adjusts headset, clears throat
Before it was a number on a scorecard, Tag #3 was a whisper. Not the dramatic kind — the kind that follows you down the fairway when you're already three strokes deep in trouble. It was born on the back nine of a Tuesday that ended one round too early for a Fellowship member who shall remain unnamed, mostly because the scorecard went into a pond.
They say the tag still carries the echo of that final round — a bogey on 14, a triple on 16, and a muttered "I'd rather carry a rock." The metal remembers. It's warm to the touch, not from the sun, but from the heat of a drive that never made it past the first tree. Inscribed in Tengwar that shifts when you're not looking, it doesn't warn of danger. It warns of consequences.
Every now and then, someone swears they hear it hum — a low, satisfied thrum right before a birdie drops. Maybe it's the chains. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the tag deciding you're finally worthy. The current holder? Nobody knows. It's been sitting in a basket on hole 9 for three weeks now, waiting. Patient as a dragon. Pick it up if you dare. It's not the ring that's heavy — it's the round it's seen.
adjusts headset, the booth lights flickering like a tavern hearth after last call
Deep in the long grass of hole 7, half-buried beneath a decade of fallen needles, a glint of bronze caught the late afternoon sun. Cameron Collar knelt, brushing away the loam to reveal a tag that hummed — not with bees, but with the memory of every chain hit it had ever witnessed. The Tengwar shifted, rearranging into a single word: Yours... if you can hold it.
Cameron picked up Doom Whisper, Tag #3. The metal was warm. Almost breathing. The whisper came soft, almost affectionate: You have chosen wisely. Now don't bogeys it up on 14.
One Tag to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them... to a Tuesday night time limit.