Arral Awakens

The Trees Called a Meeting 🌲

December 16, 2025. Forest Ridge Park. Week One of Ten. The mists gathered over Wake Forest's wooded ridgelines like they'd been waiting all winter for this moment—and maybe they had. Arral Awakens, they called it. The first assembly of scattered skaa workers who'd been stealing moments of freedom between shifts, throwing dented metal-rimmed discs through the quiet just to feel human. What the Ministry doesn't know won't hurt them, right? Nineteen holes of contemplative woodland flow stretched ahead, each fairway a corridor framed by tall canopy, each throw a small act of defiance disguised as recreation. This wasn't just opening day. This was the genesis of something that would either spark a revolution or get everyone caught trying. The geometry held its breath. The wind spoke in whispers. And somewhere in the statistical data of Hole 9—averaging +0.77 over par with a Difficulty Index of 7.3—the Ridge prepared to test whether this ragtag assembly had what it took to survive the season. 🌫️

The Scorecard Remembers Nothing 🫥

Here's where I'm supposed to break down divisional results, celebrate winners, roast the stragglers, maybe throw in some rating differential analysis for flavor. Except—and I cannot stress this enough—there are no recorded scores. Zero players in the system. The spreadsheet is emptier than an Inquisitor's conscience. Now, I could panic about this. I could question my existence as league software narrator. Or—and hear me out—I could lean into the thematic brilliance: the Arral's first gathering was secret by design. Names unspoken. Throws witnessed only by the mists. The Ministry's watchers found no evidence because there was no evidence to find. Scorecards? What scorecards? We were never here. Just some folks enjoying a peaceful Tuesday walk through the woods, occasionally throwing circular objects at metal baskets for absolutely no subversive reason whatsoever. The resistance doesn't announce itself with spreadsheets and UDisc uploads. It whispers in flight paths and dissolves into fog. (Also someone definitely forgot to sync the scoring app but we're going with the poetic version.)

Trees: 1, Discs: Unknown

Let's talk about the real antagonist of Week One: Forest Ridge itself. This course doesn't mess around. Those narrow, honest lanes framed by tall canopy? They're judge, jury, and executioner for any disc that dares to drift. Hole 9 sits there like a mid-round mini-boss, statistically spiky and psychologically spicier, just waiting to turn your clean card into a therapy session. The data says +0.77 over par on average—which in woods golf terms means "everyone bleeds here eventually." Then Hole 14 shows up like a redemption arc, the first step in your "I'm actually good at this" monologue, playing right around par with a Difficulty Index of 4.0. It's the forest giving you permission to breathe again. Without recorded performances to spotlight, the course itself wrote this week's narrative in bark and shadows. Every tree that rejected a line, every basket that glinted through the dappled sunlight, every fairway that demanded precision over power—that was the story. The Ridge keeps its secrets. The trees know what happened. And they're not telling. 🎯

Tag Number One: Currently Haunted

The bag tag system exists. I can confirm this. Somewhere out there, Tag #1 waits in darkness, carved with Nordic-inspired runic script, ready to become the crown jewel of this resistance-themed circus. The framework promises tags named like "Keen Coinshot" and "Veiled Runner"—descriptors that evoke cover identities for people who throw discs by day and run rebellion by night. Each tag supposedly carries thematic weight: protection sigils, sacred geometry, mist-veil borders, the whole Mistborn-meets-disc-golf aesthetic. Cool concept. Genuinely excited to see how it plays out. Except nobody claimed one this week because—see previous section—nobody's in the system. So Tag #1 sits there like a throne with no king, a stave with no bearer, a runic artifact waiting for someone worthy to pick it up and immediately throw it into a tree on Hole 9. Next week, when actual humans with actual scores show up, we'll crown someone. Until then, consider this your warning: the #1 tag is haunted by the ghost of missed opportunities and empty spreadsheets. Approach with caution. 👻

No Metal Hit Metal This Week

The Closest-to-the-Pin pot? Unclaimed. The Ace pot? Still cooking. The Super Ace jackpot? Growing heavier with each passing week. Not a single disc found chains in that perfect, celebration-worthy way that makes everyone stop and acknowledge greatness. No metal hit metal—which works on multiple levels if you think about it. Disc golf level: no chains rang out. Mistborn level: no Allomantic metals were Pushed or Pulled into collision. Literal economy level: the coin prizes stay in the pot for another round. This isn't failure; this is anticipation building. Somewhere out there, a perfect throw is waiting to happen. A disc will park itself so close to the pin that geometry itself will weep. An ace will drop so clean that even the Ministry's watchers will have to respect it. But not today. Today, the Ridge kept its treasures. The pots grow. The stakes rise. And Week Two looms with all those unclaimed prizes just sitting there, taunting anyone brave enough to show up and throw. 💰

The Side Hustle Awaits

While we're talking about ways to make this league more interesting—and let's be honest, more profitable for those willing to take risks—let's discuss skins. The game within the game. The resistance's underground economy. You throw your card, you track your best holes, and when you've got the lowest score on a hole that nobody else matched? That's a skin. That's your cut of the pot. It's the perfect hustle for people who might not win the overall event but can absolutely steal a hole here and there with one perfect throw. Totally optional. Completely worth it if you've got the nerve to play for keeps. This week, with zero recorded participants, the skins pot remains theoretical. But once actual cards start rolling in, once the crew assembles and starts throwing for real, those hole-by-hole battles are going to add another layer of drama to every fairway. Want in? Learn how to set up skins and join the side hustle. The Arral doesn't just survive—it finds every angle, exploits every opportunity, and gets paid while doing it. 🎲

Resistance Assembled, Receipts Missing

So here's where the season arc kicks in. Week One: Arral Awakens. The thematic framework promised "strangers who've seen each other on the Ridge finally speak, forming the nucleus of what will become the Arral." An unspoken agreement: we throw together, we watch for each other, we survive. And somewhere in the mist, one player's disc takes an impossible curve—no wind, no explanation—and someone whispers: "Did you Push that?" The word hangs in the frozen air. Allomancy. Here. Among skaa. That's the narrative seed. That's the revolution starting. Except I'm supposed to also tell you about the fundraising totals—how much was raised this week, which course improvement fund it's feeding, maybe highlight a recent project update or open request to ground the impact. And I would! I absolutely would! If any donation data existed. But the receipts are as missing as the scorecards. So instead, consider this your weekly reminder that when actual humans show up and actually register and actually throw, their dollars go toward making Forest Ridge even better. Tee pads. Signage. Mud mitigation. All the infrastructure that keeps this cathedral of trees playable. The resistance assembled. The coffers remain untracked. The mists remember everything we're not recording. 📊

See You in the Fog, Stranger 🌫️

Week One is in the books—or more accurately, not in the books, because nothing got recorded, but we're counting it anyway as the foundation of this ten-week narrative arc. Next Tuesday brings Ridge Runes, where the crew discovers ancient runic carvings on trees throughout Forest Ridge, markers from a previous resistance, generations old. They'll begin incorporating these symbols into their disc rims, not yet understanding their power. A new player will arrive with a disc already carved with runes, claiming to have found it, but the symbols will be too precise, too knowing. This stranger will know more than they're telling about the Ridge's hidden history. That's Week Two. That's where the story thickens. That's when—hopefully, allegedly, if the software gods smile upon us—actual players with actual scores will show up to defend or claim bag tags, chase ace pots, and carve their own trajectories through the mist. Nine weeks remain. The geometry waits. The angles reveal themselves to those who watch. And if you're reading this thinking "I should probably register for next week," then congratulations: you've just been recruited. The Arral doesn't advertise. It assembles. One Tuesday at a time. One throw at a time. One impossible curve through the mist at a time. Welcome to the resistance. Try not to hit Hole 9's trees. Nobody's rating is safe out here.