It’s the winter solstice at Karnak. The council of Leeds United Celtic Elders (and one random Manx fella because I couldn’t think of any Leeds players from there) have gathered from the remaining outposts of pre-imperial resistance — the nations of Éire, Breizh, Kernow, Mannin, Alba, and Cymru.

Each takes their post within the stone circle. A thrum of arcane energy rolls underfoot, earth-bound, verdant and weirdly sacred. A confluence of the tides of history, bearing on a still and eerie Bréton evening.

A Gothic outlier in a long black coat — broad, assured and weathered — approaches the circle. The long, low sun casts his shadow across the mudded turf into the dead centre with the calendric precision of the ancients. Gentle, with a soothing self-assurance, he comes to seek the blessing of the nations.

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