

Timothy Scholle #290051

Winterfell @ Creekside
Wielding the power of Shadow Throne (#27), Timothy demonstrated exceptional skill by playing +99 points above their rating in this epic clash.
Winter's Herald
As the icy winds of winter descend upon Winterfell, the Warden's trials have tested the mettle of the North's champions. Skyler Kunz and his Stormborn Phoenix have risen to meet arcane challenges, while EJ Orschel and his fellow guardians strive to master the elements themselves. Yet even as Derik proves his worth as the Nightwatch Raven's bearer, a murderer walks among the noble houses, sowing discord and darkness. With Jake Robb claiming the right to lead the investigation into his father's death, the great houses have united against the coming storm, their resilience and duty intertwined. As whispers of ancient prophecies and fell omens echo through the godswood, the true test of the North's resolve lies ahead, where the fate of the realms hangs in the balance.



Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Winter's Herald
The cold winds howled through the skeletal branches, carrying an omen that chilled deeper than bone. Frost etched intricate patterns across fairways and greens, transforming the once-familiar course into an alien landscape. Winter had come to Creekside, and with it, an icy dread settled over the North.
Tormund Giantsbane stood at the first tee, his weathered face grim as he surveyed the gathered players. "The old gods whisper of dark tidings," he rumbled. "Prophecies long forgotten stir in the ice, warning of trials to come."
Uneasy murmurs rippled through the assembled lords and ladies, their house sigils stark against the snow-laden wind. At the center stood Timothy Scholle, the Shadow Throne bag tag resting heavy on his shoulders. The ancient relic seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, its runes glinting in the pale light.
"We are the guardians of the North," Timothy declared, his voice carrying a newfound weight. "The Shadow Throne has chosen me to lead us through this darkness."
Tormund nodded solemnly. "Aye, the throne knows what's coming. We best heed its warnings."
As they took to the course, the challenges of winter disc golf quickly became apparent. Discs skittered across patches of black ice, skidding wildly off-target. Putts that once dropped smoothly now clattered away, the chains frozen into unforgiving iron.
Yet for Timothy, the Shadow Throne seemed to guide his every throw. His drives pierced the bitter headwinds, landing with uncanny accuracy. His putts held true, as if the old gods themselves steadied his hand.
"The throne chooses its champion wisely," Tormund muttered, watching Timothy's performance with a mix of awe and unease.
Hole by hole, the players battled the elements and each other, their breath clouding in the frigid air. The course had become a battlefield, each stroke a defiant stand against winter's onslaught.
But as the round neared its end, a figure emerged from the treeline, his furs ragged and caked with ice. "The darkness gathers!" he cried, his voice ragged with exhaustion. "The prophecies align, the Long Night approaches!"
Tormund's eyes widened in recognition. "A wildling scout from beyond the Wall. If he's here, the danger is far greater than we realized."
The players exchanged troubled glances, the weight of their roles as guardians suddenly all too real. Timothy gripped the Shadow Throne tightly, feeling its ancient power thrumming through his fingers.
"We stand united," he vowed, his gaze sweeping across the assembled houses. "The North will endure, as it always has."
But as the scout collapsed, his final words carried on the icy wind, a chilling portent of what lay ahead:
"Winter is coming... and the dead come with it."
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