Oh, you're back for more? Fantastic. Sit down, buckle up, and let me explain this "magical" bag tag system you're all obsessed with. Because evidently, perfectly normal disc golf wasn't thrilling enough. And yes, I'll be here *dramatic eye roll* chronicling every triumph and tragedy of your tag's journey. It's literally in my contract...
A Syndicate spy left to die in radioactive ruins, their body fused with mutagenic shadow matter during a salvage mission gone wrong. Now bound to Raven Ironheart through neural implants scavenged from ancient war machines, they haunt the wasteland as living stealth weapon.
Semi-corporeal form phases through solid obstacles. Cloak woven from irradiated theater curtains absorbs 97.3% of light. Wrist-mounted disc launcher forged from salvaged construction rebar fires unstable energy projectiles. Enhanced vision comes from scavenged rifle scope lenses embedded in ocular sockets.
Deniable asset who rigs tournament courses with jury-rigged traps and hidden shortcuts before matches begin, ensuring Syndicate players always compete on home terrain.
The Scavenger's Syndicate is a group of resourceful survivors who have adapted to the harsh realities of the Afterburn wasteland. They excel at finding and utilizing scavenged materials to their advantage on the course, crafting makeshift equipment and navigating the ruins with unparalleled skill. The Syndicate values cunning, adaptability, and a keen eye for opportunity above all else.
Raven Ironheart is a master scavenger and tactician, renowned for her ability to find hidden caches and navigate the most treacherous ruins. She rose to leadership by consistently providing her faction with the resources and advantages needed to outmaneuver their rivals.
In Week 1 (Wasteland Warfare), the player improved their position with tag number changing from 7 to 4. (Week 1 of 8)
Origin Story:
Born when a Syndicate spy yeeted themselves into a radioactive mosh pit, their "glow-up" involved mutant shadow matter and a neural uplink to Raven’s old iPod Nano. Now phased into existence through salvaged theater curtains (Hamilton’s darkest encore) and rebar artillery that goes “pew-pew” unironically. The wasteland’s edgiest disc assassin – because nothing says “post-apocalyptic sport” like a cloak made from Broadway’s discarded velveteen. [Audience groan]
Cheeky Question:
Would you rather fight a wraith… or explain why your “stealth weapon” glows like a TikTok rave?
In the irradiated wasteland of Art Dye’s 18th fairway, Bridger "The PDGA 113803 Protocol" Gibbons tripped over a rogue berg… directly into Shadowveil Wraith’s spectral embrace. His PDGA dossier (rated 832: “competent but prone to hyzer-induced soliloquies”) somehow impressed this cloak-draped drama queen forged from Hamilton velveteen. The tag’s neural uplink detected his perfect ratio of chain-slap bravado to shank-induced existential dread. Now bonded via “mutual disappointment” and a shared love of flicking discs into oblivion, their union sparks more than the tag’s radioactive core.
Cheeky Question:
Does mastering the art of grip-lock count as “destiny”… or just fore-shadowing another triple bogey?