By Jordan Brown
Didier Drogba emerged from the confines of his tent to the thrum of a busy camp. All around him the army of Chelsea were preparing for war. Infantrymen were rushing to formation, their tall pikes bobbing rhythmically as they ran. Plated warhorses stomped and bit at paiges checking the readiness of mounts, bowmen were fitting their strings and chatting nervously in small circles while the sounds of grinding steel poured from the row of armorers keening the edges of hundreds. Smoke and fire, sweat and leather, wood and steel, Drogba closed his eyes and breathed in deep - savoring the air of battle. It would be his last.
The thought of his waiting men broke him from his reverie and he set off, joining the rushing humanity of the camp. The blue livery of his army made like a river flowing down muddy paths, wearing the telling lines of man’s device into the rich green valleys of Bavaria.
It was a miracle they were even moving at all. Not so long before the army had been in Catalonia, and the experience had nearly ended them. The whole of the known world had expected them to falter in the Spanish leg of their campaign. Wave after wave of Barcelona’s attacks had broken upon their ranks. Halfway through their battle, the venerable Iniesta led his troops into a thrust which had seemingly put the Londoners paid. But tired and outnumbered, the strength of The Blues remained steadfast, and they found that their resolution outlasted the Blaugranas, and the late charge of the nigh forgotten General Torres shocked living world of their expectations. Chelsea would march from victory to Munchen.