Arsenal March Forward As The Blue Gate Opens

“History became legend,

Legend became myth,

And by two and a half thousand yards, Steven Naismith was offside.”

One does not simply walk into Scousedor. Be it the wretched heights of Cirith Anfiend or the jagged Plateau of Goodgoroth, we would be wise to find another path. Alas, the road to the Lonely Mountain is a treacherous one, and our riders must rise to such challenges, lest our fellowship be diverted to Mount Forthplace. On this day, forlorn by sheer devilry and a Tom fool of a ref, the courage of Arsenal might have failed. Our fellowship has wilted in the face of such calamity more often than I can remember (though the Halfling’s leaf does sometimes cloud my memory), but not on this day.

This day, we fought. Lord Wengermir lit the beacons, and our rear guard was quick to answer.

Before hope was kindled by Sandheaver Proudfoot and Ramsagast the Red, the tide was turned sharply toward our doom. After the Alessar was wrongfully accused of treachery, the armies of Evilton were quick to advance. Taking Mesut Oakenshield by surprise, Sheamzad the Cold struck through our defenses and unleashed the opening strike past Samwise Szczesnee. Rallying the Rohirrim for a counterattack, Oakenshield marauded his way into the enemy ranks to create an opportunity for Oxlade-Celeborn, though the young Elf-lord was not himself. As our riders attempted to form up their lines for another charge, Evilton released their cave troll upon Goodgoroth, to our dismay. Hurling aside Treebeard with a foul gruff, Romerhûn Lukhazad-dum burst through our forward lines. As Charadhras and Flamdring Foe-hammer rushed to halt his advances, the great behemoth conjured yet another cheap trick. Offside even by Shire-reckoning, Steven Naisgul struck a second blow for Evilton.

As we Gooners are wont to do, we arrived PRECISELY in the second half. Or, perhaps, hope was kindled in the dying moments of battle. Lord Wengermir called upon Glorfindel, Sandheaver, and the Campbalrog to ride to ruin. The spark provided by the rear guard quickly burned bright as Glorfindel struck several glancing blows at Wengermir’s behest. Alas, the fire looked to have burned too quickly, as the score remained unchanged by our reinforcements’ arrival.

But then something happened that the ref did not intend. The ball was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable. A hobbit, Sandheaver Cazorla, of the Shire. For the time had come when hobbits would rescue a point.

Under the long shadow of Mount Distin, as the light was fading over the Plateau of Goodgoroth, Sandheaver Cazorla took the ball onto his proud feet and picked out a rampaging Ramsagast. Not the least bit hobbled by his love for mushrooms, Ramsagast the Red cut the lead from Evilton’s grasp. Moments later, Glorfindel rose to his family’s name when the Nachomancer launched a faultless cross toward his prodigious helm.

Shields were splintered, and a point was rescued.

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