A message appeared in the town square last night. The World Cup. A tournament of champions, a tradition not seen since the Second Great War. I dispatched some of the men to investigate who was responsible for its posting, but as of this evening no clues had been uncovered.
Since our garrison I’ve not seen such vigor in the people of Otter Ferry. The message and its contents were the topic of every conversation, regardless the participants’ ages or standing in the town. For common folk, feats of strength and strategy often leave behind scorched earth and dead relatives in their wake.
We are now 8 months into our patrol of the lands surrounding Madrigal. Recent months filled with marching and drilling from sun up to sun down. A small skirmish with a band of brigades around Willow was the only exception. No signs of the Fallen or their minions.
Endless repetition has grown on the men, stretching patience and temperament. Their hunger for battle grows with each day. Many see this tournament as reprieve from months like these. They should be thankful, all were too young to remember the horrors of the last real War. I pray this tournament, and the inevitable exodus from the Legion that comes with it, are not paired with a resurgence of the Fallen.