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The Secret Origins of Kalinda Kriegsdottir
Part One of God Knows How Many
By Kalinda Kriegsdottir
I get asked stupid questions all the time on Twitter. Am I a real dragon? How long do I have to sit in the chair to put the blue makeup on? How the heck does the whole prosthetic tail thing work, is there a remote control? Magic isn't real, I am dumb. That's not a question.
And then there are the fedora-wearing diaper babies with no social skills, an entitlement complex, and absolutely zero misogynistic intentions (no he-man woman haters here, nosiree!) that think watching women wrestle is gay and that I shouldn't fight guys. So they can get back to their totes heterosexual watching of oiled up dudes in underpants writhe against one another and swap sweat.
That last one was totally not a question either, @BongPrinceBlazeIt420SmokeWeedE'eryDay.
But then I get some legitimate questions. Where did I come from? How did I get here? How do I type with boxing gloves on?
And the truth is that I've answered these questions before. I've gone to the trouble of posting a video every week detailing something about me, or my world, or the collection of goobers I hang around with, or the menagerie of voices in my head.
I sat down awhile back and actually answered a bunch of these questions for the ULW Fan Zone ages ago. But that disappeared down the memory hole. I suspect Tim May needed some space on the company hard drive for his lesbian clown porn collection and deleted the whole shebang, video, write up, and all.
Note that the Fan Zone hasn't seen an update since Halloween, lending evidence to my theory. Oh. Wait. Excuse me, Love-O-Ween, as no one loves the Ween more than our esteemed leader, John Browncheese.
Bum Chunkface!
Droop Softpeck!
Hairplugs Goldman!
Raymond der Faart!
That's a reference to the many names of David Ryder, from the MST3k riffing of Space Mutiny, by the by. Spark and I just make up ridiculous names for our erstwhile owner and fire them back and forth at one another. Now you too can be in on the joke and take part in the public shaming of our derpy Dutch overlord!
I use them primarily so I can avoid saying his actual name, because every time I try to say "Der Vaart" I think "Der Faart" and will burst out into giggles. So I have to use still ridiculous, but not quite as funny names in order to not laugh in the face of the Evil Emperor.
It's like that Bandersnatch Cumberbund guy, no matter how badly you mangle his name everyone knows precisely who you're talking about.
Benedryl Cabbagepatch!
Brindlesnoot Coddlethwart!
Beelzebub Crumblecake!
Bumpersticker Cottagecheese!
So enough beating around the bush (Bushbeat Crafttangent!) and let's get into the meat and bones of my meaty bones.
I'm seven feet tall woman who is bright blue with a ten foot long tail. It's obvious that I'm either not from around her, am some sort of special effects monstrosity, or exist solely through the power of the Illuminati's hard-light hologram program and some really cool CGI.
I'm an evolutionary impossibility. You've got seven foot tall people and occasionally you have people born with tiny stub tails, but I've got a fully functional, agile, dexterous fifth limb, and no intermediary, missing link type beasties (or parents) in sight. So I'm definitely not a naturally born critter from Earth.
And that is the truth. I'm not from here. I think that would've been made obvious with my bringing up how disappointed I am with whatever powers crafted your reality. Everything is a ball. Your stars are balls, your planets are balls, your moons are balls, your solar systems are arranged like cross sections of balls, your galaxies are balls. If this place was any more balls it would be the Richard Simmons and Eric Herrera Testicle Gargling Hour.
I'm from a different universe entirely, a little bitty one. Spark's gone over some of the cosmology, I think. But we've got all of one planet, a bunch of moons, and some itty bitty stars (the burny ball of fire ones), and a few glowy bits of stuff that function as our version of stars in the night sky (the little twinkly kind). Yes, I know they're technically the same things, but they look very different in the sky due to distances and such.
The places in my realm are tied irrevocably to the elements of our magical system and the gods and goddesses that embody and champion those elements. Each big object is tied to an element and to a divine being.
Thus the world where I come from is called Tatheon, the Slumbering Earth Mother. The night sky is called Xetheon, her mate and her caretaker. Our suns and moons represent their children and grandchildren.
If you really want to stretch things you could say the world of Tatheon is representative of a nest or of a dragon curled around into the fetal position, nose to tail. It doesn't look very much like either of them. What it looks like is an immense cosmic donut. I'm not sure exactly how big it is, but I can tell you that if Tatheon is a donut, Earth is too small to be a donut hole.
Tatheon is a very strange and interesting place, as very little of what's there is native to the place. I think Spark's brought up the Cosmic Jackdaw theory.
Short story is that the dragon goddess was wounded in a dire battle, retreated into the Void, the gap between realities where there isn't supposed to be stuff, but there is stuff. Turns out there are magics, technologies, and whims of divine beings that let you go "I don't want that existing in this universe anymore!" and poof it goes right into the Void.
She crawled out into a little pocket of reality, the innate magic in her blood empowered the darkness around her into sentience, helped her to stop dying, and took care of her. She can't fully recover on her own, but she could prevent herself from getting worse. So basically she boinked the darkness and popped out some kidlings to go out and get medical supplies.
Medical supplies in this case being scraps of reality, dragged back home by little godlets who have decided that they like the shiny. Most of Tatheon is comprised of urban wasteland, think Judge Dredd megacities meet Fallout-style post apocalyptic vibes. Big empires with big worlds have big wars and big bombs and end up throwing a lot of that stuff into the Void.
The Urban Wasteland is like sterile bandages or gauze or something. I'm not that familiar with first aid or triage. We use magic spells and potions for our medical care.
Then there are whole bits of reality like the Empire, where I'm from. These would be more akin to skin grafts, or in our case, an organ transplant.
We got dropped on the edge of a big ol crater where one of those big nasty Void bombs went off and actually damaged the planet, and the goddess. I am Jack's transplanted liver.
Our band of kingdoms is a place of powerful magic, swords and sorcery, World of Warcraft, Lord of the Rings, Dungeons and Dragons type stuff. Magic, specifically elemental energies, are what's needed to heal the wounds of the goddess. So we got plopped down on the worst of it.
That was about five hundred years ago. We've got some long lived people and critters, so we've still got a goodly chunk of folks who can remember past our realm's arrival on the new world.
I'm not one of them. I was born well after we got there. Well, technically I was hatched. That's why I don't have a belly button, folks. I literally hatched from an egg.
Spark's gone over stuff about dragons and dragonbloods before, but I can simplify things.
There are basically two kinds of dragons in our world: those that are born as dragons and those that grow to become dragons. Every living thing generates a little bit of magical energy, the more magical energy, the more powerful the critter. Having that energy just blowing around all random willy-nilly would be horrible. So it tends to work via patterns and building blocks.
Spark says it's like DNA and calls it Magenetics, a portmanteau of mage and genetics. But the way it works is more like LEGO bricks. TVtropes can explain LEGO genetics better than I can (DANGER LINK LEADS TO THE TIME-DEVOURING ELDRITCH ABOMINATION KNOWN AS TVTROPES), but the short of it is that anything with so much as a drop of draconic blood or draconic energy is going to have more dragon-y bricks piled onto them until they end up a dragon.
The more dragon-y you are, the more dragon-y your kids are going to be, and though I have no idea what my parents were like, just by looking at me we can tell they were pretty gosh darn dragon-y people.
I hatched from an egg, I was born with a tail, my digestive system works a little bit weird, and I can exhale raw elemental power. Give me another couple decades and I'll start growing scales, horns, claws, and wings.
I don't have scales yet, gods dammit, so please stop referring to me as scaly ULW internet writer peoples. I've got some pretty durable skin, but it's not scales. I just so happen to be tinted blue.
Basically what happened is that someone tossed human, elf, dwarf, fey, ogre, orc, and human bricks into a box, shook them up, put the model together, and then took some half-completed pieces from a dragon set and tacked them on, and then slowly keep adding onto the model that is me with bricks all from the dragon set, and will keep doing so until you can't see the original bits that were laid down any more.
So now you know where I'm from and have a general idea of what I am. Next time I'll write out a bit more on who I am and how exactly I wound up here in a wrestling ring.
Toodles!
So I'm pretty happy with the way things turned out last Sunday. Oh sure, I didn't win a title. But those might as well have been handed out randomly in Crackerjack boxes, and I don't like my caramel corn mixed with peanuts.
Priest got showered with accolades and Ray-Ray the Jet Plane's stale semen for being the corporate bitch-monkey that he is. Doc Gracie and Willow Wilkes got saddled with the Tag Team titles for the lulz, and the horror of inflicting Willow's exhibitionistic flashing of her meat curtains on poor little Grace. And then Clay got rewarded for having to drag the company's previously egomaniacal douchecanoe signing past a washed up actor and fucking Plop with the Mountain Dew Livewire North American Doritos Championship.
But I got what I wanted out of the night. I got to beat the peas out of Pjorn Battlestar Galactica, Piddle, and Priest. Say, Priest, Piddle, and Plop. It makes me wonder if they used to be a trio before Priest broke out into a new level of sucking just slightly less. Does he still have matching tights in his closet, I wonder?
I also managed to survive a run in with Angel Kash's emergency replacement. I thank the powers above and below that Exploding Knee Jesus didn't have a premature detonation. The dire pressure Steve Smith's legs are under, we could've lost the first three rows worth of fans.
Poor Angel Kash, poor rich, fragile, whiny, douchey Angel Kash. Who claims that everybody is paying to come and see her, that she's the highlight of the show, that she's the most marketable, and so on and so forth with the lies that the merch tables and the Nielsen quarter hour ratings can demonstrably prove are lies.
Little Miss Preppy Pants wrestled one whole match, then had her arm fall off and thinks she can beat me.
Come on now! I wrestled a tag team match where I spent as much time beating the fuck out of my tag partner as I did on my opponents, squashed Our Lord and Savior Steve Smith, followed through on my threat to make sure Priest would go into Rebirth with a big ol target on his ass, and then…
Well, then I got to take part in a portion of my trainer's legacy. I got to be the person that the debuting asshats attack because they think that by pearl harboring the most destructive member of the roster, that everything is going to be all butterflies and rainbow kisses.
Desolation used to be the one all the debuting fucktards took cheap shots at, and now it appears that the duty has fallen to me. As well as the wearing of the fatigues and military/police style black cargo pants. Though I'm not wearing a tank top or an eye patch. I am neither a bushwhacker, nor Jean-Pierre La-Feet.
Closed captioning guy, don't even bother to look up the spelling of that. Just put down what Quentin Tarantino's fetish is in French. La Feet.
Anyway, Lenore Mason and her cousin-uncle-brother-husband Silas are going to get theirs in due time. But until I get my hands on her, I can settle for taking my frustrations out on Angel.
Poor, fragile little Angel, who might as well put on a lucha mask and wrestle as La Hija del Mister Glass, of Unbreakable fame, with the way she managed to get herself hurt. Poor widdle girl has a big ouchy boo boo on her shoulder, and you can bet that I'm going to be zeroing right in on that fucker the moment the bell rings.
I'm not going to rip it out of the socket or anything, but well… unless she wants to be able to drive off the paparazzi through the sheer power of her incredible stink, I hope she wipes he backside with her other hand.
Then again she could probably pay someone to do it. I'm sure Priest is available, he's probably given the backsides of Eric Herrera, Toots van der Poot, and Cassandra Mason a good tonguing in his time. He could use the extra few bucks to go to a barber and get that stupid Amish pubic thatch he has on his face a trim.
All the money in the world Angel, even if you want to say you're an economic power on par with Mexico, isn't going to save you from the beatdown I'm going to deliver on you. I kind of want to re-enact that spinning scene from Matilda, where Ms. Trunchbull is giving that little gal a Giant Swing via the pigtails, but with Angel's arm.
I'm going to stomp on it, I'm going to kick it, I'm going to be ramming that thing into the turnbuckle post. Hell, I think I might even attempt some actual wrestling and apply some submission holds!
If your arm doesn't feel like it's fallen off by now, Angel, it sure as hell is going to once I'm done with you. And all the Princess's horses, and all of her men aren't going to be able to put you and your stupid little stripper name back together again.
That's what you've got coming to you, little girl.
That's your fate.
That's your destiny.
Sealed with a Frostbite Kiss.
[This week while blowing her icy kiss of fog towards the camera, Kalinda adds a little embellishment by giving a little Queen of England-y wave as we fade to white.]
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