"Are you sure this is a good idea?" the guard says, sizing me up, "This guy called down some major dark magic. Two of the Watch that brought him in are still under observation. They're sick with..."
He is silent as he looks into my eyes, or tries to. The smoked lenses I wear make the task impossible, which is the entirety of the reason behind wearing them. I can see the doubt on his face. In the months since my unexpected arrival I haven't changed the way I dress in the slightest. Unsaid is the general premise; what kind of an idiot walks around in the middle of the desert with no shirt and heavy plate armor on all four limbs?
"I'm sure. The Church of Kord will take full responsibility for what he does while in my charge." I reply. He sighs and steps down from the front of the prison wagon, leaving the reins in my hands.
"I'll have the wagon back before dawn." I say, getting the horses underway before the question can be raised.
In the back, behind stout iron bars, wrists bound with thick chain, and with a gag stuffed in his mouth is the current front-runner for the annual most-hated man in the city awards. Or he would be, were there such an award.
Argos Kane, heir-apparent to the Kane family trading fortune, has been engaging in some rather unfortunate extra-curricular activities. Dark magic, creation of undead, kidnapping, murder, and a host of other unpleasantness that ruins the appetite to think about.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
ULW's Fuck'd Up Friday, 9/18/15, Kalinda RP 1 of 1
-Promo-
No one wants to do their fucking job around here. The referees that cannot see, the management won't do anything remotely resembling good business, the booking committee cannot stop changing its fucking mind after the preliminary card already goes out, and the other wrestlers refuse to fucking wrestle real fucking wrestling matches.
I've tried. Goddess knows I've tried so hard to actually go out there and perform the functions of the task for which I am under contract to provide. I was under the impression that professional wrestlers were supposed to be gladiators for a new day and a new age. That they would take part in grand, glorious displays of one on one combat with the purpose of providing bloodsport for the entertainment of the masses.
But it's so difficult to do that when a select minority of one's co-workers holds to the same ideals. They do not want to have fights, they do not want to have battle, they do not want to partake in grand, glorious struggles filled with honor and drama, with both parties through mind, body, and soul into the flames of combat to obtain victory.
No, they simply wish to bypass the whole struggle part and simply be handed glory and victory on a silver fucking platter. I gave Brandon Vow a chance. I gave him an opportunity. I let him have everything he'd need to show the world the truth of his words.
I gave him every chance to claim the title of Dragonslayer. I held back all night. I let him pour everything he had into me and in the end he could not get the job done. When the bell rang, I was not slain. I was standing tall with the object that he had chosen in his feeble attempt to slay me, the object that he had swung with all his strength. The object that failed completely and utterly to do anything more than fuel my rage.
No one wants to do their fucking job around here. The referees that cannot see, the management won't do anything remotely resembling good business, the booking committee cannot stop changing its fucking mind after the preliminary card already goes out, and the other wrestlers refuse to fucking wrestle real fucking wrestling matches.
I've tried. Goddess knows I've tried so hard to actually go out there and perform the functions of the task for which I am under contract to provide. I was under the impression that professional wrestlers were supposed to be gladiators for a new day and a new age. That they would take part in grand, glorious displays of one on one combat with the purpose of providing bloodsport for the entertainment of the masses.
But it's so difficult to do that when a select minority of one's co-workers holds to the same ideals. They do not want to have fights, they do not want to have battle, they do not want to partake in grand, glorious struggles filled with honor and drama, with both parties through mind, body, and soul into the flames of combat to obtain victory.
No, they simply wish to bypass the whole struggle part and simply be handed glory and victory on a silver fucking platter. I gave Brandon Vow a chance. I gave him an opportunity. I let him have everything he'd need to show the world the truth of his words.
I gave him every chance to claim the title of Dragonslayer. I held back all night. I let him pour everything he had into me and in the end he could not get the job done. When the bell rang, I was not slain. I was standing tall with the object that he had chosen in his feeble attempt to slay me, the object that he had swung with all his strength. The object that failed completely and utterly to do anything more than fuel my rage.
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