[We open to a shot of Kalinda kneeling on the floor before a big picture window, beyond which a heavy snowfall billows and blows and cascades down, covering the world in a frozen white blanket.]
[Before her, seemingly drawn in blood, is a series of sigils and geometric shapes; a summoning circle. We've seen her do this on camera once before. This is Kalinda summoning the consciousness of the Manyfold Matriarch into being so that she may hold a proper conversation with her divine patron.]
[But instead of five different colored candles, this time the ritual is sporting five of the same sickly green candles, which begin hissing and sparking and billowing thick green smoke into the air as Kalinda speaks, completing the ritual to call the dragoness into ethereal being. We're missing out on the audio, and thus a goodly portion of the summoning ritual.]
Kalinda: Aspect of the Great Matriarch, Devourer of Pain, your servant calls to you! Come forth!
[The candles seems to almost explode, filling the air with a toxic level of smoke. Or it would, if the smoke were going anywhere. Instead it all flows inward, writhing around itself to from a long, serpentine neck and a draconic face. The Matriarch's green head sports a massive yellow-green frill, looking rather like a mohawk that continues down her long and elegant neck. The top of her head is adorned with numerous tiny, conical, spiky horns and a single set of massive, spiraling ram-like horns as well.]
Manyfold Matriarch: Mmm, interesting. You never summoned me in only one of my facets before. May I ask the occasion?
Kalinda: I wanted carnage. I wanted destruction. I wanted pain and agony unimaginable brought down upon my foes. But your prime aspect is more concerned about matters of pride and draconic superiority than carnage.
Victory is her goal, and she craves triumph and domination above all else, in this case to the exclusion of the sadistic assault that I had asked her aid in helping me to deliver.
[Once again we find ourselves in the apartment or condo or whatever of ULW's resident dragoness Kalinda Kriegsdottir. Most tHings are to the scale that the seven foot behemoth would find comfortable, things that don't require larger size to be more useful to her look positively tiny amidst the overgrown furnishings.]
[The place is decorated without rHyme or reason, seeming more organically grown from collected bits and bobs that made their owner go "Oh, I like that thing!" rather than with a cold, impersonal design aesthetic, theme, and product line. Well, at least some sort of theme an interior decorated would charge you more than the furniture for crafting. Kal DOES seem to have a running theme in her collection of stuff, and that tHeme seems to be pizza parlors.]
[Her hanging ceiling lamps are stained glass chandeliers, brightly colored and emblazoned with the names of Happy Joe's, Shakey's Pizza, and Pizza Hut. Looking back into her kitchen through the open design of the place we can see cooking pans on the wall emblazoned with their measurements, their diameters corresponding to various sizes of pizza. Where someone would typically have a rack of knives on a magnetic strip, Kal has several different sorts of pizza cutters, all with varying construction and grip. There's even a pile of pizza boxes with various local and national chains adorning them by her trasH can, the greasy cardboard packages too large to fit.]
[Whatever isn't pizza related seems to be brightly colored, her furniture blazing in radiant Hues of blue or orange reminiscent of oversaturated desert levels in bro shooters when the theme of the day is lens flare and the wonderful world of brown. There's even several pallets of various orange-flavored sodas stacked up in a corner of the apartment, with a little vase with brigHt orange fake flowers set in it sitting atop it with a ludicrously small doily seated atop the stack of pop, trying and failing to make it appear like a piece of furniture and less like fizzy drinks HapHazardly being stored in a corner.]
[The lady Herself is seated in a bright blue plush leather recliner, her feet propped up on a makeshift ottoman comprised of a couch cushion and what appears to the skull of a horned, carnivorous beastie that looked to be capable of swallowing middle school students whole.]
[Kal is looking at something on her laptop and noisily muncHing on a crouton-crunchy breadstick with a number of its siblings piled on a nearby tray like cord wood. She lets out an annoyed snort and scowls, finishing her mouthful before bellowing for her muse.]
Kalinda: Spark, you diminutive little shit! You lied to me!
Kalinda:So Priesty-poos went and opened his big stupid mouth, exhaled some vile smelling air over his nicotine stained teeth, threw up the horns, shouted HAIL SATAN, and then while trying to be intimidating managed to accomplished the rare verbal equivalent of straining to give yourself a big mean snarling look, and managing to shit your pants in the process.
This is why I have him pegged squarely in the category of "dumb muscle." He went into the whole talk at the camera thing with a set of bullet points in his head, some ideas, some goals, maybe a few choice phrases that he wanted to say because they sounded totally and utterly badass in that swollen, yet empty melon of his.
Somehow I don't think "Make my opponent giggle like a giddy schoolgirl," "Give Kalinda eye strain with the sheer amount of rolling that her eyeballs have to do," and "Displayed beyond a shadow of a doubt proof of both minotaur heritage, being sired by Ben Stein, and irritable bowel syndrome by letting loose with the most utterly boring, clichéd, stream of bullshit my designated foe has seen thus far in her professional wrestling career," were the points that Priesty-poos wanted to get across.
The problem is that as the supposed avatar of a maleficent being of unimaginable evil he's stuck with an evil as comically inadept as whatever backwoods, retarded, hillbilly god put this place together in the first place.
[We open to the sad sight of Spark, Kalinda's kitten-sized dragon companion, all bandaged up with his diminutive frame covered in a full body cast. Tiny bandages have been wrapped around his head, and he's sporting a black eye.]
[The camera pulls back from the wee little bed to see none other than Dr. Alfredo Acula, Physician of the Supernatural, Attorney at Law looking worriedly over a clipboard. There's a rhythmic beeping as a heart monitor bleeps and bloops the state of normalcy.]
[Dr. Acula pulls a small case out of a pocket on his lab coat, removes a pair of spectacles, only to dramatically remove them and look sad.]
Dr. Alfredo Acula: The prognosis does not look good, I'm afraid. It looks like we're going to have to amputate. The damage is too severe. You'll loose all of your legs and one wing.
