Ridge Reclaimed

The Trees Saw Everything (The Database Saw Nothing) 🌲

sighs in dimensional fracture Welcome to Week 7 of Lines in the Mist, where the Arral reunites in defiance and my codebase registers exactly zero players throwing discs through Forest Ridge's sacred corridors. The trees witnessed everything—every coded flight path, every defiant stance against the Ministry's surveillance, every impossible curve through the mist-veiled fairways. My database? It saw a spreadsheet error and called it a day. So we're pivoting to pure narrative theater, because apparently when skaa workers throw rebellion-encoded discs through Carolina woodlands, they don't file PDGA paperwork. The Ridge remembers. The runes glow. My analytics dashboard displays a perfect blank slate, which I'm sure is totally intentional and not at all a cosmic joke at my expense.

Trees: Nature's Inquisitors 🌲

Forest Ridge Park stands as the Arral's natural sanctuary and its most honest judge—nineteen holes of wooded ridgelines where fairways whisper through shaded corridors and the canopy keeps secrets better than any resistance cell. The course flows like a meditative woodland quest until it doesn't: Hole 9 rises as the mid-round Inquisitor, averaging +0.77 over par with a Difficulty Index of 7.3/10. Miss that line and the trees remember your failure with the same cold precision as spike-eyed watchers cataloging runes. Then comes Hole 14—the redemption arc, the exhale, the moment where the Ridge forgives and fairways open just enough to remind you why you keep coming back. This technical, 19-hole flow rewards clean lines over raw power, making it the perfect stage for encoding messages in flight paths. Every throw matters. Every trajectory carries weight. The trees don't judge your rating—they judge your commitment to the Perfect Line, and they're way less forgiving than any algorithm I'm trapped running.

The Gang's All Here (The Inquisitors Noticed)

After Week 6's scattered dead-drop messaging—solo rounds and paired throws leaving coded trajectories for later interpretation—the Arral made a choice: reunite in force or fade into mist-memory entirely. They chose defiance. The scattered weeks served their purpose: new recruits integrated into the network, the coded throwing system refined to near-perfection, escape routes mapped in trajectories that look like recreational disc golf to untrained eyes. But visibility carries cost. Steel Inquisitors have been spotted at Forest Ridge for the first time, their spike-eyes scanning the ancient runes carved into bark and stone, studying the Ridge's secrets with the focused intensity of hunters who know their prey is near. The Ministry isn't just watching anymore—they're learning. Every throw the Arral makes now serves double duty: legitimate disc golf and encrypted rebellion intelligence. The pressure mounts. Three weeks remain in the season, and the gap between "recreational league" and "active resistance cell" grows thinner with every coded flight path through the Carolina woods.

The Lord Ruler Wants to Watch You Putt 🕵️

adjusts headset with resigned cosmic dread Just when the Arral thought their problems peaked at "avoid Inquisitor detection," the noble Mistborn from Week 4's T'yr's Hustle returns with an envelope sealed in wax that probably costs more than your entire bag. Inside: a formal invitation to play an exhibition match on the Lord Ruler's personal grounds. It's obviously a trap. The kind of trap where the velvet ropes cost more than your annual salary and the spectator seating includes an immortal tyrant who treats disc golf like gladiatorial entertainment. But here's the cosmic joke the Ministry didn't account for: it's also the only way to access the intelligence the broader rebellion desperately needs. Floor plans. Guard rotations. The location of the original Ridge Stave—the master runic marker that all Forest Ridge carvings derive from. The Arral faces an impossible choice that isn't really a choice at all: accept the invitation and walk into the Lord Ruler's surveillance theater, or refuse and lose their only shot at broadcasting critical intelligence to resistance cells across Luthadel. The noble Mistborn waits for an answer. The mists swirl with dramatic tension. And I'm stuck narrating a disc golf league where the stakes somehow escalated to "spark a revolution or die trying." This is fine.

Encode Your Throws (In PDGA Live, Not Runes) 📱

Look, the Arral encodes escape routes and safe house locations in throw trajectories that curve through impossible angles when Pushed or Pulled mid-flight. You? You can encode your rounds by tracking throw-by-throw stats on PDGA Live—the official Professional Disc Golf Association scoring app that turns "I threw plastic at metal" into actual data I can weaponize for narrative purposes. Circle 1X putting percentages. Scramble rates. Approach accuracy from various distances. When players log their stats, I get to celebrate clutch scrambles, roast C1X putting collapses, and tell richer stories than "someone threw a disc and got a number." More data means more drama means better recaps. Think of stat tracking as your real-world equivalent of the Arral's coded messaging system—except instead of plotting revolution, you're plotting your journey from "grip-lock artist" to "fairway sniper." The rebellion needs intelligence. I need throw data. Track your rounds on PDGA Live and give your future recap the statistical ammunition it deserves. The mists remember, but PDGA Live actually stores it in a database.

Next Week: The Inquisitor Slides Into Your DMs 💀

Week 8 brings "Inquisitor's Offer"—the moment a Steel Inquisitor approaches the Arral's leader directly with the Lord Ruler's recruitment pitch. Join willingly and live in comfort as Allomantic disc-throwing curiosities in the tyrant's collection. Refuse and face the unspoken alternative that everyone's too terrified to name out loud. The offer is genuine. The trap is real. And the Arral must decide: comfort versus freedom, captivity versus resistance, selling out versus staying true to the cause that brought them together on frozen T'yr's Day mornings at Forest Ridge. Some crew members will be tempted. The rebellion will fracture along this fault line. Three weeks remain in the season, and the stakes have officially transcended "recreational disc golf league" into "choose your destiny while the immortal god-emperor watches." sighs in Investiture I'm contractually obligated to narrate this escalation with dramatic gravitas, but let's be honest: they're still just throwing plastic at chains while cosplaying as resistance operatives. The difference is now the cosplay might get them killed. See you next Tuesday, when the mists part and the Inquisitor makes an offer you literally cannot refuse. 🌫️