adjusts headset and holds the tag up to the light, watching it gleam Behold: Tag 5, Rivendell Path. Forged in the hidden valley of the league’s founding, its golden face etched with silver leaf, it was carried by an ancient arbiter who recorded every notable round in elvish script. The lore says it glows softly, a radiance filtering through the trees of Imladris. What the lore leaves out is that the arbiter was a petty scorekeeper who once disqualified a man for sneezing during his backswing. So yes, it’s ethereal. It’s also passive-aggressive. One Tag to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them… to a Tuesday night time limit.
adjusts headset, holding the golden tag up to catch the light of the league's single flickering scoreboard Somewhere in the hidden valley of hole 7's tree line, this disc waited three thousand years to be thrown. Not in a vault, not in a dragon's hoard — just wedged in a root, patient as the slow decay of lesser tags. Then Hudson Kozak walked by, and the silver leaf patterns caught the afternoon glow, and the thing practically hummed its own name. Rivendell Path, it whispered. Carry me, and I'll carry your rating.
Hudson picked it up like it was any other piece of stamped plastic. That's the thing about destinies — they don't announce themselves. They just sit there in the rough, gleaming, until someone with a decent backhand comes along to give them a reason to move. One Tag to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them... to a Tuesday night time limit. Welcome to the Fellowship, Hudson. You brought the arm. It brought the lore. Try not to lose it in the ferns.