Friday the 13th (Honor)
Aug 11, 2021 19:18:52 GMT -5
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vastrix, Roy "The Sorrow" Harlowe (NJC), and 4 more like this
Post by Deleted on Aug 11, 2021 19:18:52 GMT -5
Past the trappings of civilization and across a sweeping lake, sits a rugged log cabin surrounded by trees. Tucked away in the shadow of a canopy of trees it seemingly was made to blend into the environment, it lacks modern amenities but is sturdy and more than enough to protect oneself from the elements.
Inside, an old oil lamp casts a pale yellow light through glass tarnished with age. Old, rough cut and creaky floorboards have coarse rope pressed into the gaps between. Again, it wasn’t pretty, but function always came before form for him.
Sat in an old, high backed rocking chair, the lamp casts a golden hue upon the NPW Openweight Championship at his feet. His black boots lead to baggy black leather pants, each leg bearing a deep red serpent slithering up to his hip.
His torso was steadfastly held in red with a semi-gloss black design tracing his ribcage and spine. His arms are covered in tattoos of skulls, demons and religious symbols save for a scar that runs along the inside of his left forearm.
His intricately braided hair is tied back, only a few errant strands hang loose. His face is painted, black circles around the eyes peaking at the corners and extending into his hair line. A deep red diamond in the center of his forehead, black streams like tears run down from his eye paint, his lips are blackened. He has the look of a mime from Hell, something ripped from the horror movies themselves.
“Friday the thirteenth…” The enigma pauses, letting his words fall to the floor next to his championship. “…a date that, for most, conjures up images of machetes and hockey masks.”
There’s a certain air about this subject, the hypocrisy of conjuring up pretend monsters and boogeymen for a cheap fright when real monsters that were much more frightening walked among us committing grievous sins against humanity’s most vulnerable. The wealthy, poor, educated, ignorant…he’d seen all manner of monster, from wealthy elite to humble clergyman. He had judged them all the same. Guilty. “My partner and opponents; they fit this bill. Each of them, the easy answer, the common answer.”
Sighing, it’s clear this wasn’t his idea of an ‘ideal situation’. All three other men in this match owed him a debt, and he was coming to collect. Freakke, Steve Awesome, his partner Donzig, all of them. “But I digress. It is a fateful date, living on in infamy off the back of a paranoid and greedy King.” Rocking back and forth as he speaks, the old chair creaks and groans at first before settling into a smooth and consistent rhythm.
“You see, the so-called ‘Iron King’, Philip the fourth of France had taken out large loans from the Knights Templar. A church affiliated organization said to be ‘as rich as kings’ and one who had come under scrutiny thanks to their involvement in banking and lending.
One particularly large sum borrowed served as dowery for Philip’s sister’s wedding. Even Kings are mere mortals, and greed knows no bounds. The Iron King had a reputation for seizing property and persons if it suited his needs, you know.”
Pausing, the enigma rocks back and forth collecting himself before continuing the history lesson. “And so, he arranged for the Pope himself to be charged as a heretic, sodomizer and practitioner of black magic. When that failed, the king came up with a new plan...”
Getting right to the point; his pause is but a moment as he draws a breath and leans forward, stopping the chair still. “In secret, he arranged for the Christian Knights Templar to be arrested and tried as an order under, what essentially amounted to, a loophole…and lingering suspicion amid rumours that members of the order had committed adultery with his son’s wives.”
Sighing, history has sided with the likelihood that at least two of the king’s son’s wives were in fact adulters, but it’s clear ‘D’ doesn’t necessarily believe the punishments fit the crimes. “Of course, none of the king’s new accusations were provable, but captured and tortured into confessions that would later be recanted, many including their leader would be burned at the stake, while the lucky ones were imprisoned indefinitely.”
The end of his lesson comes with a final revelation. “The date of the arrests? Friday the thirteenth of October…thirteen o-seven…”
Collecting his championship, ‘D’ shoulders it proudly, allowing himself a moment to look into the reflective surface. Liking what he saw, the enigmatic Openweight Champion was clearly ready. “So, while the origin of Friday the thirteenth bringing bad luck can be traced back to the trials of the Knights Templar and the greed of a King…”
He stares down the camera now, his words clearly meant for the other wrestlers he’d shared the ring with. “…the origin of the bad luck of you three degenerates on Friday the thirteenth…can be traced back…to me…” Leaving his threat hanging upon the air, it was clear his alliance with Donzig would last exactly as long as it took to get his hands on Freakke and best Steve Awesome, again. “…I’m coming to Honor to win a match, then?” The thinest of smiles crosses his face as he walks away leaving an empty rocking chair.
“The heretic, the talker…will be reminded.”
Inside, an old oil lamp casts a pale yellow light through glass tarnished with age. Old, rough cut and creaky floorboards have coarse rope pressed into the gaps between. Again, it wasn’t pretty, but function always came before form for him.
Sat in an old, high backed rocking chair, the lamp casts a golden hue upon the NPW Openweight Championship at his feet. His black boots lead to baggy black leather pants, each leg bearing a deep red serpent slithering up to his hip.
His torso was steadfastly held in red with a semi-gloss black design tracing his ribcage and spine. His arms are covered in tattoos of skulls, demons and religious symbols save for a scar that runs along the inside of his left forearm.
His intricately braided hair is tied back, only a few errant strands hang loose. His face is painted, black circles around the eyes peaking at the corners and extending into his hair line. A deep red diamond in the center of his forehead, black streams like tears run down from his eye paint, his lips are blackened. He has the look of a mime from Hell, something ripped from the horror movies themselves.
“Friday the thirteenth…” The enigma pauses, letting his words fall to the floor next to his championship. “…a date that, for most, conjures up images of machetes and hockey masks.”
There’s a certain air about this subject, the hypocrisy of conjuring up pretend monsters and boogeymen for a cheap fright when real monsters that were much more frightening walked among us committing grievous sins against humanity’s most vulnerable. The wealthy, poor, educated, ignorant…he’d seen all manner of monster, from wealthy elite to humble clergyman. He had judged them all the same. Guilty. “My partner and opponents; they fit this bill. Each of them, the easy answer, the common answer.”
Sighing, it’s clear this wasn’t his idea of an ‘ideal situation’. All three other men in this match owed him a debt, and he was coming to collect. Freakke, Steve Awesome, his partner Donzig, all of them. “But I digress. It is a fateful date, living on in infamy off the back of a paranoid and greedy King.” Rocking back and forth as he speaks, the old chair creaks and groans at first before settling into a smooth and consistent rhythm.
“You see, the so-called ‘Iron King’, Philip the fourth of France had taken out large loans from the Knights Templar. A church affiliated organization said to be ‘as rich as kings’ and one who had come under scrutiny thanks to their involvement in banking and lending.
One particularly large sum borrowed served as dowery for Philip’s sister’s wedding. Even Kings are mere mortals, and greed knows no bounds. The Iron King had a reputation for seizing property and persons if it suited his needs, you know.”
Pausing, the enigma rocks back and forth collecting himself before continuing the history lesson. “And so, he arranged for the Pope himself to be charged as a heretic, sodomizer and practitioner of black magic. When that failed, the king came up with a new plan...”
Getting right to the point; his pause is but a moment as he draws a breath and leans forward, stopping the chair still. “In secret, he arranged for the Christian Knights Templar to be arrested and tried as an order under, what essentially amounted to, a loophole…and lingering suspicion amid rumours that members of the order had committed adultery with his son’s wives.”
Sighing, history has sided with the likelihood that at least two of the king’s son’s wives were in fact adulters, but it’s clear ‘D’ doesn’t necessarily believe the punishments fit the crimes. “Of course, none of the king’s new accusations were provable, but captured and tortured into confessions that would later be recanted, many including their leader would be burned at the stake, while the lucky ones were imprisoned indefinitely.”
The end of his lesson comes with a final revelation. “The date of the arrests? Friday the thirteenth of October…thirteen o-seven…”
Collecting his championship, ‘D’ shoulders it proudly, allowing himself a moment to look into the reflective surface. Liking what he saw, the enigmatic Openweight Champion was clearly ready. “So, while the origin of Friday the thirteenth bringing bad luck can be traced back to the trials of the Knights Templar and the greed of a King…”
He stares down the camera now, his words clearly meant for the other wrestlers he’d shared the ring with. “…the origin of the bad luck of you three degenerates on Friday the thirteenth…can be traced back…to me…” Leaving his threat hanging upon the air, it was clear his alliance with Donzig would last exactly as long as it took to get his hands on Freakke and best Steve Awesome, again. “…I’m coming to Honor to win a match, then?” The thinest of smiles crosses his face as he walks away leaving an empty rocking chair.
“The heretic, the talker…will be reminded.”