Post by The Green on Mar 24, 2024 12:09:42 GMT -5
Dark skies. The clouds lay in a fine, woven layer, making night’s inky darkness all the more claustrophobic. The moon, low in the sky, tries to breakthrough the doldrums, but only manages to provide a faint glow.
Then, embers rise up from below, glinting with an orange glow before disintegrating into nothing. Shifting focus to the ground, we see a clearing in the forest, with a campfire at the center. Sitting there is The Green, leaned against a felled log with his ax embedded in the bark. He wears his cloak, and his entrance mask, making his visage that of a monstrous ent. He stares up into the ember-dotted sky, his limbs heavy at his sides, while his posture is one of rapt attention.
…
Eventually, his posture loosens, and he awakens from whatever reverie occupied him. Breathing heavily, he takes off his mask. He gingerly places it into a heavy wooden box at his side, before turning his attention to the fire.
Today is a time for pagans. For witches and those who remember their ancestors. For the magic things of the world to interact with the mundane. When the day and night are one, odd things can happen. Eyes peek out of the bushes as you walk home. Beautiful women sit by rivers, attracting even the strongest willed man to approach a watery grave.
Your modern scientists would tell you that it’s simply a predetermined point on the path of the Earth around the Sun. That the only significance to this day is from here, the days will get longer, until we reach the summer. They look, but they do not see. With the passing of cold winter into her underground retreat, and the approaching of vibrant spring, humanity gains something vital: Hope. They push forward through hard times, and break through into pure prosperity. It can make them cocky, and give them an overconfidence; that’s why I am here. But I must admit, even I can admire their optimism, and this time is emblematic of that. Camelot was a beacon of humanity throughout the year, but no time shone quite like the spring. Ribbons high above the streets, blooming flowers in the royal gardens, people bustling about, laughter filling the streets.
A hint of a smile passes onto The Green’s face in his reverie, but it quickly fades. He scratches his beard and rises to his full height, casting a long shadow into the trees. Leaning down, he pulls his ax out of the log, then hefts it to rest across one of his shoulders, the blade positioned just behind his head.
Aye, this time has me thinking of the past, when such strange occurrences were more common, and man had not found the hidden places of the world. But I must turn my focus to the present, when man has become ever so… disappointing. Admittedly, it’s made my job less fulfilling. I’ve yet to find such a chivalrous being as the likes of Gawain, but occasionally a day arrives when I find someone truly heroic.
Today is not one such day.
On the 24th, I face three members of Action. They all would call themselves heroes, perhaps, but these weathered old eyes can see what lies beneath the surface. While they carry mighty weapons, they do not know how to properly wield the power before them. They are weak men, paper soldiers who will fall before my ax.
First, there is this Samoan beast, Isara. Serving his “king” Roman Gunn, he seeks to devastate any who would step before him, all for the greater glory of his family and his cousin. With how much Roman and his councilor Tobias speak of kings and thrones, one might compare Isara to a knight. And yet, Isara fails to meet even the most basic expectations for any knight I’ve come across. When he enacts “justice” for his king, he does so in the form of underhanded attacks and ambushes. Instead of being a voice the king can rely on to advise him and stand for his ideals, Isara follows his leader blindly, regardless of his own wants or needs. And in one on one combat, he truly seems impotent thus far, losing in embarrassing fashion to our current Cruiserweight champion.
Indeed, his so-called king is likely breathing down his neck now, unwilling to accept imperfection from his right hand man. But, Isara, you are no knight. No, you are merely a weapon, a tool for Roman to use to earn a proper throne. Not even a proud or mighty weapon, like a sword or an ax. No Isara, you are a small dagger, which Roman uses to slide between the armor of his opponents, unexpectedly costing them in a moment of opportunity. You are easily disposed of by your master, and lack usefulness without a guiding hand. Come Sunday, I shall easily dispose of this weapon without a wielder, for without his king he shall be easily melted down and returned to the forge as formless, harmless metal, just another nameless, unworthy casualty before my ax.
Moving on, my next opponent couldn’t be more different. A spunky, loud-mouthed plumber from Brooklyn. Mario, many have underestimated you since you’ve come here to Action, for your size, for your endless challenges, for your unfiltered profanity. But putting that aside, and looking at the so-called “hero” underneath, I see a man who cares about his family, and his community. Perhaps, there is respect to be gained in that. But, you Mario are still untempered, a raging fiery inferno that’s far too willing to fight. You desire respect from those you face, yelling about your accolades, badmouthing any who cross you. In wrestling, all this will get you is a broken jaw and a long list of enemies.
Think of the men who led your community in the past. Union leaders and mafia bosses. Did they speak loudly and demand things? Did they challenge all comers to fights in the street? No. They commanded respect through camaraderie, by bringing people together. They considered the pros and cons of every decision. And when they did act, they let their actions do the talking. You want my respect? You want the respect of anyone here in Action? Leave it all in the ring. Drop this edgy, overly angry act and tell your opponents what you really think of them. Wrestling thrives on violence bringing out our true selves. We break each other, so we can learn more about ourselves, and our opponent. You are so focused on superficial insults that you look right past any lessons you may learn. At Match Madness, I hope you will learn a lesson, when I pick you up and throw you down to the mat with all my might. Perhaps that will be enough to whack some sense into you and make you see the error in your path. Somehow, I doubt it.
Finally, my third opponent is perhaps the one I hold the most respect for. Muru, you are a member of the old guard, trying to show that you can still make it in the squared circle. I can acknowledge that as a noble cause, one of self-improvement. And you’ve already notched a win against the mighty DRAUGR. But your battle is not one decided through matches alone, no; you are fighting for a legacy, and fighting against your body. A legacy is a hard thing to claim. So many will constantly rise to deny your accomplishments. There are many stones set against you, and none taller than me. I’ve had to put down many old dogs in my day. I am the neverending crawl of time, pulling at your coat, dragging you closer to the grave. Your heart and fighting spirit is unbreakable, so I will leave you in a broken heap if need be.
But is that really how it must be, Muru? Think of your family. Think of those who care about you. Would they want to see you, broken in the ring, and restrained to a wheelchair the rest of your life? Picture yourself playing catch with your children, enjoying the company of your friends, growing old with your lover. Take it from me, you won’t know when to stop until it’s too late, until it costs you something you hold dear outside the ring. Is losing all that worth some sort of legacy among your wrestling peers? If you desire to set out on this path, you must choose. Happiness… or history? I was never presented with such a choice. I pray you don’t waste it.
The sun peaks out from behind the clouds, crossing the horizon and forming a brilliant sunrise. The Green appreciates the beautiful sight, then stomps out his fire.
The sun rises on a new day, a new season. Optimism grows, hope is fostered. It is my task to cull the herd. To temper expectations. At Match Madness… spring comes. And The Green comes with it.