World Cup 57 - Cafundéu & Sarzonia - RP thread

[Valanora]

"So you ended up being benched along with Espy and Faeron on."

"Unfortunately this was indeed the case for the match against the Jeruselemites."

"'Twas not the best of matches for the group without you three in the match."

"Quite true, our offense was unable to create any sort of momentium. Was not the sort of performances one expects to see out of our squad, even with the reserves in."

"That sort of performance may explain why the Polarians are now saying that we're no longer a major force in the footballing community."

"I do believe that they said that we are not the force we once were, not that we are not a force within the community."

"Pish posh, it was an insult and you know it."

"It was but it also should provide the extra incentive one needs during the turbulent time that is the knockout rounds."

"Should we be concerned that we need extra motivation?"

"All teams needs motivation or they will not perform to the optimum capacity they are capable of."

"I see, well, I guess it means we're a bit normal then."

"In a sense we are. Yet another World Cup title would go a long way to making those who would deem us normal remember that we are extraordinary."

"And tie us with the Starblaydis as well."

[Sarzonia]

Time to round out the rest of the Elite 8 of this World Cup! Cut off NOW!

Scores and remaining pairings up shortly!

And the winners are...

[Jeru FC]

Princess Shay Sasha Dallas and Jeru FC assistant coach Mango Mousse

Mango: What's with the long face?
Shay: Oh nothing
Mango: The Princesses lost to them faerie psychos?
Shay: Well, yes.
Mango: Not to worry, Jeru FC are doing the job.
Shay: We haven't made the quarters for a while
Mango: Hey, the team did well.
Shay: Still ...

Mango: Have a few drinks, that will make you feel better.
Shay: It's not going change anything in the past.
Mango: You can't live the past, live for the future.
Shay: You're so cheery. What's the secret?
Mango: I've got nothing to lose. I can only die.
Shay: You've had a lucky kind of life.
Mango: I get have sex with lots of women and the wife is OK with that.
Shay: That's because she doesn't want 100 kids.

Mango: Well, it suits everyone hey.
Shay: I heard you lot are going to be retired.
Mango: Well, I think they delayed it.
Shay: Not enough women in the army?
Mango: About that
Shay: I'm sure you're excited
Mango: Oh yes, it's gonna be great.
Shay: You're not drunk.

Mango: I have to be responsible, I have kids.
Shay: Wow, that sounds like you're growing up.
Mango: Well, not really. I don't recover like I used to.
Shay: Going to pick up any girls today?
Mango: I can't see any around here.
Shay: They all ran away when you lot arrived.
Mango: I don't know why that is.

Shay: You know.
Mango: Doing anything today?
Shay: No, why?
Mango: I think you need a nice bath. I can help.
Shay: Not a bad idea. But we had sex in the bathtub last time.
Mango: That's a good thing.
Shay: OK then, not like I'm married.

[Cassadaigua]

Britt's Law
Case #23: Finality

It's the case that I never wanted to come too, especially not now, but we have reached that point. Our World Cup dreams came to end last night at the hands of Aguazul, much the way they did in Cassadaigua in World Cup 54. We'll all look back and wonder what we may have done a little differently that could have led to a better outcome, but I have no excuses. We played well, and so did Aguazul. Jimeno Arellano just could not be beat and as an opposing forward who felt she had two very good cracks at him, I'll tip my cap to him and if he reads this blog, tell him that if he continues to play like that, he'll be celebrating his second World Cup championship.

Many of us will get another crack at winning the World Cup in the next edition, but there will be no faces and departures from the team. Personally, I would like to return but I'm getting older and who knows where I'll be in four years. I wish I could stay in Sarzonia so that I would not have to age at all, so I could come back, but that would be cheating and I have obligations at home.

Good luck to Aguazul and the seven others that have advanced to the next round. I'll still be tuning in!

[Bears Armed]

"Urrgah! Another last-moment goal against us: Yet another furless last-moment goal against us that resulted in us losing an important match..."

[Sarzonia]

The television's flicker didn't have much interest for Incorporated Football Federation chairman Brian Wilson or his father, IFF ambassador and honourary World Cup co-chairman Dave Wilson.

The match being shown on the tele was The Holy Empire's 4-0 rout of Jeruselem, a match that looked less and less interesting as time wore on. With both hosts out of the competition, all that remained for Sarzonia was to host the remaining matches and the third place playoff.

However, the telltale sound being made when the crawl with results came by got the Wilsons' attention briefly. Then they saw one score that made them especially happy: Polar Islandstates 2-1 Valanora.

Brian Wilson's mouth curled up into a smile. So, too did Dave's.

Elsewhere, Sarzonians gathered in a local watering hole to watch that particular match began to cheer. The Elves were going home. There would be no gritted teeth or forced smiles as the Sarzonians handed a third place trophy to the Elves. There would be no desperate hope against hope that the Elves would somehow lose in the final.

"Those arrogant tossers are out!" one fan shouted.

"Goodbye you bloody wankers!" another one called out.

The intense dislike of Valanora by Sarzonians was best described as being that directed toward a foe who either was or was perceived to be haughty and who considered itself superior to its foes. It was a classic battle between the proletariat and the blue bloods. In the minds of Sarzonians, at least, it was the battle of good and evil. To the Sarzonian national team, it was an upstart who had shoved and elbowed its way to the head of the line, cutting in front of it.

Perhaps the elves may be justified in believing they're better than everyone else. But for now, Stars supporters simply reveled in the fact that they were going home without hardware.

With a few minutes between the end of the Polar Islandstates-Valanora match and the next Round of 16 affair, a patron put a song in and the bartender heard the opening notes. He immediately recognised the song and turned the volume up so everyone could hear it.

It was a song that faded into obscurity in Sarzonia's motherland, but it had become a huge hit in Sarzonia itself. And, for one night, at least, it felt like the right song to celebrate the early end of Valanora's World Cup 57 hopes. And for the small percentage of those who also were happy about seeing the "whores" from Jeruselem out, it was even more perfect.

"Gone are the ghosts, gone is the lost world, yeah
You're too crazy to change, but never forgotten
Gone are the lost girls, gone are the lost girls
GONE! The girls went home!"

Even though Stevie Nicks herself sang 'ghosts', most of the patrons substituted the word 'ghosts' for 'elves.'

Once again, "Ghosts Are Gone" indeed.

[Alasdair I Frosticus]

The irony of a Holy Empire slaughtering a team from a nation with a name like 'Jeruselem' had not been lost on Juan Tzimisces, but he allowed himself a smile all the same. After all, he remembered how the Archregimancy used to react to being drawn against the flexibly-moralled women of Jeruselem. Some of those monks could perhaps use a little loosening up....

Speaking of the Archregimancy, he reflected with some sadness on the short item he'd seen in the Holy Empire Herald that morning.

The Monastic Football Association would wish to thank Fr. Sozon the Simple for his five World Cups of service to the Archregimancy, and respect his decision to return to his home monastery.

Had Father Sozon jumped, or had he been pushed, Juan wondered? Sozon had taken over a team falling apart after its failure to qualify for World Cup 52, and then taken it to only the second semifinal in Archregimancy history; at the same time, the monks had looked stale this tournament, and you had to wonder whether not making any changes to the team between World Cups 56 and 57 had really been the right idea. But still, Juan would miss Father Sozon; he wasn't sure he'd want to spend a week talking theology with the footballing coach - but he'd known a surprising amount about how to get the best out of a 90-something winger.

Tzimisces looked at the quarterfinal draw. No team reached the quarterfinals of the World Cup without a certain level of ability, but Queer Poco el Mono Ara? Juan meant no disrespect to da Rossa's squad if he thought the imperial squad had faced tougher challenges in the past. After all, da Guia was so tall, all you had to do was shoot low near his feet - he'd never get down in time.

Another semifinal beckoned if they could get the tactics right on the day.

Tzimisces looked down his own teamsheet. Surely this time they'd be no more unfortunate obstacles. McPherson was safely shackled until the end of the World Cup. The team were playing brilliantly again now that they weren't facing and distractions - even Oberon and Titania temporarily seemed to be getting along. And as far as Juan was aware, no one was threatening the destruction of the multiverse this week.

Good times.

And then, inevitably, there was a knock on his door...

"Juan! Juan! You have to come now... you just won't believe this."

"What, Simeone?"

"It's La Belle Dame... Never mind my trying to explain - just come and see for yourself. And just when everything seemed to be going so smoothly for once."

Juan Tzimisces sighed to himself.

This was going to be one of those days after all, wasn't it?

[Sorthern Northland]

One final deep breath from David Black as the referee puts the whistle to his mouth and blows to start the match. Clive Richardson knocks it forward to Robert Allen and it's underway. The knockout rounds of the World Cup, a place that Black has experience of and a place where there's no second chances. This is it, all of nothing.

-

One final deep breath from Danel Bengochea as his commander issues the command to go into battle. A young man barely into his third decade, this is a situation that Bengochea has experienced more than he ever wanted. Over the months of the war he'd lost friends, seen the people he grew up with either killed or flee, or worse, killing for the other side. This though had something of a different feel to it, this wasn't just a battle in the war, it was the battle. Emerge victorious here and they'd finally have control of the country. A nation freed from years of oppression.

-

Coming up to the twentieth minute of the match and it had been a frustrating one. Neither side had really been able to assert any control in what had been a scrappy encounter. Jean-Pierre Gagnon on the left winger in particular had so far struggled to make it into the game. Playing out of position he'd never really looked comfortable on the left wing, but he was with the ball at feet, gliding past Leon Sartelli and now Scott Karrah. Cutting inside to the box he put in a cross to the box post. The onrushing Saiorse Ní Fhionnagáin did well to get to it with a diving header, but even so she'll have been disappointed to have sent it over the bar.

-

Already in the Battle of Beningrad heavy losses were being felt by both sides. For Bengochea it had seemed as though comrades had fallen all around him, hundreds must be dead already.

“DUCK!”

They was no thought in Bengochea's next action, he just willingly obliged without question. A good job as well as he heard a bullet whizzing over his head, the man behind him however wasn't so fortunate. Having seemingly not heard the warning the bullet sped straight through his neck. One more down, but certainly not the last. There would be many casualties before the fight was over.

-

Colm Ó Riordan would be playing no further part in this clash. Scythed down by Paddy O'Mahony on a venture forward he'd been forced off the pitch with what looked to be a rather nasty looking injury. Quite what O'Mahony was thinking is unclear as he appeared to have Ó Riordan covered and running into a dead-end. With the O'Mahony family involved in a feud with the Ó Riordan's at home though it may have been nothing but malice. What Colm has to do with that though is unclear, as is how the referee decided that O'Mahony only deserved a yellow card.

-

The fighting had been tough. Not only were many men and women falling but the wayside, but Beningrad itself was. Fighters were not only having to avoid bullets, bombs and blasts, but also collapsing buildings and the resulting fires and dust clouds. The rebels though had the the upper hand, they were slowly forcing the government forces back, and though the price they were paying was huge, their numbers seemed to be larger than those of the government.

-

Into the second-half and Krytenia had started the stronger. The captain of his nation Clive Richardson was putting in a leaders shift. Whilst not venturing forward particularly much he was dictating the pace of the game seemingly picking out cyan and white chequered shirts at will. In this instance it was Calvin Thordarsson who he was finding, seemingly without trying. The Emberton Reds man then completely had the beating of Grace Tyler for pace and plenty of space to fire in a pinpoint cross for Cameron Davis to power past Yasser El-Borolossy. Having lost his man David Black was left standing with his hands on his head. Krytenia now held control of the match, if Sorthern Northland were to continue their charge for a third World Cup title they now had it all to do.

-

“RETREAT! RETREAT!”

Captain Jared Butler. He'd served in the Sorthern Army for a bit over a decade and had always held unquestioning loyalty to his superiors and to the state. Despite that though recent events had seen him begin to question that. There was nagging feeling inside of him that what he was fighting for was wrong, that the people he pledged his loyalty were wrong. The rebels, yes, they were an illegal movement, they were a threat to the nation, the nation that he'd sworn to protect, but did that make them wrong. Or was the nation wrong?

Whatever the case he'd made his bed and committed to it. The men under his command needed his leadership and low on morale and weapons retreating ad regrouping was all they could realistically achieve with a rebel tank division bearing down on them.

-

Saiorse Ní Fhionnagáin had undoubtedly been the star performer in a disjointed Sorthern performance. Where the cyan and white checks had otherwise tamed the red shirts Ní Fhionnagáin had been different. When her team-mates had been able to get the ball to her she'd been a constant menace on the right wing, testing Calvin Thordarsson's defensive abilities and turning Colm Ó Riordan's replacement Trevor Milk this way and that. Since coming on Milk had endured a torried time against Ní Fhionnagáin and another darting room from the FC Mildrid girl was furthering that. As she jinked her way into the box David Black reckoned he could see the moment it finally got to Milk, the moment where all rationality vanished as he dived in at Ní Fhionnagáin's heels sending her sprawling onto the turf.

“YES!” roared Black along with several thousand other Sortherners as the referee blew his whistle and pointed to the spot.

It was a bit of a daft thing to do really, they may well have a penalty, but they were still a goal down. But it wasn't conscious it was just something that came out. Given the pressure that Sorthern Northland had been under it would perhaps take a penalty to get back into the match.

Or perhaps it was just belief in Clive Costly. Placing the ball on the spot the Cafundó de Juta man was a display of confidence, he always was, there was surely no way he could miss.

Alan Keys disagreed however. Reading Costly's run-up perfectly he dived to his left to pluck the well struck penalty seemingly out of the net and round the post for a corner. All the cheering was no being done by the thousands of Krytenians. Black and many other Sortherners left to rue their premature celebrations.

-

Surveying the scene Rhys O'Donnell couldn't help but feel a sense of encroaching defeat. The Taoiseach had ruled over this country with an iron fist for many a year, for a couple of decades even. That rule had largely been built on the back of support from the military, but that very military was now failing him.

Looking out across Beningrad from his office in the top floor of the Dáil he could see the battle scarred landscape of a previously grand city. Smoke billowed and wafted across the ruins, whilst almost immediately below the rebels could clearly be seen over-running the remnants of the army. Time was running out.

-

David Black was now an auxiliary forward. It had to be done, all three substitutes had been used and still Sorthern Northland were trailing Krytenia. All or nothing, and Sorthern Northland were going all out for it. Ní Fhionnagáin was again the hub all of all good things for the Sortherners, perhaps even afforded even more time with the yellow carded Trevor Milk almost being too afraid to challenge her. She made her way to the byline before pulling the ball back, back in fact to Black who had found himself in a perfect position. Shooting first time however he was only able to offer up a tame shot into the hands of Alan Keys.

The right place, the right time, but the wrong person. Had it been one of the strikers, a Costly, a Bartley or Wallace, then it'd surely now be one all.

Keys wasn't allowing any time to wallow in what ifs however, rushing towards to the edge of his boxed he bowled the ball out to Terry Hart. With Cameron Davis and Paul Carlisle ahead of him and just Kayleigh Wheelock back for Sorthern Northland it was a three on one situation. Playing the ball between them Hart, Davis and Carlisle almost seemed to be toying with Wheelock and Sorthern Northland before Carlisle finally took the ball into the area. His shot didn't find it's way past El-Borolossy, but Hart was first to the rebound and made no error in tucking the ball away.

Krytenia two, Sorthern Northland nil. There would be no coming back now.

-

“Yes Taoiseach?”

“The launch codes. I want them activated.”

-

Time appeared to have slowed right down since the second Krytenian goal. Having won the ball back almost straight from the kick-off the Aces were now certainly toying with their Sorthern foes. Playing keepball each short pass to a chequered shirt was greeted by a celebratory roar from the masses of Krytenian fans. With all hope gone those in red, white and gold were left almost begging the referee to blow for full-time.

He'd already looked at his watch three times, but had yet to blow, he too it seemed was toying with them. A fourth look at his watch however was followed by the full-time whistle. The Krytenians erupted into celebrations as it was blown. Many Sortherners mimicked Black by holding their hands to their heads. Once the Sorthern players did make their way to applaud the remaining Sorthern fans it probably appeared to many to mark the end of an era. With the war back home, many probably wouldn't be returning there, it was in many ways the end.

The champions are dead. Long live the champions.

-

“Taoiseach, are you sure?”

“Yes General, I'm commanding you to activate the launch codes.”

Once of O'Donnell's closest allies over the years General Xavier Porras clearly doubted his latest orders.

“You'll destroy everything. You'll kill us all. Ourselves, our own men, civilians, the rebels. Everyone. The country, everything.”

“Xavier.” looking into the eyes of his General whilst taking a final sip of whiskey, O'Donnell spoke his words solemnly, in a calculating manner, but most of all with conviction, “Look out there. Look out the window, go on. Do it.”

It was hardly a postcard sight, a previously vibrant city now lay as grey dreary smoke filled ruins, former landmarks long wiped from the face of it. Gunfire could be heard, whilst rockets and shells continued to pound certain areas.

O'Donnell continued, “What is there to save? They've already murdered Sorthern Northland. Destroyed it. There's nothing left now to save, she's taking her last few breaths. Put her, put us all out of this misery.”

“Yes Sir.”

-

“COME ON! LET'S GET THE BASTARD!”

The rebels by now had overrun the government forces and were now storming the Dáil. Their target? Rhys O'Donnell. They had control of the nation now, but the symbolism of his regime falling still needed to take place. The noise of their charge however was deflated by a loud shriek from the skies above.

“What was...”

“Oh shit!”

They may well have overrun the government, but in it's dying breaths the government had one final trick up his sleeve. With a sizeable nuclear arsenal under it's control it hadn't merely brought about the end of the rebels. It had obliterated everything.

Sorthern Northland is dead. Long live Sorthern Northland.

----

[Bostopia]

(OOC: This RP should be taken as having took place an hour or two before Sorthern Northland's last RP, to highlight just how badly the Emperor's conducted things)

BEARS DIS-ARMED

Bostopia Beat Bears, Quarter-Final Beckons

A last minute goal from substitute Gerry Keane has seen Bostopia progress from the Round of 16, headed toward a Quarter Final showdown with Krytenia and the Cyan Army which follows them. Bostopia, of course, haven't made it to the Quarter Finals in 44 years, their last venture being against Cafundéu in Burnaby, way back in the 46th World Cup, losing by 3 goals to 2 after extra time – the full time score being 2 – 2. Naturally, the question is whether the Bostopians will insist on mascots, presumably toddlers, in an attempt to put fear into the hearts of the Krytenians.

---Fifth Floor, Fort Boston Castle, Fort Boston---

The situation in Sorthern Northland had become critical – now the Emperor was aware what was going on around him, he was certain action had to be taken. No response had been heard from the Sorthern Government, which was incredibly odd, at the very least some abuse was usually sent in reply to official invitations, along with what appeared to be a grudging acceptance to eat the food offered and make use of the free bar.

The Emperor himself and the other military heads in Bostopia were gathered around a table in the Banqueting Hall, which was on the north side of the building, a large map of Sorthern Northland and a small list titled "What we know" on the table. Chatter was high, technical terms were thrown about as if they were the first words learnt by a child and known since an early age, all aimed at the Emperor, all pushing his mind toward ordering one action or another.

It eventually happened; a decision was needed and needed now. Those around the table turned toward the Emperor, who showed only a look on his face of being way over his depth, a serious crisis that had found the flaws he'd hidden under the show of confidence his appearance gave him, the smug satisfaction in his own power that was now being torn down. However this time, things were different. The men around him knew that – they could sense the Emperor searching his mind for the answers and only coming up with new questions that told him nothing.

"I don't know what to do!" He yelled, seemingly unable to take in all the information being given to him. The room fell into near silence, only broken by the tiny clatter of cups and saucers being placed on tables. The Emperor struggled to collect his thoughts, his eyes darting across the room for an answer from somewhere.

The lady with the drinks trolley carried on doing her duty of that particular hour. Perhaps, the Emperor thought, there was something in that. To carry on as normal and ignore everything else which was going on around you, ignore what was a decisive point in stopping Sorthern Northland tearing itself more than certainly into two at best, at worst scattered peoples who were remnants of what had been.

Still none of the military chiefs said a word. What could they say? The decision to be taken was to be that taken by the Emperor, only he had the power to order the nation into war, to send Bostopian troops into foreign fields. Yet those of rank in the room remained quilted in awkward silence. One or two choosing to cast their eyes out toward the window, looking over central Fort Boston, hoping that another would break the noiseless atmosphere which had been created by indecision.

The Emperor knew that his indecision was costing lives. Despite all his bluster, he respected the Sorthern Northlanders, not least their livers, but their tenacity and willingness to take on a cause and see it through, which probably caused this conflict in the first place. He had to do something, anything, if only to buy himself more time.

Death watched over that room, waiting to see what decision would be made, clinging to the Emperor's back, wondering how many more would fall into his cold grasp - the Emperor's actions would decide that.

Boston looked around. "Reconnaiance missions. Fly them over Sorthern Northland until we know exactly what's going on. Drones, satellites, the works. We must have an idea of what's going on on the ground."

So it was the decision that had been made... was indecisiveness. Death silently applauded.

[Aguazul]

"Don't play dumb, kid," said Cristobal.

"I'm not playing dumb," said the leader.

"What are you doing here?"

"We're here to work out a deal with you."

"No! You're not getting any of the gold!"

"What gold?"

"Don't play dumb."

"Okay, okay, you want to make a deal?" spoke up another of the cool kids. "You keep whatever gold you have, how's that for starters?"

"What do you want?" said Ramón. "To make a deal for."

"The treasure," the leader repeated.

The other speaker, who was by then catching on, jumped in. "No. They don't understand what they're sitting on, they think there's some gold here. They don't know what we're after."

"What are you after?" said Big Damian.

"Shut up," said Ramón.

"Pipes," said the leader.

"I could do with a cigarette myself," said Cristobal.

"No," said the second cool kid. "We want the water."

Beltran turned and stared out at the lake. It was still pretty dark, but sure enough, there it was. A lake.

"Everything's turned to desert," the cool kid went on. "The trees are gone, the forest..."

"You have something against progress, kid?" Ramón raised his gun.

"No! It's just...we're willing to buy it. Out in the towns, you know, it's not all linked up like the Supercentro. We're all willing to pay, but you have to build pipes."

"This...this water," said Cristobal. "Is the treasure you're after?"

"Yeah," the cool kids said in a slightly less than cool unison.

"And you'd pay for the pipes," said Ramón.

"I mean," said the leader, "not just us five. There would be other people, too."

Ramón and Cristobal looked at each other for a long moment, as if speaking through a radio that no one else could here. "Come with us," said Cristobal, finally, and nodded at Beltran "You stay here. There could be more."

Beltran nodded, and as soon as they'd taken their first step away picked up his gun. He listened, ears perked, for gunshots, but none of them came.

*********************************************************

The trouble with praise was how it became expectations, and he couldn't just say “no, no expectations, thank you,” when Jimeno clearly did have them. Lofty dreams, tempered by the knowledge that plenty of others had them in turn, unhampered by glory glimpsed from the bench or the screen. Expectations that would have been just as preserved, or dashed, by victory by any margin (or certain types of, if one was being pedantic, lack of victory, though this would likely have required as much skill on his part than any shutout).

Nor could he even say that things were all well and good to become expectations, they just didn't need to happen so quickly. Because it had not been that short of time, after all. When he was making a fool of himself against Moresnetujo or having to deal with the crazies from Transilveinia, no one knew that Aguazul would win the championship. When they did it, nobody knew they would play the next Cup at home. The country was making some sort of progress.

So instead, he tried to remember the game itself. The pieces came out of order. Maybe if people other than Eusebio had scored it would have been easier to reconstruct, but instead, he remembered plays, fragments, all out of order.

And that, he told himself, was okay. Because he was busy playing, he wasn't even distracted by thinking about anything. Not the other results or what might lie ahead or what they'd already accomplished. Not even the ongoing game. And thankfully not what banners might have been held aloft.

*********************************************************

A few days later, the construction equipment started rolling in.

There were private sector workers there during the day, and Beltran was left to take the night shift. He slept during the day, but woke up early enough to walk around a bit in what passed for free time before the workers left and he went back to guard duty. It was late in the evening on a day such as that the diggers found the chest.

[Krytenia]

A Pyrrhic Victory

In the "away" dressing room of Timber Park, the party was in full swing. Twenty-three young Krytenian men, and their management team, celebrating wildly, for they had beaten the World Champions. Indeed, not only had they beaten them, they'd played Sorthern Northland off the park. In the corner, and playing to nobody in particular, a stereo played tunes from back home. In the corner, Trevor Milk's phone beeped. He read the message, and immediately said the first thing that came into his mind.

"Oh, SHIT."

Within moments, the music stopped. The television in the corner of the dressing room, usually used for pre-match DVDs of the opposition and the like, now showed a Sarzonian news channel, as the tragedy filtered through to the world. Victory didn't matter any more; the Sortherners were not going home, because they had no home to go to. Families, homes, cities, farms; all had been wiped out in mere minutes of madness. It would be weeks before anyone would be able to comprehend the full extent of the events in the barren husk of what had been a thriving nation.

Clive Richardson silently stood up, and walked out of the door. The rest of the Krytenians followed, and they noiselessly made their way across the corridor to the "home" changing room. Clive tapped politely on the door. He knew walking into the dressing room of a team you've just defeated, a team you've just eliminated, no less, was bad form, but this was a situation that transcended mere football.

It was Harriet Waddington who opened the door, her eyes stinging with tears. Clive, almost as a reflex action, wordlessly embraced her as she collapsed into howling sobs, soaking the shoulder of his jersey. Eventually, the rest of the Sorthern squad beckoned their heretofore rivals inside. Football was, after all, only a game; what the Sorthern players and coaches needed was someone to share their pain, regardless of their nationality or profession. Last inside the door was Colm Ó Riordan, still limping heavily from the challenge that had taken him out of the game. He hobbled over to Paddy O'Mahony; an hour ago, the Royal Khaldoon's face was twisted with a primal anger as he clattered into his Krytenian counterpart; now, his face was grey and ashen, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. He looked up at Colm, and turned his head away. "I'm...I'm sorry," he mumbled, unable to look the man standing before him in the eye.

Colm sat down, on the verge of tears himself. "Don't." He paused a second, looking for the right words. "A silly tackle? A stupid feud? None of it matters now. We've both..." he sniffed to try and clear his nose, barely keeping his composure, "we've both lost family. Maybe all our families. We need to get through this. Together." At this, both men gave into the heart-rendering sorrow of a shared grief.

If there is a sight that one hopes never to see, it is that of a room full of grown adults, stony-faced and sorrowful, sharing a pain that none of them will ever be able to rectify or forget. Friends, sometimes, are forged from fire - and today, sixty men and women emerged from the infernal flames with a shared resolve that nobody, politician or prince or Pope, could ever shake.

[Jeruselem]

TO: Southern Northland World Cup 57 Cup team
From: Princess Sofia Michell Dallas

We've just heard about your homeland turning into a nuclear wasteland. Admittedly nothing we can say or do can bring back your country to some habitable state unless we manipulate the fabric of time and space.

We are offering everyone on the team and team management a home in Jeruselem. I have asked the King and he's OK with this. You people have lost your home and well can't go back. If you do, there's nothing left for you to go home to.

XXX
Sofia

[Bostopia]

Deep, deep underground Mount Bostopia is the Command Centre for all of Bostopia's military operations. Impervious to attack, it was home to monitoring stations and early detections systems. Yet none of them could have expected what was taking place.

---Roof of Fort Boston Castle, Fort Boston---

The Emperor was stood on the roof of his Castle. His fortress untouched, secure, away from the warfare taking place in the streets of Beningrad, not scarred by bullets or marked by shrapnel. It was a beautiful day as he looked across all that he owned, the horizon blending in with trees and sky, the skyscrapers in the "new city" stretching around the eastern expanse on the other side of the city wall. The sudden breeze he felt added to the view, though he found himself compelled to spin round.

Nothing was there. Nothing but the view northwards and all that would take in. He'd been certain he'd felt someones grip tightening on his shoulders, a grip icy enough to freeze the sun itself. Yet still nothing physical was there, only the heavy sense of unease which had suddenly overcome him. The Emperor wanted to carry on surveying but – somehow – he knew all was not well in the world. He prayed it wasn't his fault as he turned, aware now something was definately there, there for him.

Haelwen appeared at the top of the stone steps which – while slightly eroded by weather – had definately stood the test of time.

"Emperor... you need to get inside." He said, quickly, with the panic barely contained.

"Haelwen, what's happened?"

"Emperor, get inside!" Haelwen responded, the panic this time not contained as he ran to where the Emperor stood, pulling him by the sleeve of his jacket back toward the stairs.

Haelwen said not one more word until they reached the elevator (not an original feature), the doors open, four soldiers present in uniforms, battle-ready, though obviously on edge, shown by the way they clutched their assault rifles rather than held them with the usual grace a Bostopian soldier has. Once the doors closed, Haelwen spoke.

"We've lost all but two of the drones over Sorthern Northland."

The Emperor hesitated. "How many went?"

"Twenty-one."

"Nineteen drones were destroyed? Lord alive, Haelwen, are we at war with Sorthern Northland?"

"We don't know, sire. The situation's changing rapidly, we've no choice but to get into safety."

"Basement level 29, then?"

"Precisely."

Basement level 29 of Fort Boston Castle was, for all extents and purposes, really the third level of what was underground Fort Boston Castle. The original B1 and B2 were storage and dungeons, respectively, though nothing but reinforced steel and concrete was between B2 and B29, though it reached down far enough for it to be Level 29 so that was that. It was also home to the Emperor's personal bunker, which was nowhere near as secure as the M.B.C.C., but the constraints of having a building on top which had had something there for almost 2000 years prevented that level of security being built.

Coming out of the elevator and turning right, they passed through security, the heavy doors fixing themselves shut behind them as they walked. The men there would be the last ones to see anything of the world outside of the bunker itself should the unthinkable happen and Fort Boston were to come under nuclear attack.

The Emperor was met by the chiefs who had been in the previous briefing.

"What's going on?" The Emperor immediately asked.

"We're not sure – whatever it was, the impact was catastrophic enough on the drones for data to be stopped immediately."

"How close was it from one drone dropping out to the next?"

"Seconds.. about a minute from first to last."

"Oh lord, they can't have thought we were en route to attack, can they?"

A second military chief – this time Air Force – chimed in.

"It's possible. The video feed from the remaining two drones are still live, as is the satellite feed."

"Switch to a drone, that way we may see what causes the damage if it happens again."

The Emperor and the chiefs walked off to a room with television lining the walls, each showing a different angle from the drone. A distant flash was seen in the distance.

"What on earth was that?" The Emperor asked, before the drone's feed became incredibly shaky before cutting off.

Military heads turned to each other, grim looks upon their faces.

"Emperor, we're going to switch to the satellite feed in the main room."

They all walked back out, into the larger room, the screen hooked into the view of the satellite above Sorthern Northland. Bright orange clouds billowed up into the atmosphere, while flashes still went off above major towns and cities. The room was stunned. The Emperor felt that grip on his shoulder again. Lifes were ending before their eyes and there was nothing anyone could do but watch, helplessly, hoping it would all reverse or it was some practical joke.

"Where- where are the launching sites?" The Emperor stuttered, hoping that his own nation's commanders hadn't gone rogue.

"Command Centre reports multiple launches detected in Sorthern Northland, multiple hits in Sorthern Northland and there only" an unnamed voice came from one of the screens.

It was, the Emperor thought, their version of Operation Rebel Yell. Bostopia's very last line of defence, the "If we can't have Bostopia, neither can you" move that would conquer any invading army but leave the Twin Isles a desolate nuclear wasteland, a scorched earth policy which was selfishness in its purist. Though here it was happening infront of them.

"Prepare all anti-missile batteries and put the air force on red alert – if anything heads our way I want it nowhere near my sky." The Emperor said, his decisiveness finally coming, though much too late for those in Sorthern Northland, with officials scurrying off to carry out his orders. "Furthermore, I want Bostopia to be ready to take refugees or help refugees on their way to other nations. Spare no expense. We must save what there is left to be saved."

Guilt was a strange thing for the Emperor. It was bringing out the human in him.

[Queer Poco el Mono Ara]

There was no denying it. Queer Poco el Mono Ara had a good team. But that was about the extent of it. It was a good team, 22 players of a reasonably high standard, but not World Cup winners.

The work ethic amongst the team was superb. The team spirit unbreakable. In 22 competitive matches they had lost just the once. This was perhaps the Golden generation of Pocoan football. But that is where the critics expected it to end. They were a good team. But that was the extent of it. To beat the Holy Empire it was going to take something of epic proportions. Many of the fans believe that something was in the midfield.

The 23d man, Lionel Johnson, had been found living in the depths of the Pocoan jungle on the island of Modesto. So far from humanity it was a mystery how the boy had survived there for so long. But the even bigger mystery was how the boy had come to live in the jungle in the first place. Had he been abandoned by a mother who no longer wanted him? If that was the case, it was a cruel and callous World the young lad had been born into, and one the romantics had decided they wanted nothing to do with, instead dreaming up the fantastical tale of a boy, born the son of God, come back to Earth once more, to play football and beguile the multiverse with his divine ability.

His astonishing hat-trick against Mytannion was just another display of his brilliance… the kind of brilliance that The Whites would be relying on to help them into the semi-finals.

-----

It had been a long time since Rushmori football had felt like it was a big name player and it was such a crying shame three nations had found themselves in the same half of the draw. With the Whites eliminating Mytannion (having faced them once again) there now stood Cotdelapoms, The Polar Islandstates and us in Cafundeu. With an all-Rushmori tie the region was guaranteed at least one representative in the semi-finals. And that knowledge was humbling to Miguel da Rossa.

It was a good time to be Rushmori, despite the ongoing minor conflicts we had kept a wide berth of; there was a sense of unity. We liked to consider each of the nations that had reached the quarterfinals “friends”. Mytanars, Polarians and Cotdelapomais had done the region proud and were at the spearhead of a Rushmori revolution. Before long the region would be boasting another World champion.

The days of the footballing anomalies from Rushmore had passed. Albundania, Pays de Horreur and Nethertopia had reached the latter stage of the tournament in almost fluke fashion in previous years, but now if felt as though ability was prevailing over good fortune.

Da Rossa looked over his team sheet. The first eleven hadn’t changed since the second qualifier. Da Guia in goal, a back four of Gibson, Onyewu, Ledger and Derby. The standard Pocoan diamond, with Martinez, Sukur, Masin and Johnson and ahead of them Onwuzuruike and Cain. Cain had come into his own throughout the tournament, with the withdrawal of Kandakram through “personal issues” the striker had been relied upon and he had answered the call. Miguel scratched his head. The Holy Empire was going to be expecting that team to line-up against them. Calling a meeting in the hotel the team was staying in, the coach looked around at the 23 men.

“We’re going to break tradition. I know we like to stick with the diamond, as is the way with football back home. But we have never been this far before and if we want to progress further, we need to be able to catch the opposition off-guard. We’re switching to a 3-2-4-1.”

The coach went on “Onyewu, Endo and Ledger at the back. Edwards and Martinez in front of them. Masin, Sukur on the wings and Johnson, Jay and Cavanaugh in the middle. And up front.” There was a pause. “Henry.”

Miguel had dropped Abel Cain, The Whites “star forward” for the biggest game in the nation’s footballing history. It was a gamble.

-----

For so long Vijay had been incommunicado, so when the letter arrived it came as a shock. His parents hadn’t heard from him since he had visited Valanora while on his travels. They hadn’t worried. He was a grown man.

“Dear Mom and Dad,

Sorry for my lack of communication in recent weeks. As you may have heard I have taken an indefinite break from football. Don’t worry, I’m sure my passion for the game will return.

At the moment I’m living in Hsien-Ko, learning the ways of the Reformed Neo-Buddhists. It’s a peaceful way of life and is helping me find my centre through meditation.

Thinking of you.,
Vijay”

It had been several weeks since Vijay arrived at the temple in Hsien-Ko. Several weeks of learning and preparing. Several weeks of accepting his role in their history.

-----

?! POCOAN TRIVIA!?

This week, former Queer Poco el Mono Ara international Ishmael Van Dyke announced the birth of his second son, Miércoles, but can you name the Sarzonian city that his first son is named after?

Congratulations to Anon of Kulverit for answering the previous question correctly. The answer was a 7-1 triumph over Teletropis. Your fantastic prize is a collection of nifty beach towels.

[Cotdelapoms]

(OOC: Björn & the Gladiolis are an IC very popular band in both Polar Islandstates and Cotdelapoms, and an obvious ripoff of the Smiths. As such, many thanks to the Smiths and Morrissey for the inspiration behind this RP.)



In this issue of Cotdelapoms Football, we desecrate a national musical symbol of Polar Islandstates, Björn and the Gladiolis, the cheeky band who were so influential on music in both Polar Islandstates and Cotdelapoms. Off the pitch, the States are perhaps our closest allies and most favoured nation- sharing so much musicially, culturally, financially. We are cohosting the Cup of Harmony this year, in what will certainly be the greatest tournament that competition has ever seen. Especially when the World Cup trophy will be on display at Stade de Cotdelapoms, much to the dismay of our Polarian friends.

Learn to love me and assemble the weight
Now, today, tomorrow, and always
My only weakness is the defensive line
But last night the goal that Renato scored
Was all I saw on channel four

The Apples being in the quarter finals to begin with is certainly our greatest footballing accomplishment ever, certainly better than making the "oitavas" as they refer to them here in Cafundéu, or when we finished third in the Cup of Harmony, even if we did beat Pasarga in the process. Notching a win over The Babbage Islands was perhaps our greatest individual victory in history, making them the third former World Cup host we've defeated in World Cup finals play- alongside Aguazul and Cafundéu, and giving the Apples another top 5 scalp. Most Apples jingoists would like to think we would beat the Bumblebees in epic fashion, tearing them apart in dramatic fashion, giving Per-Olivier Johansson-Bakvis, the world famous beekeeping footballer, a chance to go out on top with his best match of the tournament and so on.

In actual fact, it was nothing like that. In fact, the Bumblebees attacked in waves, calmly holding the ball most of the match and even earning a penalty that put the weight of the match on Yannick Latendresse's shoulders, but he was able to just barely tip it away and preserve the 0-0 scoreline. At halftime the shot differential was 6-1 in favour of the Islanders, which put the Apples on their back feet, but in the 80th minute, a miracle came. A routine Renato Jefferson shot was saved over the net, awarding the Apples a corner kick. Cotdelapomais set pieces are notoriously erratic- tremendous free kicks and some hopelessly poor corner kicks. The story of our lives. Jefferson went to take the corner and swung it out, where it found Patrice Proulx, who has scored 0 goals in his Apple career and 1 goal in his entire professional footballing career.

All men have secrets and here is mine
So let it be known
For we have been through hell and high tide
I think I can rely on Proulx...

Proulx, not a natural goal scorer, trapped the ball rather than striking it in the air. Saturnino Valle Barajas lunged toward him but he had just enough time to blast one towards the net. It felt like time had stopped- and for the entire nation of Cotdelapoms it had. Jerome Patterson was stunned, and did not even react, and as the ball fell into the net, it was almost impossible to realise what had just happened. The Apples had scored. 1-0 to the men in blue, against one of the best teams in the world, on one of the biggest stages in the world, late in the match that they had been absolutely outworked. All match we'd been watching our team play below the level we knew they were capable of. In bars and in our homes, we sat and prophesied. And yet, it took a tattooed boy from Saint-Urbain to really, really open our eyes.

It was dark when he drove the ball home
And on cold Montréal seats
Well it suddenly struck me
I just might die with a smile on my face after all

I've seen this happen in Sorthern people's lives
and now it's happening in mine
I've seen this happen in Sorthern people's lives
and now it's happening in mine
I've seen this happen in Sorthern people's lives
and now it's happening in mine
I've seen this happen in Sorthern people's lives
and now it's happening in mine...

So here we are. 10 minutes of football left, park the bus, and that's precisely what Michel Carbonnier did. Finally TBI had to revert out of their 4-6-0 formation and put strikers on, and whilst they managed one final wave of attacks, the Apple defence was somehow able to do just enough to keep them from scoring, and so Cotdelapoms was through with a 1-0 scoreline. At the same time, at the Obelisco Monumental, the Polarians had just scored the go ahead goal against some elves, and our fate was sealed. Our friends and enemies, just the same, were to face off in the biggest match in Apple history.

The boy who was born Timo Skye
Behind the hatred there lies
a murderous desiiiiire
For goooooooooals
How can they look into my eyes?
And still Yannick denies me!
How can they see me shoot on goal?
And still Yannick denies me!

It's sort of a shame that Mytannion was just eliminated by QPeMA in the 'oitavas', as it means that their fans will be around en masse to boo the Apples as Cotdelapoms and Polar Islandstates battle in Carandirú City, home to the main prison of Cafundéu. Prisons are brutal in this country, they grab and devour and kick you in the shower here- thankfully our fans and players are well behaved and are kept out. The city of Carandirú is both hot and dry, certainly uncommon weather in both Cotdelapoms and Polar Islandstates, which will make for a fascinating encounter between the two sides, unfamiliar with playing in these sorts of situations- save for Loïk Mailhot and PIS's Ackermann-Finn, who will be at their club home stadia, as both recently transferred to Ranca Toco.

I dreamt about you last night
And I fell out of bed twice
You can twist, score and bring the highest highs
But "take me to the haven of PIS instead"
Is something that you never said
Two goals, please
You're the bees knee's
But so am I

Looking at the two squads, it's easy to imagine this being an all time World Cup classic. We're all familiar with their players, and they are familiar with ours. Timo Skye, simultaneously one of world football's biggest jerks and greatest players, a worthy counter to the loveable baffoon Per-Olivier Johansson-Bakvis. Lars Hegg Gammel and Yannick Latendresse are two of the best goalkeepers in Série A, both similar in size and style. Niko Marek is a quiet, understated leader that is an absolute defensive demon, not unlike Loïk Mailhot. The major difference between the two sides is simple- the Polarians love to keep as narrow as possible, forcing numbers through the middle to dispossess and take up space- and the Apples love to play with width.

Jesper Jensen will try his absolute best to pull Petter Bielsen wide, and so likely will Renato Jefferson to Teemu Hansen. Jonathan Barrie may bomb forward, but Alexandre Grainger will almost certainly move further inside than normal, or perhaps we may even see the enormous and brutal Alessandro Battistuzzi. No matter what Michel Carbonnier puts on the pitch, they will absolutely be motivated- Cotdelapoms does not have the best record ever against the Terns. Cotdelapoms has never gotten to the last four of the World Cup. There will be a bunch of Mytanar prisoners in the stands. What more do we need for motivation?

Oh, the alcoholic afternoons
That we spent in Cafundéu
They meant more to me
Than any
Than any living thing on earth
They had more worth
Than any living thing on earth...

[Cafundeu]

Cutoff for the quarterfinals in Sarzonia.

with results here

[Polar Islandstates]

Lars Hegg Gammel stood in the goalmouth, waving his hands at his defenders. Jan Kowalski, Sander Ljungberg, Steffan Pekarik, Petter Bielsen, and Niko Marek were stood in a line in front of him, Niko the only one facing the goal. Lars waved his hand left, Niko gave a nudge, and the wall moved. Lars ran to his post and ducked down. Where was the sodding ball? He swung his arm left again, the wall moved. There.

At the edge of the box lay the ball. White, grass marked, scuffed, and reflecting the lights of the floodlights back at Lars. He focused on it. One minute of stoppage time to go and all he had to do was keep that orb out of the goal for sixty more seconds and that would be it, the Terns would be into the quarter finals.

Easier said than done when standing over the ball was the legendary Laborious Hawk. Gammel had seen set pieces from Valanora on tape, and more often than not they ended with a goal. And now, more than ever, when this proud nation needed a goal, their hero was stood over the ball, and Lars felt very small indeed.

Not that he had any reason to. He'd pulled off save after save tonight. He'd crashed into the post in the course of denying Fresco earlier, and had shrugged off the injury to immediately deny Hearts from the rebound seconds later. True, he'd been partially at fault for the opening goal, but he felt he'd redeemed himself since, and now he needed to concetrate to make sure his hard work wasn't in vain. He crouched by the post, focused on the ball.

Wait, where was it?

He looked around. Fresco was stood in front of the ball, obscuring Lars' view of it. Now what? He waved his hand to the right, Niko gave a nudge, and the wall moved. Hearts joined the end of the wall. No matter. Lars looked at the back of Kowalski's head. Such a stupid tackle, and such a silly foul to give away, if this went in he'd never...

No. It wasn't going to go in.

"Jan! Open your legs!" shouted Lars.

Obdeiently, Jan moved his legs further apart. There. From his post, Lars could just see it. An arc of white showing him where the ball was. That would do. Focussing hard, Lars heard the whistle blow. Hawk ran towards the ball, striking it magnificently.

Time stood still.

Where the arc once was, now was bare. The wall jumped. Lars ran towards his opposite corner.

Yes! He could reach it, he could see the ball's path before it had even happened and he was going to get there!

No! The ball glanced off Niko Marek's head. It changed direction. Suddenly, so did Lars. He leapt backwards in an attempt to stop the ball from ducking under the crossbar in the centre of the goal, but his momentum was still carrying him forwards. With feet outstretched infront of him, he strained his arm backwards as hard as he could.

Tap!

With the slightest of upwards motion on the ball, Lars' fingers tapped it over the bar, before his frame hit the ground fully extended. He looked up, slightly winded. His defence rushed towards him to congratulate him. He could hear the Twitchers singing his name. He could hear the Vanorians applauding his efforts and cheering their team on. He could even hear Morten Yarbin from the bench, his voice cutting through the noise like a hot knife through butter.

And yet he could hear nothing at the same time.

Because he was already on his feet, organising the defence for the corner. He wasn't going to let yet more hard work go to waste now.

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

Hej!

So, the Apples! As the nation gears up to co-host the Cup of Harmony with the nation of Cotdelapoms sharing the strain, how natural that the quirks of the World Cup draw would see us drawn against our hosting partners for a place in the semi finals of the WC57.

But first of all, take your hats off to Lars Hegg Gammel, without whose heroics against Valanora we would not be in the competition still. Against Fresco, Hearts, and Hawk, Gammel pulled off save after save in what could be the game of his life. Let's face it, he'll be able to dine out on that stoppage time save from Hawk's free kick for the rest of his life. On the balance of play, you'd have to say that the Vanorians deserved at least a draw, so the fact that we're through without the drama of extra time or penalty kicks is something we have to thank Gammel for.

Valanora took the lead though Fresco in the twelfth minute, leaving Gammel and Marek flat footed as the shot disected the pair of them, both leaving it for the other. Kirkkegaard was understandably annoyed to have conceded in such a way, ensuring that a clean sheet at the finals would continue to evade us, but Marek and Gammel's communication improved tenfold after that, something that was probably key to our progression. Timo Skye (who else?) was there in the thirty-seventh minute to level things up after picking up van Sorensen's through ball to slot in from close range. The goal was remarkably Skye's ninth goal in world cup finals, and takes him to five for the tournament.

In the second half, the onslaught came from Valanora, but the defence held firm. Our possession stats dropped to 40% and below, a worrying statistic for Kirkkegaard, leading to van Sorensen being replaced by Bielsen to shore things up in midfield. The tactic worked, and Bielsen's tackle was to set van Jendrisen away down the wing on a counter attack, ultimately leading to the corner from which Hansen scored to put us in front.

Valanora pushed hard, forcing Gammel into a string of impressive stops. Sol replaced Ackermann-Finn with Kowalski, playing a 5-3-1-1 formation for the last ten minutes, and it was Kowalski who gave away a free kick on the edge of the box with a minute of stoppage time remaining. Laborious Hawk lined up the shot, but when Gammel tapped the ball away for a corner, the fight seemed to leave the opposition, and the Terns were through.

So, what next? We've been here before, progressing when nobody expected us to, least of all me. Only last time, our opposition weren't quite so well known as the Apples. They know our game, and we know theirs. We even have a good record against them. I honestly don't know what to expect. We see it time and time again in the league. Teams that know each other well enough can fight out the toughest of deadlocked 90 minutes, or one can turn the other and end up with an embarrassing scoreline on their hands. I think the former is more likely that the latter in this case but you never know. We share so much with the nation of Cotdelapoms, that even should we lose I know who'll be getting the backing of the general public to go on and win the thing, but even so, I think we'd much rather send them home to prepare, don't you?

The Terns have already exceeded my expectations for this this time around, and I'm sure the Twitchers are proud of what the team has achieved. Nonetheless, one more roar, Osktkurven, one more roar...

Ha det!

Eff

x

POLAR ISLANDSTATES - 2
Skye (37)
Hansen (64)
VALANORA - 1
Fresco (12)

[Sarzonia]

Like a bartender would a lush at the bar, RPs for the quarterfinals are hereby cut off!

Scores and match up to come shortly! And the winners are...

[Cotdelapoms]

Polar Islandstates 5-2 Cotdelapoms in quotes

"Obviously this wasn't how I wanted to go out, but the Polarians are an amazing team that we respect the hell out of. I think we'd all like to see them go on to win. I told Teemu (Hansen) when we shook hands and swapped shirts that we would all be rooting for them, and I think that's true. It'll be a little painful of Sergey (Makarov) shows up in the dressing room with a World Cup winner's medal, but they'll deserve it."- Jesper Jensen

"It's amazing how good these guys are, considering how long they've been around. They absolutely control the pace of the match and we kept trying to bring it wide and they just put the ball back into the centre of the pitch. My opposite number over there deserves every award there is. Such a stand up organisation. It's a shame we lost, especially the way we lost- we were absolutely outplayed, but I'm still very proud of our boys. Our date with Margaret was going to end at some time, the quarter finals isn't a bad place for it to end."- Michel Carbonnier

"Shame to go out this way, but I'm excited to stay here for the rest of the tournament- there's some strange donkeys here."- Per-Olivier Johansson-Bakvis

[Aguazul]

"...Twelve minutes in, the Chicken in possession, I think that's his name. He's not actually a chicken. Obviously. Dribbles past Pulido. Is that a pass? No, looks fake. Um, this will be...passed ahead to Caesar now, finally. Dribbles forward, looks around, Cerezo leaving him a wide berth. Cadena doing well, closing down the Grub, er, not exactly, I mean he's got a wide berth himself. But. All things being equal. It's...no, it's a goal for Julian Caesar! And Jeru FC take an early lead...

...now Jeru FC in some respects very much like Bostopia, bringing along a bunch of, er, more or less lads at the same age. Of course that strategy not working out so well for the Bostopians in the other game. All the same, I feel like the Cannons are much more stylistically divergent than Bostopia, you wouldn't guess that they're all from the same era. Well, I wouldn't, anyway...

...Oraglio comes up, battling for control, and...that's a handball! From none other than the defender Handiball. I think that was deliberate, Oraglio had a pretty good chance there, but the referee says...no, just a yellow. Oh well. Still they'll get a free kick. Albornos to take it...Pulido meets it...and he'll score to tie the game! Just as good as a penalty, I guess, Cleopetra's fuming, gotta say that's bad luck to be let down by your teammates like that, a little snakebit there you'd have to say. Barely half an hour in and the game is tied at one apiece...

...The team that Aguazul beat, of course that was one to nothing twice, was the last tournament for that class. Like I say, an all new side now for Jeru FC. Actually they're not that old. But you know. We go to halftime and it's a tie game...

...This the first time extra time will be called for, these knockout stages. Ninety minutes gone and this has been a particularly exhausting game for both sides. The Cannons certainly combative and Aguazul lucky to have not picked up any injuries, of course Pulido substituted out for Robledo already after that hard tackle from Thatch, speaking of similarities to Bostopia...wait where was I going with that? Anyway that's more of a freshness issue, Pulido's been pushed pretty hard throughout the game. Anyway, certainly a grueling cap for everyone. Except Sillyman, seems to be upset that they don't get actual caps. Never mind...

...Thunder about to make her last substitution, Sortani of course already out of his. And she'll...throw on Felladin for the Grub. Good choice, Grafiti's the only other one who really looks tired and I wouldn't want to deal with him defacing the ad boards when there's more football to be played. I think this could go to penalties...

...Lissón flagging, don't think he can pull through for Aguazul this time. Referee's been pretty quiet so far, he'll give it a few more minutes yet...now...full time of extra time! And we're going to penalties...

...Jeru FC will start it off. Caesar seems a bit nervous at the whole "people from both teams standing around like they do" thing, Arellano never the calmest of people either, though, so maybe it's a wash. The kick, could be high, but it is...just inside, Jeru FC go ahead.

Albornos now. The run, nothing too fancy, and blasted past Cleopetra! Keeping pace.

Felladin, one of these guys with just one name. Long run from him, with his right foot? No, his left, deking and deking again. Arellano will...guess wrong, Jeru FC up again.

Here comes Lissón. Takes the shot quickly, and it's good! Still tied.

Up steps Hittem. His shot, and...Arellano dives low, he's saved it! First save of the shootout! Let's go!

Valcárcel tries to give Aguazul their lead. Shot curving to the right, Cleopetra, can't reach it, will it stay in? Yes! Aguazul up three to two.

Thatch for Jeru FC, trying to turn things around for them. Shoots and...really connects, that one will slam into the back of the net. Tied up, but Aguazul with a kick in hand. I just made that up right now.

And Oraglio to take it. I guess it's not really in hand when you go back and forth like that. Whatever. Nervous run, but this looks promising, yes! Aguazul in the lead again, sailed nicely into the left corner.

Sillyman the Cannons' last of the first five. Distracting run up, I mean, I'm not distracted, but look at him go! Yeah. See? Momentum carries him forward, the ball will spiral in. Heck of an arc.

And this for a win, for a place in the semifinals...Javier Cortez. Light shot, does it have enough force? Cleopetra sidestepping but...can't get to it! And Aguazul will return to the semifinals...

...Arellano? Hey! Well done today! What did you think about the shootout?"

"It...was...loud."

"...loud?"

"Well, you know. When I'm, when it's loud, just, trying to think, that makes everything else that much noisier."

"Okay. You know what? Is Javier Cortez here? Hello..."

*********************************************************

There stood the cool kids, who'd rushed to the shore as soon as they'd heard the news, showing up as a pack.

There stood Ramón and Cristobal, their orders from Ciudad Peralta clear. The cool kids were not to get their hands on whatever the box contained.

There stood some of the construction workers, who were not to get their hands on it either.

There stood Beltran, who really didn't have any particular reason to be there and no shot (literally or figuratively) at any gold, but who didn't want to miss it.

There no longer stood some commies who wanted to hug trees, or something. This had not been explained to Beltran, who didn't see how going to a lake and yelling at people would let them accomplish this. There were no trees in the lake.

"All right, then," said Cristobal, some crowbarish thing at the ready, as he broke the chest open. Beltran stared, ready for some reflection, some hint of light, and saw...

nothing of interest.

"What the?" began Cristobal, frantically crouching in front of the box, his rear end upwards in a most ungainly pose, and thrusting both hands inside. From out of it, he only pulled one faded scrap of paper.

"Is it a map?" Ramón eagerly asked. "Maybe the treasure's hidden here somewhere else!"

"You tell me," said Cristobal, handing it over to him.

"If it is," said Ramón after a long pause, "it's not a very good one."

"Okay, who all can read this?" said Cristobal angrily.

Beltran shrunk back. One of the cool kids volunteered, but Cristobal didn't trust him and none of the workers wanted to try. After yet another half hour of waiting from the outside, during which time Beltran was able to look around and confirm that nothing was in the chest, someone finally arrived, cleared his throat, and read;

"Your gold won't help you forever, capitalist pigjaguars. Long live the revolution!"

[Krytenia]

OOC: the poem is "Death Be Not Proud", by John Donne.

The dressing room at the Mike Sarzo Stadium was thick with nerves. The Krytenians may have beaten Bostopia soundly in their last match; but this was Aguazul, and they would not roll over so easily. For one man, meanwhile, the World Cup was a long way from his mind. Colm Ó Riordan, Sorthern by birth but long since bathed in sky blue, had known the horrors of his homeland's tragic extinguishing. He had lost family, friends, perhaps even his will to continue. And yet, here he was; certainly in no fit state to play, but around those who respected him and called him "friend".

As Francisco Vázquez García concluded his team talk, Colm gestured to the manager that he wished to speak. He got up, unfolded a piece of paper, and began to read.

"Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls delivery.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."

The room fell silent. Colm folded up his paper, sat back down, and said in a calm voice, "go get 'em."

The resulting roar was deafening. This time, they felt, the wrongs would be righted. Krytenia would, at last, win a World Cup semi-final.

[Jeruselem]

Princess Sofia Michelle Dallas and Amy Pond with the family at the Dallas private beach

Amy: HEY KIDS, KEEP OUT OF THE WATER!
Sofia: Don't they remind us of somebody
Amy: Well ...
Sofia: Don't want sharks taking our babies.
Amy: I hear Peppers is expecting soon
Sofia: Hopefully that will keep Mango occupied.
Amy: Probably not
Sofia: Dunno how Peppers puts up with him.
Amy: I guess she's not fussy
Sofia: I can now finish my album.
Amy: Is there a song about me in there?
Sofia: You mean "Amy Under the table"?
Amy: I am then.
Sofia: It's all in good fun.
Amy: Kinda embarassing.
Sofia: It's in the public now. No point hiding.
Amy: I guess I only have myself to blame.
Sofia: Well, I reckon it'll make you more popular.
Amy: What other songs?
Sofia: Well, there's "Hey Shay"
Amy: About our own Shayster.
Sofia: "Too much beer is bad for you"
Amy: I assume that's about Jeru FC
Sofia: Well yes
Amy: Not hard to guess
Sofia: "Dirty little man"
Amy: Mango Mousse?
Sofia: Well, mostly.
Amy: Sounds like grubby album
Sofia: "I'm your little ho"
Amy: I don't want to know.

[Alasdair I Frosticus]

Juan Tzimisces ran after Simeone, rushing up the stairs to the female players' dressing room. Tzimisces wished he was back in the Dreamed Realm, and could simply will the room closer to himself, but sometimes he had to put up with Mundy quirks.

Simeone burst through the door, and Juan immediately saw La Belle Dame Sans Merci lying on her back, her gravid distended belly exposed, as Ug-Ug solicitously mopped her brow.

"See, she's PREGNANT!!" cried Di Bradini.

Tzimisces laughed. "Yes, I know."

"AND... Wait... you know?"

"Well, McPherson was bonking every member of our team that moved prior to his incapacitation; it's hardly a surprise that she's pregnant. In fact, it looks like she's in labour".

Simeone Di Bradini paused. As Ug-Ug gently and calmly said 'Ug-Ug say push!' at La Belle Dame, he knew he was facing one of those 'what the f...' Dreamed Realm moments that he still sometimes struggled to cope with. His mundy side said it was illogical that the Imperial squad's defender could fall pregnant before McPherson's current imprisonment - presumably between their return from the Dark Matter universe and the loss to Polar Islandstates - and then be lying here in labour less than a week later, preparing to give birth.

But Tzimisces clearly saw Di Bradini's confusion. "Faeries are magic, old friend."

"Ah."

"They're only slightly more bound by the rules of Ordinary Logic than a citizen of the Realm. If she wants to fall pregnant and give birth all in the space of a week, she can; no doubt she'll be fine to play tonight, too."

"Ug-Ug say PUSH!!!!"

Simeone couldn't decide at this point whether Juan's observation was more surprising that Ug-Ug's apparently confident bedside manner. "You make a fine midwife, Ug-Ug" he said.

"Thank you, coach two. In Ug-Ug's land, both men and girls take turns to help a girl with child. This not Ug-Ug's first time."

Simeone paused. "This is usually where you tell me this is something really, really significant, and that you haven't been able to tell me up until now because of how hugely and amazingly significant it is" he said to Juan.

"Usually. And I was worried you might not entirely approve this time - not given your history. Anyway... give it another 30 seconds, and you won't need me to explain."

Simeone looked back at La Belle Dame. With an apparent ease that would have made many a Starblaydi woman jealous with rage, she finished giving birth.

Simeone looked at the child.

He saw the skin tone and the facial markings.

And he couldn't help himself.... he laughed.

Hard.

"You have got to be kidding me...."


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

<later>

"...the closing minutes of this extraordinary quarterfinal, Basil!"

"I quite agree, Theo. The Holy Empire have been amazing tonight, running riot over the Pocoans; da Guia has had a dreadful night, just dreadful. It seems as if Tzimisces ordered his entire team to shoot or head the ball low and near the Pocoan keeper's feet. The big lad's enormous reach is no help at all if he can't get down to the ball quickly enough!"

"And with the seconds ticking away, it's another corner to the Holy Empire. Look's like Saçi-pererê's going to take it..."

"His one-footed corner technique has given the Pocoans a hard time all evening, Theo."

"...it comes in... GOAL!!! HEADER FROM LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI!!!! AND THAT'S HER HATTRICK!!!"

"A magnificent performance from the Imperial defender! Three goals all from corners!"

"She's been like a woman possessed all night! And Basil, you know that thing you're thinking right now?"

"What thing?"

"That thing you're thinking about La Belle Dame."

"Oh, that thing. What about that thing?"

"She won't, you know."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Damn."

[Cafundeu]

This is the cutoff for the KRY x AGU semifinal match in Sarzonia.

Result is now available

[Polar Islandstates]

Niko Marek and Morten Yarbin were standing up in the changing room, looking at the rest of the team, sitting on benches around them. Those in the starting lineup were making final adjustments to socks and boots. Those on the bench to start with were sat in their tracksuits. Sol Kirkkegaard and Joachim Schwartz sat on a bench towards the door, drawing tactics out on their clipboards. The team looked at Marek and Yarbin.

"Guys," started Morten slowly, "there were days after I cam out of my coma where I considered leaving you to it. I thought, my health was going, Joachim was in the squad and blending in nicely, maybe I should call it a day."

He looked at Marek, and stepping forwards slightly, tapped his hand on his shoulder.

"But it is thanks to two men that I am still with you. The first is Sol Kirkkegaard. The second is this man right here. Your captain, Niko Marek. I have since decided that this will be my last world cup cycle with you guys, and as I stand here today with you all, I can tell you that I have never been more grateful towards those who changed my mind. True, at the start of the matches against Valanora and Cotdelapoms, that could have been it. We could have lost those games and that would have been that. But now I know that win or lose, my final day with you all is certain. And I can enjoy it for what it will be, regardless of the result."

"Like Morten," added Niko, "I too will be retiring from international football at the end of this cycle. For two more matches, I will be your captain. who knows, perhaps one day you might see me in the dugout for other reasons. But for know, just know that I will be leading you all out two more times. Two more times in which I will be giving my absolute everything, and I expect you to do the same."

"Don't you remember last time?" called Morten, "when first Sorthern Northland, and then Aguazul kicked us into the long grass? We came so far, and left empty handed."

"And I for one am not going to let that happen again!" said Niko.

"Back then, nobody gave us a chance, and look what we did. Look what we did to their world. And now we come back, for another try, ten times the squad we were last time, and you try to tell me we're going to go home in fourth again? Is that what you want?!" yelled Morten.

"No!" shouted back half the team.

"We are faster! We are stronger! We are smarter! We are better! And we owe it all to our own hard work." said Morten.

"We can do this guys," said Niko, clapping his hands, "and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. To win the whole thing? I can accept going away without the top prize, but losing two games in a row is a sucky way to end a tournament, and I'm not doing that again, you hear me? I am not doing that again!"

"The Holy Empire is waiting for you out there, and they will be better than last time. No fortunate corners are going to fool them. You think we're playing well? Well they're playing just as well. And worst of all, they know our tricks now. Sol has told you what to do. Now let's do it."

"Get up." ordered Niko. The team stood up, flexing their arms and stretching their necks as last bits of warming up. "Are we ready?"

"YES!" shouted the team back at him.

"Well then, let's show them how we play football!"

And Niko led the team into the tunnel to join the side from The Holy Empire. Where a few seconds ago there had been buoyant patriotism and fired up competitiveness, there now gave way to silent concentration, and in a few cases, intimidation. The teams looked each other up and down. The referees got things going, and the teams walked out of the tunnel to a tremendous roar.

Back in the changing room, Sol and Joachim were gathering their stuff to go and join the substitutes and the other coaches and physios on the bench, Morten waited by the door.

"After you, my friends." he motioned.

Joachim smiled as he passed. But Sol lingered, and offered to hold the door himself.

"Are you ready, old friend?" asked Sol.

"Born ready." replied Morten.

"Then after you, I insist."

And Sol held the door open for Morten to walk in front of him as they exited the tunnel together for what would be the penultimate time...

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

Hej!

Now, I'm almost certain we've been here before. There's a certain sense of déjà vu hanging in the air at the moment, and for more than one reason.

Yes, as I'm sure you've probably heard by now, the Terns are into another world cup semi final! And if you haven't heard, where have you been? Külmsaar? (No offence to anyone who actually is from Külmsaar, though, quite where you're getting the internet connection from I don't know...)

Second of all, our opponents for the semi final are a side we've faced once already this tournament, The Holy Empire.

First things first however, haven't the boys done well! Cotdelapoms were always going to be a worthy opponent, and so for the first half that's how it seemed. Timo Skye and Patrick Ackermann-Finn scoring a goal each before Per-Olivier Johansson-Bakvis scored the goal for the Apples that their play deserved. During the half time break, the stadium announcers made the unusual choice to play some Björn and the Gladiolis songs over the tannoy system, and, well, I'm not repeating some of the alternative lyrics some of the crowd came up with, but if you're reading this, you know who are you. Shame on you. And, who are your sources for that kind of information? Because I'm sure nobody saw me...

But anyway, the second half saw a rejigged performance from the Terns, andwhilst it looked like the same team on the outside, something about the inside had changed, and they played like a team possessed. Okay, fine, I'd drank too much Grogg and Barsteeg to notice the subtle tactical difference by this point and I haven't seen a tape yet, happy? Regardless, the Terns controlled the pace and the ball in the second half, and this ultimately lead to the goals you might expect it would. Alexsandr van Sorensen showing a clean pair of heels to just about everyone on the pitch before slotting home from a tight angle for our third, before caught a corner on the half volley for the fourth. Late on, Luc Demarchelier curled in a magnificent free kick, before Jean-François Lapierre scored a second and consolation goal for the Apples as time was running out. Sol was delighted as we hit five goals for the third time in five games this tournament, but was understandably disappointed to come away without a clean sheet yet again.

The Apples were as gracious in defeat as you would expect them to be, and I'm looking forwards to seeing our tw onations host the Cup of Harmony in the days to come.

First though, there's the small matter of The Holy Empire.

Sorry, did I say small? I meant colossal.

Featuring not one, not two, but three absolute legends of the game amongst their coaching staff, The Holy Empire seem to have wised up from their disappointing group stage showing, annihilating Dorian and Sonya, Jeruselem, and Queer Poco el Mono Ara since their results against Chetkosk and ourselves. The Cafundulense half of the world cup has certainly had its fair share of goals, I'll say that much for it. And then of course there's the fact that the two teams know each other pretty well from the group stage match already.

This could be a phenomenally close match, and I literally don't know which way to try and call it.

Actually, no. I'm going to be a patriot and call it for us. Because, why the hell not? Just so long as we don't finish fourth again. Losing twice to end a tournament is such a downer after the excitement of reaching the semi final stage, and I don't want to do that again.

No, thank you.

So, as the hours count down towards the match, I must leave you. I have tickets for the match, right about the dugouts, and I should go now if I'm going to beat the traffic. See you on the other side, guys.

Ha det!

Eff

x

POLAR ISLANDSTATES - 5
Skye (17) (63)
Ackermann-Finn (23)
van Sorensen (51)
Demarchelier (81)
COTDELAPOMS - 2
Johansson-Bakvis (35)
Lapierre (87)