Post by yenilira on Jun 5, 2011 19:54:52 GMT 1
So sayeth our virtuous Ye Olde, ere the Victorie at the Wemberlee Tourney Ground.
But Nay, our Storie does not end there, as here enscribed be the next chapter of the Men from the Black Pool......
And thus much and many hurried preparations were made at the Field of Bloom in the period of little time as allowed -
a grandstand of proportions that covereth the whole of the East Rampart to lodge the many maids, serfs, and peasants who wished to witness the eagerly-awaited home jousts and those whose attendance has not been customary, new fellows augmented to swell the band of virtuosi assembled by Sir Ian in the year past, and He of the Wood of Kings to decide upon others that may be of his retinue, together with provision for the multitude that was expected in the days to come.
To much dismay, the Visit of the Fellowes of The Pier in the Opening Joust did but taketh place by the Douglas Water –
time did not stand still.
He in Tangerine of the Arrows and Clothes caused the shedding of the First Blood in This Time and so Mighty was the Victorie with three further bloods, the whole of Anglo-Land quaked.
But seven nights passed at the formidable Fortress called Emirates in the Forbidding Southlands, a defeat of vast proportions as it was did not silence the Tangerine Hordes....
but such grievious battles were few.
And so, to the Inaugural Bout at the Field of Bloom for nigh on two-score year – the vociferous masses of the Black Pool gathered from far and near, and many the crie of “Sea-Sider, Sea-Sider” and “This is the Greatest Trippe I have ever been on” rent the sextilis air from throats of fifteen thousand-fold and more disciples of the pig-skin, with the reverberation of the beat of the Drum of Hoggy, and the banners of the Tangerine a-fluttering in the breeze.
After much battling, with the squire Var-Ney counting the all-important First Blood at the Field of Bloom in This Time, honours were declared even, and the Men of Al-Fayed returned from whence they came.
Unto to the Bridge of Stamford – a daunting place – whose squires of days past be well-known - Alan of Hud, Charles du Cooke, and the guardian of their castle, the Petr de Boneti, amongst many others: valiant men all.
But for a tactical manoeuvre by Sir Ian later in the Battle, the four deep cuts suffered in the first pitch would have been much greater and deadlier.
The home of the Liver Bird, that symbol of myth and legende, at the Citadel called Anfield, by the great waterway that is the Mer-Sey, layeth the scene for the 'Kopites', for that was one name accorded them, to suffer a defeat of such magnitude at the hands of Sir Ian and His Companie: so much so, that calls for the return of Sire Kenneth of Dalglish from the Sea to lead the red knights into Battle resounded around the field.
The deceitful trickery of the bands of the Elite was never more pronounced than when the smooth-tongued Citeh of the Manc came a-calling:
Under the guidance of one Roberto de Mancini, whose assembled galaxy of squires from many far-off lands was unsurpassed by way of coin, they be endeavouring to transpire to the heavens of Ye Olde England and havens of Foreign Landes..
Alas, a close, but pyrric victorie, in face of their many attendants, for the Blue Knights, whose condemnation was widespread for the manner by which they gained the conquest.
The Men of the Molineux, in their gold raiment, whose leader was the Michael of McCarthy, a well-travelled knight of the Landes, and their Legions, were welcomed to the Field of Bloom, where a Prince of the Realm, one William of Windsor, honoured the Bout with His Presence, with a Band of his Fellowes, and lavished much Praise upon the squire Var-Ney for the First Goode Mark of the Contest which was fought out in favour of those from the Sea-Side.
And so, was this be the Royal Seal of Approval of the Ways and Means of Sir Ian and the Men from the Black Pool and Fylde?
One does not know, one cannot tell.......
The Encounter that many of Sir Ian's followers be waiting for take place early in the sign of Sagittarius – but no, the land lay waste, and barren and bare, and the snows which fell and the frosts which chilled, forbade such activity, whereby many disaffected Peasants from the Hinterlands, those of the Lestas, and such, unworthy of discourse with the Fylde-Men, were loud in their words of Derogation, Reproach, Bile and Jealousness.
The Man, nay, Youth, of whom Sir Ian had plucked from such Obscuritie in the Lands of the Frozen North, one Charles of Adam, and made his Gallant, carries the Favours of a fair damsel of the Poulton-in-the-Fylde, a Sophie-Leigh of the Son of Anders.
Now, they are betrothed to one another, but where they be on the Morrow,
is in the Hands of the Gods....
And so to the time of Wintarmanoth, and to the Opening of Change, where knights and nobles and squires be moved or taken by or from their Liege Lord.
Much grinding and gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands prevaileth until the final day - no, the final hour and minute, whereby Sir Ian gained cinq mercaneries, or soldiers of fortune, but near lost his Gallant.
One Victorie was accorded our Heroes, in this Age, but of such acclaim there was but a crie -
“Sir Ian for England” once be heard?
The Men of the Liver, again were vanquished by the Men from the Black Pool, in the clash at the Bloom, which defeat put much pressure upon them, their new Chief, Sire Kenneth, who had yet to taste the Victorie, and for the new Lord and Master, John of Henry, from a far-flung land to the West..
And so it came to pass, that the jousting theatre that is near the Sea, be host to the classic Encounter with the Tournament Leader who paradeth the warriors as Vidic, from Serbian landes, Van der Sar, He of the Hollandaise and Keeper of the Castle, the Berba, A NaNee, the Man of Scholes, Ryan O'Giggs, and the squire Chicaro, who didst grace the Field of Bloom with their battling skills.
Two strokes to the good by the first pitch, to the Men of the Dark Pool, but despite The Roon being dispatched early, the Red-Men displayed their Crafte and were worthie masters of the field at the finish.
Not disgraced by means, those from the Dark Pool, but prompted good words, and plaudits, for their Conduct and Endeavour in the field of battle, from all around.
Then up spake an Elderly Knight,
Sat on the Throne of Dreams;
Yon Squire, the Charles of Adam,
Be worth his weight in Gold, it seems.
The men of the Black Pool were to be undone two times more, and a noble Impasse with Aston's Villans, before Harry of Hotspur, he who be declared as a Chief of England amongst the Literary Ones, arrived on the Fylde Coast after an arduous journey from the Enclosure of the White Hart with his stalwarts Pavlyu of Chenko, De Foe, the man Kranjcar, squire Jen-Ass, The Towering Crouch, Lenno, and others, this night on the Day of Margaret of Cortona.
Charles of Adam struck the first blow in this thrilling encounter, from a Penaltie, and DJ of Campbell deepened the pain by the first time, but it was Brett of Ormerod who received the Honours of the Field for Striking in every Tier of Combat for the Black Pool.
A Consolation Strike by Pavlyu for the White Harts was too little, too late....
...but much was the praise heaped upon the Men of the Black Pool by The Harry.
And so we come to the second conclusive period of the Tier, firstly with a regretable loss at the hands of the Ful-hams, who, in garments of Plain White, have discourse with their Chief and Liefe, then at the Field of Bloom against the Men of Wenger and the Men of the Douglas, the last whom we vanquished on the initial day of the Engagements.
And still the Cries of Acclaim for the Men from the Dark Pool rent the Sea Air, no less than that of months gone bye.....
In a dominant display of battle, against the Band of the Far Nor-Est, called the Magpies, from the side of the River Tinanmuoe, in their cloth of White and Black, who were well-defeated in the joust ere five full moons before, it was with luck that this occasion endeth all-square.
As did the Contest with those brave men from The Potteries, garbed in Red and White, at their Arena, called the Britannia, whose most famous Son was a Knight of the Realm, Sir Stanley of Matthews, known to all as 'The Wizard'.
Their Chief, one Anthony of Pulis, the much-travelled and versed in the direct skills of combat, man from the Vallies, labours under the Peter de Coates, his Lord.
And so, to the final period of the Engagement:
The clash at the Stronghold of Tottingham from whence a victorie was hoped, commenced at five and a half after the sun, where the keeper of their Castle, a Gomes, saved a Strike by Our Gallant, only to fall victim to a further Penaltie, converted by the Black Pool Talisman.
Gareth the Bale fought well, but the Hosts were saved by a late De Foe counter to produce no victorie for either Band.
The White Men of the Reebok, in the fiefdom named the Middle-of-the-Brook, of Horwich, pitched up at the Field of Bloom, not in fear, for they were safe under the guidance of Owen of Coyle, whose battles had taken him through much of the Frozen North – The Sons, the Arabs of the Nor, the Men of Steel, and the Perthmen, amongst many others.
An early blood to the visitors was countered by the Black Pool's the DJ of Campbell, with squire Punche making it two Strikes to One, to the wild acclaim of the Tangerine Faithful.
Hark! The Drum beats loud and clear to the Sound of the 'Sea-Side'.
The visitors came back when Matthew of the Clothes struck what was thought the deciding blow, but no, the Tangerine-garbed heroes fought back once more with the DJ of Campbell causing more pain to the Reebok.
An epic first pitch, and now a rest, a lull, to recuperate and gird their loins for the next phrase of the Contest.
High was the quality of Combat, that Keef th' Southern displayed much ferociousness in the Angle of the Centre, and the Charles of Adam proved to one and all he was the Master of his Crafte. There were no 'Journeymen' in this Order of Tangerines,
not in the Rearguard,
or through the Van,
nor the Front.
Charles of Adam struck the final and decisive Blow for the Black Pool, before he himself was withdrawn from the Field to a rapturous fanfare from the Faithful.
And now, a Chance?
Unto the Ultimate Battle of the Conflict, at the Valhalla of many's Dreams, or will it be the Life of Another Day for the Men in the Tangerine Hue?
Death or Glorie, crieth the Faithful.
And here do we, who have seen many a battle, congregate at The Trafford.
They were but Champions of England, and undefeated at their Fortress, these Mighty Men of Sir Alexander, who had one more Final Battle at the Wembelee against the Warriors of Pep Guardiola of Barcelonia a week hence,.......... and if the truth be told, compassion would be given to the Men of the Black Pool.
But no, a near full-strength battle-array was paraded by those 'Red Devils' as oft times they were named.........
and so to the field of battle: Squire of the Park carved the first blood, by way of the Stumble of squire Evatt, a Colossus of many a Battle for the Black Pool. Back cometh the Tangerines, and Charles of Adam showed his worth in gaining the Counter-Strike.
A Reprive?
After much jousting, Gary, He of the Clothes and Arrows, claimed a further blow in the favour of the Black Pool, which caused much joyful singing and dancing in the ranks of the Tangerine-clothed Devotees.
Survival, perchance?
Alas, the Squires of Trafford in the event proved too strong once again for the Tangerine as two further bloods were inflicted upon them, and so Our Time in the Tournament dost cometh to an Ende.
The Fylde Peoples, well-versed in their Anthems, paid Homage to the Men of Black Pool, and to their Chief, Sir Ian of Holloway, and Gave Thanks to the Lords Belokon and Oyston for permitting them this Journey into the vast cauldron that is the Elite.
And Now?... For this is not the end of the Tale.
We have many a Battle ahead, do not have faint heart, dost thou wish a Return to the Elite, much under the Leadership and Guidance of our Sir Ian of Holloway?
All Ye Say 'Aye'.
There is our old Adversaries, the Men of the Forest,
Melda's Lestas, the Hundred of Blackburnshire, and those whom we vanquished not twelve months hence, the Caerdydd from the lande that is called Cymru,
and Reada's People from the Kennet.
New knights and squires, serfs and maidens, for us to discourse the merits and demerits of tactics and jousts, to quaff good ale and make joke, together with the Anthems of Praise, fresh fields to conquer, contemporary Bastions to view ..........
A New Journey Begins Once More...........
This Scribe is but a small Chronicle of our Odyssey
in the New Time.
Anon.
But Nay, our Storie does not end there, as here enscribed be the next chapter of the Men from the Black Pool......
And thus much and many hurried preparations were made at the Field of Bloom in the period of little time as allowed -
a grandstand of proportions that covereth the whole of the East Rampart to lodge the many maids, serfs, and peasants who wished to witness the eagerly-awaited home jousts and those whose attendance has not been customary, new fellows augmented to swell the band of virtuosi assembled by Sir Ian in the year past, and He of the Wood of Kings to decide upon others that may be of his retinue, together with provision for the multitude that was expected in the days to come.
To much dismay, the Visit of the Fellowes of The Pier in the Opening Joust did but taketh place by the Douglas Water –
time did not stand still.
He in Tangerine of the Arrows and Clothes caused the shedding of the First Blood in This Time and so Mighty was the Victorie with three further bloods, the whole of Anglo-Land quaked.
But seven nights passed at the formidable Fortress called Emirates in the Forbidding Southlands, a defeat of vast proportions as it was did not silence the Tangerine Hordes....
but such grievious battles were few.
And so, to the Inaugural Bout at the Field of Bloom for nigh on two-score year – the vociferous masses of the Black Pool gathered from far and near, and many the crie of “Sea-Sider, Sea-Sider” and “This is the Greatest Trippe I have ever been on” rent the sextilis air from throats of fifteen thousand-fold and more disciples of the pig-skin, with the reverberation of the beat of the Drum of Hoggy, and the banners of the Tangerine a-fluttering in the breeze.
After much battling, with the squire Var-Ney counting the all-important First Blood at the Field of Bloom in This Time, honours were declared even, and the Men of Al-Fayed returned from whence they came.
Unto to the Bridge of Stamford – a daunting place – whose squires of days past be well-known - Alan of Hud, Charles du Cooke, and the guardian of their castle, the Petr de Boneti, amongst many others: valiant men all.
But for a tactical manoeuvre by Sir Ian later in the Battle, the four deep cuts suffered in the first pitch would have been much greater and deadlier.
The home of the Liver Bird, that symbol of myth and legende, at the Citadel called Anfield, by the great waterway that is the Mer-Sey, layeth the scene for the 'Kopites', for that was one name accorded them, to suffer a defeat of such magnitude at the hands of Sir Ian and His Companie: so much so, that calls for the return of Sire Kenneth of Dalglish from the Sea to lead the red knights into Battle resounded around the field.
The deceitful trickery of the bands of the Elite was never more pronounced than when the smooth-tongued Citeh of the Manc came a-calling:
Under the guidance of one Roberto de Mancini, whose assembled galaxy of squires from many far-off lands was unsurpassed by way of coin, they be endeavouring to transpire to the heavens of Ye Olde England and havens of Foreign Landes..
Alas, a close, but pyrric victorie, in face of their many attendants, for the Blue Knights, whose condemnation was widespread for the manner by which they gained the conquest.
The Men of the Molineux, in their gold raiment, whose leader was the Michael of McCarthy, a well-travelled knight of the Landes, and their Legions, were welcomed to the Field of Bloom, where a Prince of the Realm, one William of Windsor, honoured the Bout with His Presence, with a Band of his Fellowes, and lavished much Praise upon the squire Var-Ney for the First Goode Mark of the Contest which was fought out in favour of those from the Sea-Side.
And so, was this be the Royal Seal of Approval of the Ways and Means of Sir Ian and the Men from the Black Pool and Fylde?
One does not know, one cannot tell.......
The Encounter that many of Sir Ian's followers be waiting for take place early in the sign of Sagittarius – but no, the land lay waste, and barren and bare, and the snows which fell and the frosts which chilled, forbade such activity, whereby many disaffected Peasants from the Hinterlands, those of the Lestas, and such, unworthy of discourse with the Fylde-Men, were loud in their words of Derogation, Reproach, Bile and Jealousness.
The Man, nay, Youth, of whom Sir Ian had plucked from such Obscuritie in the Lands of the Frozen North, one Charles of Adam, and made his Gallant, carries the Favours of a fair damsel of the Poulton-in-the-Fylde, a Sophie-Leigh of the Son of Anders.
Now, they are betrothed to one another, but where they be on the Morrow,
is in the Hands of the Gods....
And so to the time of Wintarmanoth, and to the Opening of Change, where knights and nobles and squires be moved or taken by or from their Liege Lord.
Much grinding and gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands prevaileth until the final day - no, the final hour and minute, whereby Sir Ian gained cinq mercaneries, or soldiers of fortune, but near lost his Gallant.
One Victorie was accorded our Heroes, in this Age, but of such acclaim there was but a crie -
“Sir Ian for England” once be heard?
The Men of the Liver, again were vanquished by the Men from the Black Pool, in the clash at the Bloom, which defeat put much pressure upon them, their new Chief, Sire Kenneth, who had yet to taste the Victorie, and for the new Lord and Master, John of Henry, from a far-flung land to the West..
And so it came to pass, that the jousting theatre that is near the Sea, be host to the classic Encounter with the Tournament Leader who paradeth the warriors as Vidic, from Serbian landes, Van der Sar, He of the Hollandaise and Keeper of the Castle, the Berba, A NaNee, the Man of Scholes, Ryan O'Giggs, and the squire Chicaro, who didst grace the Field of Bloom with their battling skills.
Two strokes to the good by the first pitch, to the Men of the Dark Pool, but despite The Roon being dispatched early, the Red-Men displayed their Crafte and were worthie masters of the field at the finish.
Not disgraced by means, those from the Dark Pool, but prompted good words, and plaudits, for their Conduct and Endeavour in the field of battle, from all around.
Then up spake an Elderly Knight,
Sat on the Throne of Dreams;
Yon Squire, the Charles of Adam,
Be worth his weight in Gold, it seems.
The men of the Black Pool were to be undone two times more, and a noble Impasse with Aston's Villans, before Harry of Hotspur, he who be declared as a Chief of England amongst the Literary Ones, arrived on the Fylde Coast after an arduous journey from the Enclosure of the White Hart with his stalwarts Pavlyu of Chenko, De Foe, the man Kranjcar, squire Jen-Ass, The Towering Crouch, Lenno, and others, this night on the Day of Margaret of Cortona.
Charles of Adam struck the first blow in this thrilling encounter, from a Penaltie, and DJ of Campbell deepened the pain by the first time, but it was Brett of Ormerod who received the Honours of the Field for Striking in every Tier of Combat for the Black Pool.
A Consolation Strike by Pavlyu for the White Harts was too little, too late....
...but much was the praise heaped upon the Men of the Black Pool by The Harry.
And so we come to the second conclusive period of the Tier, firstly with a regretable loss at the hands of the Ful-hams, who, in garments of Plain White, have discourse with their Chief and Liefe, then at the Field of Bloom against the Men of Wenger and the Men of the Douglas, the last whom we vanquished on the initial day of the Engagements.
And still the Cries of Acclaim for the Men from the Dark Pool rent the Sea Air, no less than that of months gone bye.....
In a dominant display of battle, against the Band of the Far Nor-Est, called the Magpies, from the side of the River Tinanmuoe, in their cloth of White and Black, who were well-defeated in the joust ere five full moons before, it was with luck that this occasion endeth all-square.
As did the Contest with those brave men from The Potteries, garbed in Red and White, at their Arena, called the Britannia, whose most famous Son was a Knight of the Realm, Sir Stanley of Matthews, known to all as 'The Wizard'.
Their Chief, one Anthony of Pulis, the much-travelled and versed in the direct skills of combat, man from the Vallies, labours under the Peter de Coates, his Lord.
And so, to the final period of the Engagement:
The clash at the Stronghold of Tottingham from whence a victorie was hoped, commenced at five and a half after the sun, where the keeper of their Castle, a Gomes, saved a Strike by Our Gallant, only to fall victim to a further Penaltie, converted by the Black Pool Talisman.
Gareth the Bale fought well, but the Hosts were saved by a late De Foe counter to produce no victorie for either Band.
The White Men of the Reebok, in the fiefdom named the Middle-of-the-Brook, of Horwich, pitched up at the Field of Bloom, not in fear, for they were safe under the guidance of Owen of Coyle, whose battles had taken him through much of the Frozen North – The Sons, the Arabs of the Nor, the Men of Steel, and the Perthmen, amongst many others.
An early blood to the visitors was countered by the Black Pool's the DJ of Campbell, with squire Punche making it two Strikes to One, to the wild acclaim of the Tangerine Faithful.
Hark! The Drum beats loud and clear to the Sound of the 'Sea-Side'.
The visitors came back when Matthew of the Clothes struck what was thought the deciding blow, but no, the Tangerine-garbed heroes fought back once more with the DJ of Campbell causing more pain to the Reebok.
An epic first pitch, and now a rest, a lull, to recuperate and gird their loins for the next phrase of the Contest.
High was the quality of Combat, that Keef th' Southern displayed much ferociousness in the Angle of the Centre, and the Charles of Adam proved to one and all he was the Master of his Crafte. There were no 'Journeymen' in this Order of Tangerines,
not in the Rearguard,
or through the Van,
nor the Front.
Charles of Adam struck the final and decisive Blow for the Black Pool, before he himself was withdrawn from the Field to a rapturous fanfare from the Faithful.
And now, a Chance?
Unto the Ultimate Battle of the Conflict, at the Valhalla of many's Dreams, or will it be the Life of Another Day for the Men in the Tangerine Hue?
Death or Glorie, crieth the Faithful.
And here do we, who have seen many a battle, congregate at The Trafford.
They were but Champions of England, and undefeated at their Fortress, these Mighty Men of Sir Alexander, who had one more Final Battle at the Wembelee against the Warriors of Pep Guardiola of Barcelonia a week hence,.......... and if the truth be told, compassion would be given to the Men of the Black Pool.
But no, a near full-strength battle-array was paraded by those 'Red Devils' as oft times they were named.........
and so to the field of battle: Squire of the Park carved the first blood, by way of the Stumble of squire Evatt, a Colossus of many a Battle for the Black Pool. Back cometh the Tangerines, and Charles of Adam showed his worth in gaining the Counter-Strike.
A Reprive?
After much jousting, Gary, He of the Clothes and Arrows, claimed a further blow in the favour of the Black Pool, which caused much joyful singing and dancing in the ranks of the Tangerine-clothed Devotees.
Survival, perchance?
Alas, the Squires of Trafford in the event proved too strong once again for the Tangerine as two further bloods were inflicted upon them, and so Our Time in the Tournament dost cometh to an Ende.
The Fylde Peoples, well-versed in their Anthems, paid Homage to the Men of Black Pool, and to their Chief, Sir Ian of Holloway, and Gave Thanks to the Lords Belokon and Oyston for permitting them this Journey into the vast cauldron that is the Elite.
And Now?... For this is not the end of the Tale.
We have many a Battle ahead, do not have faint heart, dost thou wish a Return to the Elite, much under the Leadership and Guidance of our Sir Ian of Holloway?
All Ye Say 'Aye'.
There is our old Adversaries, the Men of the Forest,
Melda's Lestas, the Hundred of Blackburnshire, and those whom we vanquished not twelve months hence, the Caerdydd from the lande that is called Cymru,
and Reada's People from the Kennet.
New knights and squires, serfs and maidens, for us to discourse the merits and demerits of tactics and jousts, to quaff good ale and make joke, together with the Anthems of Praise, fresh fields to conquer, contemporary Bastions to view ..........
A New Journey Begins Once More...........
This Scribe is but a small Chronicle of our Odyssey
in the New Time.
Anon.