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Dan Kitwood

Do you remember how it was before, child?

Before, in the Old Days?

There was cold, yes, and darkness. There was mediocrity and abject failure. There were some highs, but many more lows. Prince Fitzgerald led us into a brief springtime, but it could only last so long. He was only a mortal man, as we all are, and he soon passed on to scarlet Arizonian fields of glory. We struggled for many years under the mighty paw of Dinocat. They removed our helmet stripe, and we did not act. They took our pride stickers, and we stood idle.  Our once proud heritage and identity had been stripped - a needless 'SBURGH" appended to our name - until we did not even recognize ourselves. All that lay before us lay dead, as if cut with a torch.

Soon, even the eldest among us, the ancients, began to forget about the halcyon days of Prince Marino or Dorsett. Oh, certainly there were always whispers of the past. The Feast Day against the lads from Youngstown was one. Yes, the celebration that day was unparalleled.  But did we really even know then what it was? Or was it merely a trinket, a bauble of bygone days?

And then, child, everything changed.

On the Coming of Home Two Thousand Fourteen, a Saturday like any other in October, a lone message fluttered down from the bluebird:

We jested, child! You see, Olds like us had heard this retold countless times. It was common japery at that time to mock the ancient and nearly forgotten. Inside though, was pain. We knew we could never again have what was once ours. So we sent it along, we steeled our hearts against hope. We locked any light deep inside so that we could never be hurt again.

The furor grew! Like thunderclaps booming across a long dead countryside, the great Pittizens of the land shouted! We did not hear, child. Or, we chose not to listen.

Sir Conner! It couldn't be. He was loyal, faithful. He would not scorn us like that. We chose not to believe. Twice, we chose to reject the coming miracle. Inside, however, the shackles were falling apart. One by one, the silence - the shield protecting our dimly flickering hope, was stripped away.

And then, yes, and then it all happened.

The Great Scriptening.

A blinding light, like one unseen since the the ancients. Before the Old Days. Before Lord Chryst from Wisconia. Before the snake-eyed Texan destroyer of wills, The Nameless One. Before the mustachioed home-grown son who failed his own people, Even before The WALT.

Its glory radiated among the populace, and they knew happiness. Its power, unmatched, unlocked those guarded hearts across the land.

We believed.

We all finally believed again.