Hope.

[Donzig]

"In the deep and dark bowels of the underworld

Order must be maintained

Without a strict and unforgiving chain of command

Chaos is inevitable." – The Peckin’ Order, Ice Cube

The old building had fallen on dark times the once proud pillars and walls that looked down on the now empty room had once glorified the works of God. Now they glorified the pride and decadence of men, the howl of the electric guitar and the throb of bass replacing the hymns. And in the dim smokey shadows cavorted the Children of the Fall.

They danced, they twisted, they plotted and schemed. They drank and indulged their flesh, for this was the last age of a dying world. They had no fear, they had no consequences, and they basked in their power at last.

The dark side of wrestling, the black heart of the Sport of Kings had always been like this. From ancient days until the time of Frank Gotch and down into eternity. They were creatures of blood and violence. They were gods in a realm of men. And since the Scourge had fallen from their Black Throne? They were free at last! No more bound to his will, cast from master to master, or left forgotten by their betters as they waged their wars for control.

It was great days.

But all days must end, they always end.

So Bastian Greka looked up as one of his minions approached him through the crowd. He rubbed his hands together nervous, and Greka snorted as he looked up with his carved chalice in his hands. Wine sloshed from it, and he reclined back ignoring the protests of the scantily clad girls around him. The crude throne that sat before the knave of the old church creaked, and he laughed wildly as his free hand fell on his mask as it dangled from the arm of it.

‘Kravoc! Kravoc! Why the long face!’

Kravoc leaned forward, whispering as silence slowly fell through the hall. And Bastian Greka, a warlord of the Order laughed as he sat up. He shook his head, flicking back his wild shock of red and black hair before he took a long gulp of his wine. They all looked to him, and he shrugged before he gestured.

‘I will speak to this messenger. But no servant of the Baroness, or the Son of the Conqueror can sway me! We are free now to serve our own ends!’

A ragged cheer, and loud stamping as he grinned waving the chalice once more as the girls looked up with adoring eyes. Kravoc bowed his head, and licked his lips as he looked positively sick. Greka smirked, and half rose on drunken feet before he pointed grandly into the throng which slowly parted.

‘Come forward whoever you are!’

A voice came from the darkness, singing slowly in hissing whisper. It was silibant, and off key as it echoed off the pillars and walls.

‘The sons of the Prophet were brave men and bold
And quite unaccustomed to fear
But the bravest by far in the ranks of the Shah
Was Abdul Abulbul Amir…’

Silence.

Greka blinked as though he had been slapped, and the crowd parted in a wave. The figure that walked from the shadows was not the biggest man, but dread seemed to radiate from him. He wore a long leather coat covered in buckles and a few dangling chains. Hood drawn up over his face, and he lifted a hand which was taped up for a fight to brush beneath it. Greka looked around wildly, and felt a wave of panic as he saw his two bodyguards were nowhere to be seen.

The hooded head lifted, and a mask stared from under the cowl. Light gleamed across dull metal, and breath hissed before the figure walked in a slow circle as it nodded to itself. Then an arm lifted, long fingers pointing like a claw at the man on the throne.

‘I see I have much work to do when my children forget my words as soon as some lesser man thinks he has defeated me! Me! As if the Scourge could ever be defeated so easily, as if I could ever be driven away from my destiny! And while I am gone, while I linger in the between places! You all reject what I gave you! WHAT I GAVE YOU! To wallow in–’

A pause, and he took a deep shuddering breath as he seemed to twitch.

‘--THIS! Have I raised a pack of hyenas? Is this what the name of Donzig-gun has become? Are we whores that sell ourselves as flesh for the masses so we can drink and fuck our way into the night!’

Greka looked around, licking his lips before he tried to think.

‘My enemies grow strong, they gather around me! But they do not face me as a man would, they do not face me like a warrior would! No, no, no! They gather in their low places, they gather together in their hidden rooms, and they whisper lies! They whisper half truths, and distort words, and try to poison me! They are bullies, they are cowards, and they lack the stomach for a real fight.

And instead of doing what needs done? The forces of Donzig-gun do this! This will not serve! It will not serve! I paid the Masters with Blood and Hunger, and I didn’t pay them so could you get your dicks wet while the low men steal from us!’

Anger ran through the crowd, and the man in the mask sniffed. Greka saw his opening, and he tossed aside the chalice as he pointed at the man with his own mask dangling in his free hand.

‘Your day is finished! This belongs to us now!’

The Scourge looked up, and from under that mask came a wheezing rasping sound. Like a machine hissing to laugh, burbling and bubbling upwards in a cold wave. It cackled, and shoulders shook before he shrugged.

‘Show me.’

They came running out of the crowd, Greka’s best men. They leapt at his back, and the Scourge seemed to shift as his arms snapped outward in a blur. He had forgotten how terribly fast the Scourge was, and one of his men staggered aside as his face was hammered by a forearm. The other hand grabbed a wrist, and that man was flung into his fellows so all three landed in a tangled heap.

The Scourge ducked low, and another missed his back to crash into the crowd from the other direction. Greka gaped, and then one of his crew managed to get a hand on that leather coat to yank the Scourge backwards. He twisted him around, arms wrapping around his ribs as he lifted him in the air.

The Scourge tilted his head, and black mist sprayed from behind those vents. The man screamed, dropping the figure who leveled him with a quick knee to the face. Blood flowed, and he flung him aside before his foot stomped down on another rising.

Six men. His best men.

‘I kill gods, boy. You think you can defy me with fucking rabble.’

A hand lifted to wipe black from the mouth of the mask, and the eyes beneath it settled on Greka. He swallowed, stepping back against the throne. His girls scattered, and he looked around wildly as he saw his remaining crew lurking back in shock. A few stepped closer, and then he saw two big men step from the shadows. His guards who stepped between his fighters and the thing that moved closer.

They were wearing masks now, but not his masks. They were the grinning faces of skulls, and they looked at him like they did not know him. Like he was a ghost. Like he was nothing. Too late, Greka remembered what they were. He gave his sons the names of Devils because Hell was empty.

The Scourge scooped up the chalice, and he stared down at its gold hammered surface studded with gems. Its silver inlay, and he turned it in his fingers before he tilted his head to look at Greka. His breath was a hiss, and he murmured.

‘This once held the blood of a god, of a man who gave everything, EVERYTHING to save people he didn’t even know from a fate worse than death! And they killed him! They killed him rather than hear his words! You know why? Because men are weak, men are flawed, men are just that? Men.’

He stepped closer, his fingers curled around it as he stepped against Greka.

‘And now an insect like you drinks from it. Not in communion, not in good will, not to connect with your brothers, not to join your fellow men! Not even as a sign of disrespect, or a claim of dominion. You drink from it blind like a child.’

He sat the chalice down, and he paused before a hand splayed across that mask. His fingers tightened, and slid into the eyes. And he pulled off the mask, and his cold and dark eyes stared at Greka. His lips pressed into a thin black streaked line, and he lifted his hand to jab a finger at his chest.

‘Bastian Greka. I take your name, I take your mask, you are cast from us. You will walk the world of ash alone, and if I ever lay my eyes on you again? You will beg for death.’

Greka started to protest, but Donzig’s foot snapped upwards before he delivered an Event Horizon that sent the younger man crashing backwards to topple the throne. He lay sprawled and broken, and Donzig lifted the chalice before he looked at the rest of the crowd.

‘I am the Great Dark. I am reborn. And all the world will tremble before us! I will show them the error of their ways, I will make them all suffer for what they have done to us! To ME! I will have my house in order, I will punish those who betray me! All these things I will do, because I must.’

Slowly they all drifted away beneath the weight of those eyes, and Donzig nodded as he looked down at his mask. He lifted it slowly, and his fingers drifted across the metal as he smiled slightly.

‘See you soon.’