Post by Kaven Drell on Apr 7, 2020 13:40:51 GMT -5
Silence.
It weighs heavy upon the souls of those who watch as darkness reigns supreme. Still, every single nerve stands on end, knowing what is waiting. Knowing what is coming. Knowing that relief from that soul crushing silence, freedom from debilitating darkness, only leads to something much, much worse. Adrenaline pulses through veins sending a jolt through the muscles of the heart, its rhythm growing quicker and quicker. Panic begins to set in as fingers reach forward, grasping for something, anything, to cling to. Some source of safety and security. Something that would make the living nightmare disappear.
Those who have found themselves in this situation in the past, however, know that there is no hope. There is no escape. There are only two choices. Yield willingly, or yield by force.
A voice cuts through the silence, a hushed whisper really, the first warning that the time for the decision to be made is near.
The voice fades, but it takes a moment as the hushed whisper seems to dance on the air, toying with whomever may be hearing it. Once it is gone, however, a pulse of deep red light illuminates the room. Behind a single wooden table stands the Trench Warfare champion himself, his head cocked slightly to the side as he looks in the direction of a single wooden chair a few feet away from him. The figure seated in the chair seems bound there, cords wrapping around it and the arms and legs of the chair in which it was seated. Fiery red hair dangles down over shoulders as Kaven nods and smirks, his hands toying with an object that can not yet be distinguished.
“I wondered when you would join me, little red kitten. I wondered when you would finally show your face. For someone so braggadocious, so self-assured, you still never learn, do you? All of this time talking about ideals like karma. Like justice. Lamenting the wrongs the world thrusts upon you. Demanding that they be made right. Expecting everyone else to do all of the work for you. Oh your words, they’re quite monumental. But your actions? Well… it’s those things that show just how fragile you truly are.”
Clicking his tongue, his hands continued to toy with an indistinguishable object as he studies the figure before him. Eerily, it resembles his opponent for Relapse. Is it her? Unlikely. Those who have paid attention to the journey of Kaven Drell through the battleground are well aware that he often uses figures to represent what is to come. This time, Kaven eyes the central figure of his message with the sort of pity one might give to a pouting child that desperately wants to get their way. With grace, Kaven moves around the table and leans back against it, folding his arms across his chest as he studies the figure bound to the chair before him.
“It’s not that you aren’t talented, Kaelan. The world knows that you are. Oh yes, we’ve all borne witness to your work. A white sheep wanting to stand out amongst other white sheep, throwing herself like a bowling ball into those around her. At the end of the day, though, you are still nothing more than a sheep waiting to be fed from the hand of your masters. It doesn’t matter who it is. Richard Olayinka and Rebellion. Viper in Revo Pro. Axel Graves here in my Battleground. You yearn for their acceptance. For their praise. For someone to look at you like they look at your husband. Like they look at Lisa Seldon. You’ve sold your soul to be one of them. You’ve bound yourself to being something lesser. You’ve shackled yourself to the opinions of others.”
Whatever it was that was in his hands, Kaven drops it off onto the table top before falling to his knees before the figure bound to the chair. Reaching forward, his hands grasp the sides as he gazes upward.
“You’ve bound yourself to the same tried and true method. Sometimes it works for you. It’s how you’ve gotten this far but the thing is, so often it fails you in the moments you need it most. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the same token nonsense that so many other cookie cutter babies like yourself shout from the mountaintops. You want to be the best. You want to hold championship gold. You want to establish a legacy. You want your name to be revered. And you’re not going to stop until you’ve accomplished all of those things or you’ve died trying. That sort of mindset and attitude has become a crutch for you because you’ve found a way to make it work here and there. But you’ve never stopped and wondered why it always seems to fail you in the moments you need it most.”
Slowly, his upper lip curls into a sneer as he stares into the eyes of the bound figure.
“You’ve never stopped to wonder why in the biggest moments, you fall short.”
A rumble of laughter roars from deep within him.
“And that’s why you’re going to fall short again. In your hometown. In front of everyone that you love. Not because you aren’t talented enough, Kaelan. You are. But because you blindly, willingly bound yourself to a standard that has no regard for you. And you can’t understand a man who broke free from those bonds, and took life into his own hands. You can’t understand…”
The world that had been illuminated in red suddenly plummets into that heavy darkness again as the hushed whisper rapidly returns.
Moments pass and all sense of the passage of time fades. It could be seconds. It could be minutes. Perhaps even longer than that. Eventually, the click of an index finger and thumb snapping bounces off the walls in unison with laps that suddenly burst to life with flames that flicker and cast eerie shadows over the scene before them. Drell, no longer grasping the side of the chair, now has his arms extended outward as he gazes upward, a clear smile on his face that lets the world know he’s enjoying himself thoroughly.
“I am your paradox, Kaelan. I am the truth in its most raw and visceral form. Perhaps you don’t realize it yet, but when the world around you has turned to ash at my hands, perhaps then you will see what I have been telling you all along. This has never been about championships. It has never been about the shiny little belt that so many want to raise high above their heads, basking in the glory of the moment. But when you walk into my Battleground, and it is my name that rests opposing yours, none of that matters. Even now you fail to see that this pretty little trinket is little more than a flame for a moth like yourself to be drawn to. It is nothing but a mechanism to draw people like you, like Anna Daniels, like Michael Kelly, like Elena DeDraca, to me to be taught the lesson you’ve been so afraid of having to learn.”
Drell pauses, for a moment, and pushes himself up onto one knee and then to a fully upright position, never taking his eyes off of the figure that was bound before him.
“You haven’t realized it yet, but perhaps soon enough you will. Every single thing I have done. Every single threat I have played. Every single game I have played. It’s all been done to bring you to this moment and the incredible thing is that you think this is of your own devices, of your own machinations. You are the ant that thinks its life is in some way extraordinary to the heel of my boot. You, and so many like you, are a plague that riddles this industry and I am the cure. That’s what this match is about, Kaelan. That is what the purpose behind all of this is. I knew you would come. I knew you would stumble blindly into my waiting arms. I knew that you would come to me. And I knew that you would be so certain in your success you would miss the point until it was far too late for your fate to be changed.”
Back into darkness the world plunges, but the silence doesn’t come as Drell’s laughter echoes all around as the sound of rushing wind that had accompanied the hushed whisper returns, dancing on the auditory waves, intermingling with Drell’s laughter as it speaks once more.
The low, rumbling laughter of Kaven Drell chases the whisper away and soon enough the darkness is dispatched in a small area as the sound of a match be struck reaches the ears of the viewing audience simultaneously with the single matchstick that Kaven holds in his hand. It’s small, barely giving off enough light to expose the facial structure of the Trench War champion. But it serves its purpose for the time being.
“Kill. Drell. Kill. Every single time I step into my Battleground, the voices imploring me grow greater and greater in number. More and more of them are seeing what I see, Kaelan. They’re coming to understand what I know. That this company. This business. It’s sick. It’s diseased with greedy glory hounds like yourself. We’re tired of it, Kaelan. We’re tired of people like you who want the world to believe that they’ve got their back, but the moment any sign of trouble arises, that sense of self preservation kicks in and you turn away. Loyalty? What do you know of it. We’ve watched how quickly you’ll turn on your friends. On your family. On those who are closest to you if you feel like it’ll nudge you just a little bit closer to that sense of validation you so desperately crave.”
Standing once more, Kaven plucks the book of matches he had dropped onto the table earlier, and ignites it fully with the single flame that his hands bore. For a moment he stares at it lustfully as it begins to grow.
“They chant my name. Demand that I kill once more. It isn’t physical life that I take, Kaelan. Ask the others that have come before you. I don’t bring to an end the beat of your heart, or the breath of oxygen in your lungs. But at my hands life as you know it, it comes to an end. I told you that I was going to baptize you. Cleanse you. And in doing so, I’m going to bring this business one step closer the being freed from the very thing that is killing it.”
Holding his the matchbook out in front of him, a view is finally achieved of the bound figure in the chair. In essence a life size voodoo doll has been constructed of none other than Kaelan Laughlin, having been bound and restrained. With a flick of his wrist, Drell tosses the matchbook onto the figure and instantly it bursts into flames.
“The flames of purification await you at my hand, Kaelan.”
Gesturing with his now free hand, he beckons his opponent to come to him, sneering wickedly as flame and shadow flicker in his eyes.
“Let them burn.”
It weighs heavy upon the souls of those who watch as darkness reigns supreme. Still, every single nerve stands on end, knowing what is waiting. Knowing what is coming. Knowing that relief from that soul crushing silence, freedom from debilitating darkness, only leads to something much, much worse. Adrenaline pulses through veins sending a jolt through the muscles of the heart, its rhythm growing quicker and quicker. Panic begins to set in as fingers reach forward, grasping for something, anything, to cling to. Some source of safety and security. Something that would make the living nightmare disappear.
Those who have found themselves in this situation in the past, however, know that there is no hope. There is no escape. There are only two choices. Yield willingly, or yield by force.
A voice cuts through the silence, a hushed whisper really, the first warning that the time for the decision to be made is near.
“Kill.”
The voice fades, but it takes a moment as the hushed whisper seems to dance on the air, toying with whomever may be hearing it. Once it is gone, however, a pulse of deep red light illuminates the room. Behind a single wooden table stands the Trench Warfare champion himself, his head cocked slightly to the side as he looks in the direction of a single wooden chair a few feet away from him. The figure seated in the chair seems bound there, cords wrapping around it and the arms and legs of the chair in which it was seated. Fiery red hair dangles down over shoulders as Kaven nods and smirks, his hands toying with an object that can not yet be distinguished.
“I wondered when you would join me, little red kitten. I wondered when you would finally show your face. For someone so braggadocious, so self-assured, you still never learn, do you? All of this time talking about ideals like karma. Like justice. Lamenting the wrongs the world thrusts upon you. Demanding that they be made right. Expecting everyone else to do all of the work for you. Oh your words, they’re quite monumental. But your actions? Well… it’s those things that show just how fragile you truly are.”
Clicking his tongue, his hands continued to toy with an indistinguishable object as he studies the figure before him. Eerily, it resembles his opponent for Relapse. Is it her? Unlikely. Those who have paid attention to the journey of Kaven Drell through the battleground are well aware that he often uses figures to represent what is to come. This time, Kaven eyes the central figure of his message with the sort of pity one might give to a pouting child that desperately wants to get their way. With grace, Kaven moves around the table and leans back against it, folding his arms across his chest as he studies the figure bound to the chair before him.
“It’s not that you aren’t talented, Kaelan. The world knows that you are. Oh yes, we’ve all borne witness to your work. A white sheep wanting to stand out amongst other white sheep, throwing herself like a bowling ball into those around her. At the end of the day, though, you are still nothing more than a sheep waiting to be fed from the hand of your masters. It doesn’t matter who it is. Richard Olayinka and Rebellion. Viper in Revo Pro. Axel Graves here in my Battleground. You yearn for their acceptance. For their praise. For someone to look at you like they look at your husband. Like they look at Lisa Seldon. You’ve sold your soul to be one of them. You’ve bound yourself to being something lesser. You’ve shackled yourself to the opinions of others.”
Whatever it was that was in his hands, Kaven drops it off onto the table top before falling to his knees before the figure bound to the chair. Reaching forward, his hands grasp the sides as he gazes upward.
“You’ve bound yourself to the same tried and true method. Sometimes it works for you. It’s how you’ve gotten this far but the thing is, so often it fails you in the moments you need it most. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the same token nonsense that so many other cookie cutter babies like yourself shout from the mountaintops. You want to be the best. You want to hold championship gold. You want to establish a legacy. You want your name to be revered. And you’re not going to stop until you’ve accomplished all of those things or you’ve died trying. That sort of mindset and attitude has become a crutch for you because you’ve found a way to make it work here and there. But you’ve never stopped and wondered why it always seems to fail you in the moments you need it most.”
Slowly, his upper lip curls into a sneer as he stares into the eyes of the bound figure.
“You’ve never stopped to wonder why in the biggest moments, you fall short.”
A rumble of laughter roars from deep within him.
“And that’s why you’re going to fall short again. In your hometown. In front of everyone that you love. Not because you aren’t talented enough, Kaelan. You are. But because you blindly, willingly bound yourself to a standard that has no regard for you. And you can’t understand a man who broke free from those bonds, and took life into his own hands. You can’t understand…”
The world that had been illuminated in red suddenly plummets into that heavy darkness again as the hushed whisper rapidly returns.
”Drell.”
Moments pass and all sense of the passage of time fades. It could be seconds. It could be minutes. Perhaps even longer than that. Eventually, the click of an index finger and thumb snapping bounces off the walls in unison with laps that suddenly burst to life with flames that flicker and cast eerie shadows over the scene before them. Drell, no longer grasping the side of the chair, now has his arms extended outward as he gazes upward, a clear smile on his face that lets the world know he’s enjoying himself thoroughly.
“I am your paradox, Kaelan. I am the truth in its most raw and visceral form. Perhaps you don’t realize it yet, but when the world around you has turned to ash at my hands, perhaps then you will see what I have been telling you all along. This has never been about championships. It has never been about the shiny little belt that so many want to raise high above their heads, basking in the glory of the moment. But when you walk into my Battleground, and it is my name that rests opposing yours, none of that matters. Even now you fail to see that this pretty little trinket is little more than a flame for a moth like yourself to be drawn to. It is nothing but a mechanism to draw people like you, like Anna Daniels, like Michael Kelly, like Elena DeDraca, to me to be taught the lesson you’ve been so afraid of having to learn.”
Drell pauses, for a moment, and pushes himself up onto one knee and then to a fully upright position, never taking his eyes off of the figure that was bound before him.
“You haven’t realized it yet, but perhaps soon enough you will. Every single thing I have done. Every single threat I have played. Every single game I have played. It’s all been done to bring you to this moment and the incredible thing is that you think this is of your own devices, of your own machinations. You are the ant that thinks its life is in some way extraordinary to the heel of my boot. You, and so many like you, are a plague that riddles this industry and I am the cure. That’s what this match is about, Kaelan. That is what the purpose behind all of this is. I knew you would come. I knew you would stumble blindly into my waiting arms. I knew that you would come to me. And I knew that you would be so certain in your success you would miss the point until it was far too late for your fate to be changed.”
Back into darkness the world plunges, but the silence doesn’t come as Drell’s laughter echoes all around as the sound of rushing wind that had accompanied the hushed whisper returns, dancing on the auditory waves, intermingling with Drell’s laughter as it speaks once more.
”Kill.”
The low, rumbling laughter of Kaven Drell chases the whisper away and soon enough the darkness is dispatched in a small area as the sound of a match be struck reaches the ears of the viewing audience simultaneously with the single matchstick that Kaven holds in his hand. It’s small, barely giving off enough light to expose the facial structure of the Trench War champion. But it serves its purpose for the time being.
“Kill. Drell. Kill. Every single time I step into my Battleground, the voices imploring me grow greater and greater in number. More and more of them are seeing what I see, Kaelan. They’re coming to understand what I know. That this company. This business. It’s sick. It’s diseased with greedy glory hounds like yourself. We’re tired of it, Kaelan. We’re tired of people like you who want the world to believe that they’ve got their back, but the moment any sign of trouble arises, that sense of self preservation kicks in and you turn away. Loyalty? What do you know of it. We’ve watched how quickly you’ll turn on your friends. On your family. On those who are closest to you if you feel like it’ll nudge you just a little bit closer to that sense of validation you so desperately crave.”
Standing once more, Kaven plucks the book of matches he had dropped onto the table earlier, and ignites it fully with the single flame that his hands bore. For a moment he stares at it lustfully as it begins to grow.
“They chant my name. Demand that I kill once more. It isn’t physical life that I take, Kaelan. Ask the others that have come before you. I don’t bring to an end the beat of your heart, or the breath of oxygen in your lungs. But at my hands life as you know it, it comes to an end. I told you that I was going to baptize you. Cleanse you. And in doing so, I’m going to bring this business one step closer the being freed from the very thing that is killing it.”
Holding his the matchbook out in front of him, a view is finally achieved of the bound figure in the chair. In essence a life size voodoo doll has been constructed of none other than Kaelan Laughlin, having been bound and restrained. With a flick of his wrist, Drell tosses the matchbook onto the figure and instantly it bursts into flames.
“The flames of purification await you at my hand, Kaelan.”
Gesturing with his now free hand, he beckons his opponent to come to him, sneering wickedly as flame and shadow flicker in his eyes.
“Let them burn.”