Scribe's report, AD 2013. The six year of the reign of Emperor Dean.
The world around us is in turmoil. In our battles with our blue-clad foes, led by the foul demons Backes, Steen, and Elliot, we have been hard-pressed. We faced siege on the bloody fields of St. Louis, on the banks of the mighty river. Our defenses were inadequate, having lost the gallant Sir William and Sir Matthew. Sir Jake had to be sewn back together by our surgeons.
And yet, the gods of hockey, in their most gracious spirits, have bestowed many gifts upon us, gifts perhaps undeserved. They have helped us turn the tide of battle, first in defense of our own grounds, then in a miraculous battle in St. Louis. The survivors of the battle swear they saw Sir Jonathan glowing with heavenly grace, floating above the carnage around him as he turned aside their never-ending rain of missiles. Somehow, against all the odds, in the face of an unending horde of our enemies, the valiant Sir Slava struck down our barbaric nemeses, and we returned to our home grounds on the verge of victory.
Then, in an act of supreme grace, the hockey gods again smiled upon us. Although victory appeared to be in our grasp in our own realms, the tide of battle turned and our foes again marched on us in an uncountable host. They stormed our defenses, overwhelming us, cutting men down left and right. Figueroa Street ran red with our blood. But, in still another act of divine grace, the hockey gods bestowed upon Sir Dustin the Slow a wondrous gift, an unstoppable missile, which found its mark at the last moment.
Now, we stand ready to vanquish our foes, for which we owe all to the most divine lords of hockey. We do not pretend to understand their ways; it is ours only to obey their wishes. We will continue the ritual sacrifices of cow's meat, curdled dairy products, and fine breads.
May the hockey gods save us all, and may I survive to write another entry. Even now I hear the enemy outside, preparing for his final assault on our battered fortress...