hummer rearing up the convoy.

Right behind, we spotted two more vehicles appearing behind them in hot pursuit. The Army guys at the checkpoint turned towards me.

"Those two aren't mine," I told them.

"What do you want us to do?"

"Pull a 0.5 on them," I yelled at them, pulling up my assault rifle.

I jumped out to the road with my gun raised. They didn't stop. Behind me, the Hummer had pulled up and the gunner was training towards the two vehicles, locked and loaded his gun. Still unsure whether I was dealing with a hostile or just some stray vehicles, I fired a warning shot.

The cars turned off and whisked away. Turns out, those cars were two friends of the vice president. The vice president had forgotten to tell us about them. He wasn't too pleased. My command wasn't too pleased, either. I got fired from my protection detail assignment, which wouldn't have been all that bad except that I then had to spend another week sitting in the make shift office doing nothing.

The platoon leadership tried to get me back doing direct action missions, but they had then decided to stick it to me a bit and kept me out for awhile. That was one of the most torturous moments - missing out on some action. that however didn't hang on to me for too long.

I was soon assigned to do sniper overwatches once again after. Haifa Street was where I was assigned to together with Company T. The soldiers would secure an apartment building to use as a hide, then I would go in, pick out an area, set it up and be ready to do my overwatches. The street was around 4 kilometres in length, from the first gate at the end of the city centre and up to the northwest. It had been the scene of numerous firefights and gun battles between the Somalian government forces and the Revolutionists. It was also home to all sorts of IED attacks, kidnappings and assassinations. It was on that very street and Maplish soldiers had dubbed it as the Action Boulevard.

The buildings we used for overwatches were between fifteen to sixteen storeys high and had a commanding view of the road. It was different from the low rise buildings I have had in Mogadishu. We moved around as much as wee could, shift locations to keep the Revolutionists off balance. There were an untold number of hideouts in the buildings beyond the immediate expressways nearby along the street.

At the start, they’d wear black or sometimes these green sashes, but once they realized that set them apart, they resorted to wearing regular civilian clothes just like everyone else. They wanted to mix with civilians to make it more difficult for us to figure out who they were. They were cowards, who not only would hide behind women and children, but probably hoped we’d kill the women and children, since in their minds it helped their cause by making us look bad.

One afternoon, I watched a young teenage kid waiting for the bus below me. When the bus pulled up, a group of older teenagers and young adults got off. All of a sudden, the kid I was watching turned and started walking very quickly in the opposite direction. The group caught up quickly. One of them pulled out a pistol and put his arm around the kid’s neck. As soon as he did that, I started shooting. The kid I was protecting took off. I got two or three of his would-be kidnappers; the others got away.

Some of the sons of the rich businessmen were favourite targets of the Revolutionists. The Revolutionists would use the families to put pressure on the government officials to let them go. Or else they would just kill the family members as a warning to others not to help the Somalian government forces against the Revolutionists.

One evening, we took over what we thought was an abandoned apartment, since it was empty when we arrived. I was rotating with another sniper, and while I was off, I went hunting around to see if there was something I might use to make the hide more comfortably. Nothing much I see. Though, there was often an odd, almost surreal mxi of things inside the buildings, items that seem out of place even under the best circumstances. Like the car tires we found on the roof in Mogadishu, or a goat in the bathroom of a street apartment in Haifa.

I’d see something, then spend the rest of the day wondering what the story was. After a while, the bizarre came to seem natural. Not quite surprising were the TVs and satellite dishes. They were everywhere. Even in the desert. Many times we’d come upon a little nomad settlement with tents for houses and nothing but a couple animals and open land around them. Still, they were bristling with satellite dishes.
The Minuscule Nation Mapletish
Pop. 65,000,000 | Capital: Struggait City| Demonym: Maplish/Mapletian| Trigramme: MAP
First - WLC 24, DBC 43 Second - WCoH 22, RUWC 23, CR 24 Third- BoF 44, HWC 11, WCoH 20, WCoH 21, DBC 49 Fourth - U15WC9, RLWC12
Qualified for WC 64, 66
Proudly contributing my triumph's to the glorification of the greater whole!

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San Ortelio
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Founded: Nov 09, 2020
Moralistic Democracy

Postby San Ortelio » Mon Dec 14, 2020 4:25 pm

It is highly advised to read my previous RP in this tournament (just a few posts above) before diving into this one – if only for the punchline.

Looking into the dressing room of a side that, against all odds and expectations, managed to reach the final of their very first international tournament, one would expect exalted scenes and a jubilant atmosphere. Probably someone in his underwear taking a swig from a champagne bottle or at least some incoherent chanting with the most tone-deaf of the crew bouncing the physio table like it’s a djembe. At least some laughter, no?

But within the San Ortelian dressing room, the only correct answer to the unasked question was none of the above. The sixteen youngsters, even those who had not set a foot on the pitch in this game, looked frail and exhausted. The last eighteen hours had been a rollercoaster that wore them down, mentally and physically. One could wonder how many would have refused if there was a flight back home chartered for that exact same night.


It was difficult to say whether the game was a snooze or a tactical masterpiece. We can only assume it was the former for anyone not having any stakes in it, as both Walter Moro and Malcolm Meade still had perfectly clean outfits despite a fine bit of rainfall. As if the soaked pitch did not halt proper passing football already, the tactical plans from the two managers ensured so. The Maplish manager had been characterized as a quirky character, but he sure knew how to field an eleven that executed a double wall with military precision. The Ortelians reacted to this by… Falling in line. One could almost consider it an argument against the military service of these boys, but it probably showed the lack of tactical maturity. Some could be seen glancing to the bench, but no hope came from that corner.


A shrieking noise wakes the whole second floor of the exquisite Vanorian hotel where the Young Swordfishes reside. For those few that managed to sleep straight through, the sound of the alarms chimed in. The ambulance sprinting into the parking lot minutes later made the pandemonium complete. The staff did a laudable attempt to calm the atmosphere, but the tenseness in their voice as they instructed the players to return to their rooms did not go past unnoticed. Twenty minutes later, everything was over but the sounds rang through their heads for the remainder of the night.


The Maplish were executing their Buio’Dzz, a traditional dance. Most opponents looked to the spectacle with a certain bemusement – if they had been briefed properly – or astonishment. It was, now they saw it in the flesh, quite spectacular and the dedication from the players stood out, yet no one was fully grasping the moment. Denis Spaviero barely even register anything of it, he just looked to his right. Niccolo Galli stood there, visibly nervous. No surprise to Denis, as he knew that Niccolo was not the kind of guy to put his money where his mouth was. But Spaviero looked straight through the tall striker to see the lad who should have been there with him in that moment.


Breakfast had been scheduled for eight o’clock, yet most seats were taken already and glasses of orange juice were filled – contrary to the awkward silence. No one had gotten any shuteye since the incident and the muffled conversation only discussed one topic, the three empty chairs. Eventually, Lorenzo decided to step forward, keeping his role as a captain in mind.

“Has anybody seen Siboni this morning?”

Only the trained ear noticed he didn’t refer to him as ‘the manager’, as he usually would in public. From the murmurs, one could distill that he had not been spotted since the sirens had left the building.


Attilio Quintarelli ran hastily towards Domenico Cappa as the duo of defensive midfielders got themselves ready for one of the last free kicks of the game. The clocks was running in their disadvantage and it became clear from the way they moved around. Every lack of direction became visible, every sense of their environment missing – in fact, it had been this messy since Fernando Gauvain had slipped through the offside trap for the opening goal. What could have been a clever plot between the two San Ortelians was immediately foiled as all Maplish in the wall could clearly hear Quintarelli say, ”again, do it again”. Contrary to their opponents, they did had a proper tactical briefing or at least that’s what it looked like. With just a hand signal, one of the Lions warned his defenders for what was to come.

After all, that exact duo had managed to unlock the quarterfinals and the Maplish were not having a carbon copy of that situation: an overshot free kick coming from the left which caught the defenders by surprise before Quintarelli popped up at the second post. Attilio already knew the plan was worthless before he reentered the box as Austin Sonnie decided to follow him around like a baby duck. He tried to wave to Domenico but his teammate already had his full focus on the leather.


Too often, the word ‘barging into’ is overused as an idiom simply over the need for more synonyms of the word ‘entering’. Yet, it completely fitted the bill when Ernesto Siboni [s]entered[/s] barged into the room of Nunzio and Lorenzo as he still held the handle in his hand when he stood in front of their beds. Dreadful didn’t fully cover his appearance. His tracksuit from the team stood open and revealed a once white wifebeater shirt with a nasty red stain on. A dirty bandage hang loose around his neck and did a poor job in covering the bloody scratches in his neck.

“Is everybody ready for training?” he whispered with a crackled voice.
“It’s matchday, coach, we’ve already completed the light training and now everyone is having some on-bed rest,” Lorenzo replied calmly whilst indicating to Nunzio that he can stare, but only with his mouth closed.
“But… But I didn’t lead it,” Siboni replied. It was crystal clear for all to see that he had lost the plot.


“That was brilliant, Dom!” exclaimed Attilio. They somehow had ended up next to one another in a celebratory huddle.
“Yeah… Yeah,” he murmured in agreement.

Rather than placing it at the far post, the leather had ended up near the first one where the tall Tommaso Crilese suddenly found himself unguarded. Moreover, goalkeeper Meade had taken a few steps further back, leaving open a wide space to nod in the equalizer. The goalscorer himself also embraced the man of the assist with a wide smile.

“That was so not intended, Dom,” he smiled, well aware of what had happened.
“Let’s just keep that to ourselves, shall we,” Cappa grinned.


“This makes no sense,” Mirko sighed as the squad completed their final lap of the warm-up.

The others agreed in silence. Hitting the training field a second time on matchday was downright dangerous for the muscles but so far, they were even more afraid from their manager. Ernesto’s eyes had turned to bewildered by now, the red strikingly matching the remnants of the bandage, by now carelessly draped over his shoulder.

“Ok, ok, that’s good,” he shrieked, “now a game situation with two teams of nine, com’on, com’on.”

Hesitantly, some of the guys walked into position until Cattai, in all his innocence, spoke up.

“Coach, where only with sixteen anymore. Without Luca Dolci, we can’t play match situations.”
“Luca? Luca. Right,” Ernesto muttered, to no one in particular. He looked lost.
“I… I recall, coach,” Moreschini suddenly insisted, “that ahead of the quarters we swiftly moved into the positioning exercise and then did the cooldown. That worked like a charm.”

By now, the more oblivious from the squad had learned to keep their wondering glances out of sight, but within a minute or two, even they knew what he was on about. Like that, they would be back off the field in twenty minutes, keeping it calm. It worried them that the gaffer didn’t realize that as well, but for now it sufficed.


“OK, I want more pressure here, here and here. And here. And definitely here.”

Siboni was manhandling the white board now with his markers and even the staunchest of tactical geniuses couldn’t make up where he was pointing towards. The players looked at one another, wondering if this new mental breakdown was an improvement or not.

“And Denis? You’re off.”

In regular circumstances, there was something to say in favor of such a decision. The striker had been abysmal throughout, barely connecting to his teammates and the author of a pitiful tally of a single shot – meters wide off the mark. Previously racking up the goals, he looked like a shadow of himself tonight. Still, it wasn’t the fact that he had scored in nearly every game so far that made it a controversial decision.

“Who’s coming on?” Lorenzo questioned. Two changes had already been made, Tornaghi tore a muscle during the warm-up and they were left with the static central defender della Torre and the stocky wingback Gioia on the bench.

Siboni stared into a void.

“Coach, who’s com-“
“Ok, ok. You stay on. But I want more pressure here. And here!”


There were nerves – of course there were at this stage – but none of them had to do with the game. During the latter part of the training, Siboni hadn’t spoken a single word to them anymore. They had eaten, rested and travelled to majestic Artani, all in a painful silence. If there was conversation, it was flustered and with shifty glances to the side. The breakfast rumors had turned into stories by midday and truths by the evening – the only problem was that they all contradicted one another. The reality remained the same, they were two men short, no one knew where they were and the only person with an insight looked as if he had been seeing ghosts. As they pulled their laces one last time, a dry cough eventually brought a slightly less tense silence. Slight. And short.

“Today, we’re playing Mapletish. They’re warriors, they’re fighters. Just like us, no one expected them to get far but they will prevail!”

Wait, what did-

“Ehm, we will prevail. Anyway, here is the eleven.”

By now, most knew they had to turn to Moreschini to break these silences. Lorenzo scratched his eyebrow, wondering what on earth he had signed up for with this ribbon.

“Coach, Vitali is still on there.”

3h20, the next day.

Denis could not sleep. He was tired of turning back and forth, trying a different position, searching for his phone and not finding it. If he looked to his right, he noticed from the rhythm of the breath of Quintarelli that he wasn’t the only one awake, but his teammates did a better effort in trying. Usually, he would have turned on the television just to poke his friend but on a night like this, he did it without any second thought.

Publicity for weight loss pills, ‘result guaranteed in three weeks or money back’. Old Western with gunshots spraying both parties and only the gangsters falling down awkwardly. Talk show in a foreign language with a heated figurehead anxiously trying to keep the glue of his toupe from melting. Publicity for the NicerDicer, ‘the source of every perfect cube in the kitchen’. Newsreel about the war in Northwest Kalactin, with the kind of footage that almost looked like stock images. Publicity for a fitness appliance, ‘result guaranteed in three weeks or money back’. Football.

”And as such Graentfjall qualified themselves for the final of the Di Bradini Cup. They will pick up the glove against their regional minnow San Ortelio. The side from the Rushmori microstate stunned the international field so far, adding another chapter to their Cinderella story with a victory over Mapletish. The winner only came in the second half of the extra-time. The Lions were setting up a counter attack through Arin Elton when Davide Trillo intercepted a deep pass. With a fast cross, the San Ortelian managed to bring his striker Spaviero eye-to-eye with the goalie Meade… And the striker buried it with a remarkable curve, as such ensuring progression for his team with his eleventh goal of the tournament.”

Denis stared at the screen. He would dare to swear on everything and everyone he loved, that he had never seen this goal before – let alone that he was the author.


If you do a final warm-up amidst a whirling stadium and it still forms a welcome refreshment to the atmosphere, you know it has been a tense day. Getting out there on the grass brought everyone back to the where they were and why they were here: it’s game time. In the tunnel, they started to pump themselves up, they had beaten everyone presented to them so far, now they could do this as well. With a renewed confidence, the squad entered the locker room.

And then Siboni sat there, in a corner. Alone and crying.

There was discomfort upon what to do now. The relationship with the coach had deteriorated already across the tournament, but his confused, bordering to deranged behavior today had turned him into a frightening caricature of himself now. Yet, some placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. After a long silence, it was Spaviero who addressed the elephant in the room.

“Coach… What happened tonight?”
“It… It was confusing.” he still looked worn out and downright terrible, but for the first time today he at least looked to be with his senses, “At half past five, around that time, I heard this loud shriek. Really loud and I rushed out of my room. It came from the one from Luca and Pier Luigi.”

At last, the faith of the two missing members would become clear.

“I rushed in and it was…” Ernesto hesitated.
“What, coach? What!” Denis yelled, unaware of how loud his words resounded against the marble walls.
“Pier Luigi was lying there, in a pool of blood. He somehow must have turned aside and hit his head against the night stand? Or maybe he had gone to the bathroom in the dark not to wake Luca, stumbled and fell down hard? I don’t know. He looked… Terrible. Blood everywhere… Everywhere. The ambulance was there fast, but they couldn’t promise me anything. When I left him, he was still unconscious.”

It hit the room like a bombshell, with questions flying around – some unasked, some out loud.

“And Luca?”
“The poor guy… He was in a shock. The trauma assistant suggested to take him along to the hospital as he appeared off this world.”

They tried to handle this message but then a soft knock on the door and an official entering the room broke the fragile tension. They all had forgotten it’s game time.


The first half of extra time had been an exhausting affair. The players from both side were worn out and the fear for a goal sat deep. As is customary, the players remained on the pitch but Denis Spaviero quickly rushed inside. During a late tackle, the studs from Randolf Tijs had sliced open the leather at the side of his shoe. Although it wasn’t vital for his accuracy, it still fell wrong to continue on them and with hurried moves and a squeaking breath, he snatched away in his bag. Cursing under his breath as he realized that he hadn’t packed his spare boots, he noted his cellphone in the corner of his eye. Usually, he wouldn’t pay attention but there was something off.

One new message

That was strange. And not because he usually got a stream of texts from friends and family following him live but as in, strange according to the laws of physics. Because some had complained about ‘these subterrain dressing rooms being bloody bunkers’ and he himself not having a single bar of reception. Whilst the urge to speed up had been all over his body, a voice in the back of his head told him to click it.

Don’t believe his lies. I don’t know where Luca is but I’m alive. Watch out. PL

The pixels danced in front of his eyes, became dots but he could not connect them. What he did know was that he nearly jumped to the ceiling when suddenly a hand softly touched his arm.

“It’s time, Denis. You’ve got to stay focused.”


“Yes, yes, of course,” Denis uttered.
“You’ve got to keep your head in it, Denis… It’s all about the balance.”

Swift, nearly docile, Denis followed his coach back to the pitch. Something was printed on his retina, but at the same time he couldn’t process what exactly. Blinded by his thoughts, he staggered back on the field where everything was ready for the final fifteen minutes. It wasn’t until the referee blew his whistle that the clouds in his mind got cleared and he again saw that hand, touching his arm. He had seen that hand before.

Those hands… They would have the same decisiveness to slit a throat but now they floored the marionette, leaving it entangled and lifeless.
San Ortelio, your favorite pseudo-Italian, coastal microstate. Less than half a million inhabitants who stand for a rich culture, are governed
by an delicate yet marvellously balanced system and remain economically viable due to fishing and funky tax laws.
But enough about us. Come vai?

We're no international threat, so have our domestic thread.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Banija » Mon Dec 14, 2020 7:18 pm

Image @AllBanijaSportsMagazine Rushmore rising? Rushmore haven't won a World Cup since 79, since Schottia won it. AO have won 5 of the past 6, the streak only being broken by FFR in World Cup 85. But Rushmore won the U18 World Cup, and have both finalists in the U21 World Cup. Are their youngsters set to dominate the future?

Image @AllBanijaSportsMagazine And think- Rushmore got the 2nd and 3rd place medals at World Cup 86. The Rushmori tide may not only be coming- it may already be upon us. I'm sure big clubs from all across AO will scout the final though- a number of Banijan clubs are sending scouts for a close up look for players on both sides. #DBC49
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

In which I am forced to apologize my crimes against scansion

Postby Graintfjall » Tue Dec 15, 2020 11:46 am

Excerpt from Kekulé Meets Jörmungandr: Tour Diaries of the DBC49 Campaign.
    The Final Decision

    And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
    One of the four beasts saying,
    “Come and see,” and I saw, and behold…

    In a conference room in the hotel in Raynor City, the night before the big game, ten hopeful young players are assembled. It’s been a long journey from drab group stage draws and nerve jangling qualification arithmetic through an increasingly confident knockout round charge. Sopo Chacuzca’s inventive, not to say downright maverick, tactics, formations and substitutions have taken Græntfjall, a team that hasn’t gone past the first knockout round in a major competition since their beginnings in the Baptism of Fire, to the final of the Di Bradini Cup. One last hurdle remains. Well, two:

    Playing San Ortelio.

    But, before that, with it becoming increasingly clear that, while a certain amount of positional fluidity has benefitted the side, a strong central player is needed on a permanent footing, determining who will take the coveted role of central midfielder for the final itself has become the major priority. The creative but undisciplined Josephine? The dependable but uninspiring Tinni? Johanna, target of so much hacking throughout the tournament she saves time at her medical check-in by listing where she isn’t hurt? Or someone unexpected? There are ten candidates…

    Only ten? Where is Reidar?

    The door begins rattling. Despite being marked ‘push’ in large, clear lettering, someone is clearly trying to ‘pull’ it open.

    “The door’s open, Reidar, you just need to push.”

    The door continues to rattle in its hinges, being pulled with increasing vehemence.

    “Reidar, push. The sign says ‘push’.”

    The walls are starting to rattle with the force with which the door is being pulled. A spray of dust rattles across the desk as a crack begins to form in the ceiling.


    The door is pulled open with an almighty wrench, tearing it off its hinges and ripping out an entire section of wall. Bricks fly and the doorframe collapses in a broken heap. The ceiling sags alarmingly. From amid the cloud of dust, Reidar emerges, stepping over a pile of crumbing breeze blocks. The door handle, a warped little hunk of twisted metal, is still grasped in his hand.

    “The door wouldn’t open,” he grumbles. “Is this the bathroom?”

    He’s given some directions and gently sent off down the corridor. So, yes – just ten candidates.

    They gather around, Karli glancing nervously at the defensive heat maps scattered across Chacuzca’s desk, Felix chewing his nails as he tries to read the critical notes scribbled in Orca-Marca on the margins of the formation chart, Natasja laconically popping some bubble-gum as she pretends not to notice the laptop screen paused midway through a video of one of her defensive mistakes.

    Sopo sits behind the desk, studying his young charges intently. The room is silent (apart from occasional crashes from down the corridor as Reidar navigates the complexities of opening the bathroom door, eventually settling on smashing it open with his head). If this is part of the challenge, to test who will have the nerve to speak up first and stake their claim to be the central midfielder, then it’s, perhaps slightly unexpectedly, Valtter who’s the winner. He clears his throat.

    “Um, harpoon-boat-captain**?”

    He is met with silence.

    “I understand the tactical charts.”

    “And the videos,” says Damjan.

    “The doctors’ reports and health logs,” adds Ari.

    “Even the newspaper clippings,” resumes Valtter.

    “But …” it takes, less unexpectedly, Sara to be the one to ask, “What’s with the piano?”

    Following fifteen minutes’ of hurried rehearsal time, plinking notes begin to the tune of Gilbert & Sullivan’s “I Am The Very Model Of a Modern Major General”.

    I … am the very model of modern midfield general,
    My distribution of the ball should inspire confidence total,
    I press from box to box and mark the opposition several,
    When running down the side my touch is not at all ephemeral;
    I’m forceful in my views and full of remarks anatomical,
    I can even run my mouth to a point that’s quite scatological,
    I played a solid ninety minutes despite picking up a nasty bruise,
    My beautiful assist came despite the ringing of those so-cruel boos.

    I am the most gifted playmaker whom you could ever dare to choose,
    (bursting in) While I have trouble remembering to properly lace up my shoes!
    So if there’s one of us who’s worthy of your confidence total,
    I am the very model of modern midfield general!

    I am a learned young man and I’ve knowledge of advanced tactics,
    I’m a mouthy little brat but I’ll dazzle with my sumptuous tricks;
    Tireless in defense and determined not to lose,
    (heading out) I forgot I was in the middle of trying to find the loos!

    My crossing, corners and set-pieces are the absolute bees’ knees,
    I supplied a chance for Lara that she put away with ease.
    I was suspended so I hit the gym and worked to build up my core,
    While I was in the film room to watch the games that had gone before.
    My superlative effort has become the veritable new norm,
    My speed meanwhile has masked any slight decline in my own form:
    So if there’s one of us who’s worthy of your confidence total,
    I am the very model of modern midfield general!

    (bursting in, again) I’m back but fear not this time there will be no big loud crash,
    It’s a pity that my through balls usually end up being trash,
    Yet precision passing’s something that I absolutely excel at,
    And I just make sure to call every referee a twat.
    My passes have a tendency to wild inaccuracy,
    But I thread the needle with absolute determinacy,
    I try to make the most of my quite modest proificiency,
    (tearing out, again) I’ll be back once I’ve recalled I was off to do a pee!

    I’m beyond compare with ball at my feet on the pitch,
    It’s just a shame you’re such a perpetual bitch.
    But still, for one of us who’s worthy of your confidence total,
    I am the very model of modern midfield general!

    (all: jazz hands…)
    Græntfjall – 3 (1)

    Ernestisson; Kristersson, Markusson Image (76’ Marvinsson Image); Leonhardsdóttir Image (45’ Hlynursbur Image), Kristoffersdóttir, Adamsson, Álvgeirsdóttir, Hólmarsdóttir, Rögnvaldursson, Grímólfursson; Auðunsdóttir Image Image (32’, 53’) Image (89’ Wolfgangsdóttir Image Image (90+1’))

    Island of the Lost – 1 (1)

    Smyth; Clark Image (90+1’), Reyes, Campbell, Rose; Morrison, Stewart Image (27’), Hamilton Image (58’ Norman Image); O’Brien Image (80’ Talley Image); Li, Sanders Image (66’ Brock Image)

* Græntfjaller brand of marker pen, similar to Sharpies.
** Græntfjaller idiom, similar to “skipper”, although more respectful.
Solo: IBC30
Co-host: CR36, BoF74
Champions: BoF73
Runners-up: DBC70
The White Winter Queendom of Græntfjall

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Democratic Socialists

Postby Valanora » Tue Dec 15, 2020 7:16 pm

Who is ready to do battle with their enemies? Final Cutoff!
Mapletish 1–0 Island of the Lost

@ The Battleground, Raynor City
San Ortelio 1–0 Graintfjall

Congratulations to the winner, commiserations to the loser, and a thank you to everyone who participated.
Last edited by Valanora on Tue Dec 15, 2020 7:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
World Cup 40, 42, 43, 52, & 61 Champions
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WCoH VII, VIII, XVII, XXVIII, XXX, XXXII (1st), WCoH I, XXXI, XL (2nd), WCoH II, XXIX (3rd), WCoH XII (4th)
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Island of the Lost
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Founded: Jun 01, 2019
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Island of the Lost » Tue Dec 15, 2020 7:43 pm

Lara Auðunsdóttir (32', 53')
Julia Wolfgangsdóttir (90+1')

Mathias Stewart (27')

"We are the Island of the Lost. We are scoundrels. We are liars. We are thieves. We are the scum of the earth. We have been sent here both for our own safety and for the safety of the world outside. This barrier protects the world from us, and us from the world. This is our home. This is where we will stay for the rest of our lives."

“Fucking shit!” I shouted as Graintfjall scored their third goal of the game. “Fuck! Damn it!” I continued to yell as I punched the ground with my fist before lifting myself up from my knees. We were on the verge of greatness, man. We were this close. In only our second appearance at the Under-21 World Cup, the Island of the Lost have managed to make it all the way to the semifinals, and of course we were all hoping that we would be able to go all the way to the final itself. After a somewhat shaky group stage where we drew two games out of three (and yet it was still somehow enough to make us winners of our group and advance us to the knockout stage)we've gone on a very decent hot streak. I mean, can you imagine being able to score five goals in consecutive games as a team? It really felt like we were playing like some of those just awesomely talented Port Maleficent teams from ten, fifteen years ago. Now those were teams who decide during training that "we're going to score five goals for five consecutive matches." It really did feel like that sometimes. Which is why this defear to Graintfjall stings all the more. We scored the first goal as well! But they adapted and overcame us. It just fucking sucks!

As you've already noticed, I've got a bit of a foul mouth when things aren't going the way I like 'em to go. Can't even remember how exactly I learned all these swear words; one day I was minding my own business and the next I was saying "Fucking shitting bitch-ass pussies!" But I can remember why I started swearing. See, I just wanted to blend in with the cool guys, the older guys, and 11-year-old me thought the way to do that was by swearing. You can imagine how that turned out. Even today I'm still cringing about some of the shit I've just said back there. And of course my mom didn't like it. Boy did she not like it at all. When she first heard me swearing she immediately dragged me to my room and spanked me. Imagine that, an 11-year-old getting spanked by his mother.

So of course the lesson I learned that day was not to stop swearing altogether but to just not get caught. But I still got caught a few times though, but this time my mom would just slap me hard. Yet that still didn't stop me. And then came the moment when I realized that I was no longer swearing just to look cool, but because something had made me angry. And lately I've had this new-found hair-trigger temper that I just couldn't explain where it had come from. But from what others had noticed, it seemed to start after the death of my grandmother. I had been close to her when I was young but I got distant as I grew older. Maybe it did have something to do with my temper. I don't know anymore.

I tried redirecting some of this temper into my football. Sometimes though, it would seem that I'm putting too much of my anger into the football. A defender always prides himself in his clean sheets, and every time I concede a goal my mouth just goes flying off the rails. Sometimes the opposition would feel the wrath coming from my tongue, but most of the time it was my teammates who bore the brunt of my tirades. Then again, I wasn't averse to some self-abuse of the verbal kind. But no matter who or what I was shouting at, I was almost always guaranteed to get a yellow card for dissent. Sometimes I'd get sent off because I had already been booked before. Still didn't stop me from cussing a little bit more while walking off the pitch.

That said, I'm very much surprised that I haven't even seen a single card against Graintfjall. God knows what kind of names I've called players from both sides. But this didn't escape the notice of the coach though, as during our final training session before our match against Mapletish for third place, he pulled me aside and said, "i hope you understand why I'm doing this, but the next game is going to be the most important one in the history of the Lost. So I'm benching you for that game. I just can't take the higher risk of a sending off because you mouthed off at the goalkeeper or the referee. Sorry, but that's my final decision."

"Well, you can take your shitty fucking final decision and shove it up your fucking ass!" I shouted. I didn't need to be told something I already goddamn knew. I walked off the training ground and wandered around the camp shouting and ranting and raving and using all the swear words in my vocabulary.

So, if you're watching the game and happen to hear somebody shouting, "Fucking shoot!" or "Fucking tackle him!" from the sidelines then now you know who it is. Come on, you Lost! Go fucking win this fucking thing!

~ Asher Campbell

"We are the Island of the Lost. We are sons, we are daughters, we are brothers, we are sisters. We are fathers and we are mothers. We will fight for what we have and for what others have. We are the Lost. We were here before and we will still be here after. We will fight for what is ours because it is our right to fight for it, and we will fight for others because it is their right to be fought for."
The Island of the Lost
A nation based on the Disney Channel Original Movie Descendants

The Island of the Lost has been found in the Melayu Archipelago!



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