Winter's First Flight

Beneath a sky stitched with frost and shadow, the first ravens of winter descend upon Winterfell. Their obsidian wings sunder the last fragile hold of autumn's warmth, stirring ancient prophecies from their icy slumber. Har! The North remembers, aye, and so do I, Tormund 'Creek Walker' Giantsbane, Guardian of Creekside and bearer of tales.

Along the windswept fairways of Creekside Park, winter's touch reweaves the tapestry of our noble course. The once-supple grass stiffens beneath hoarfrost's caress, and the pines stand sentinel, frosted blades held firm against winter's first bite. This land embodies the very spirit of the North: unyielding, starkly beautiful, demanding both skill and reverence from those who dare traverse its frozen expanse.

And yet, amidst these hallowed grounds, a new form of reverence takes flight. Discs, they call them - curious things, flat as ice-smoothed stones yet alive with colors bright as wildfire. The southerners say they're for sport, but I've seen the truth: each one bears a shard of the North's own soul, forged by winter's breath and bound to the hands of those who carry the Shadow Dragons' mark.

Aye, the Shadow Dragons - the eldest children of winter itself, born in the frozen depths where glacial darkness meets volcanic heat. Few know their true nature, but I've seen the way their ethereal forms dance between shadow and frost, ancient wisdom glinting in obsidian eyes. And now, their essence lives within these discs, waiting for hands worthy of their power.

As Creekside's guardian, I watch and listen, weaving tales from the whispers carried on winter's wind. They speak of a rising champion, one who will stand firm against the gathering dark and defend the North with both disc and honor. But the path to glory is fraught with trials, each one a testament to the unyielding spirit of our land.

And so it begins, the first flight of winter's own league. Discs dance between shadow-dappled pines, players' breath misting in the frigid air. The elements themselves become opponents, frost-kissed fairways demanding precision and resilience. Yet amidst the chill, a strange warmth kindles - the fire of competition, of camaraderie forged in shared struggle against winter's bite.

But there's more afoot than mere friendly rivalry, I sense it in my bones. During the first league match, a hooded figure appears at the edge of the woods, gone in the space of a breath yet leaving an unmistakable chill in its wake. Whispers flutter through the course like startled ravens - could this be a harbinger of the prophecies stirring to life?

Har! The winds of winter carry secrets, and the North's guardians must learn to read their icy script. For now, the players hone their craft, each throw a defiance of the encroaching dark. But soon, I feel, the true test will come. The bag tags' power grows restless, the Shadow Dragons' ancient selves stirring to life in slumbering discs. Who among our league possesses the skill, the wisdom, the sheer frozen grit to claim the mantle of champion?

These questions hang heavy as hoarfrost on bare branches, awaiting answers only the unfolding of winter's own saga can provide. But for now, we walk the course, we brave the chill, we let fly discs imbued with the North's own soul. And I, Tormund Creek Walker, will be here to tell the tale, to trace the arc of prophecy as it unfolds beneath winter's watchful gaze.

For the Bag Tags stir, the North remembers, and the game's afoot. May your discs fly true, my fellow Northerners. Winter is coming, and with it, the legacy we'll forge upon the frozen fairways of Creekside Park.