Post by "The Devourer" Felix Fortain on Nov 24, 2019 18:00:49 GMT -5
Inky shadows dance on the wall, amorphous blobs swirling erratically on the harshly-lit surface. The forms twist and contort, thick black tendrils infecting the surface. Swarming. Pulsating. Then, as a low, deadpan, familiar voice rings out from beyond the abyss, a sudden stillness overtakes the shadows.
"Tell me, children: What is it you see when you look in the mirror?"
The tendrils swirl once again, first congregating into one deep black mass at the dead center of the surface before taking shape. The mass widens and contracts, as if molded like clay. Finally, the mass is sculpted into a roaring facsimile of a lion, teeth bared.
"I'm sure the weakest among the herd view themselves as lions under the skin. Deep down below their unimpressive physiques and utterly unintimidating presence. It's all a matter of heart, is it? I'm sure they'll spew some tired rhetoric about how it's not about the size of the dog in the fight, but the fight in the dog as if that reflects any notable aspect of reality. Perhaps those among the seven should look back at the tape. See what theDead God did to an underdog. How he systematically ripped Malachi White apart.
"And do you know the worst part? Malachi White has more fight in the arm we tried to rip out of socket than the so-called underdogs of this match have in their whole, cumulative bodies. Perhaps I should stop beating around the bush. Does anyone, anyone at all actually believe that the likes of Estrella Luiz and Razzles Mars have a shot of walking out of this match on their own two feet, let alone with the shiny little trinket we're all fighting for? They can puff out their chest all they want, but no one believes them. Not for a second.
"After all, why should a crowd put their faith in Razzles Mars? After her impactful debut included falling short to a man who'd go on to be better remembered for assaulting someone entirely different and then getting her skull caved in by the other woman of discussion. And as for Estrella, are we really going to pretend a couple of temper tantrums constitute a killer instinct? That a girl who weighs less than a hundred pounds soaking wet is a physical threat to anyone in a straight up, one on contest, let alone to the Devourer himself?
"The greatest advantage you could have had, Estrella, was if this was a true cluster of a match. A match where you could get lost in the shuffle, pick your spots and maybe, just maybe, outmaneuver your competition. Instead you got the ultimate slap in the face: the possibility of staring down Felix Fortain in the flesh. Alone. With none of the friends you abandoned to help you. How do you think you're going to win that one? All your bravado, your delusions of grandeur will shatter like your ribcage when the Parasite drives his shoulder into it.
"And then what? Your sparkling re-emergence crumbles to dust. And you're right back where you started. La Princesa with her head under the guillotine's blade. It would be such a shame, if only expectations were higher."
The shadows shift and swarm once more, contorting into the motley grin of a jester's mask.
"Or maybe, some of you fancy yourself comedians. Jokesters. Entertainers, whose antics are endearing to a crowd of clapping troglodytes and wide-eyed sycophants. The likes of Flop, Judge Tennison, Hot Shot Wayne Austin, and perhaps even one RJ Collins. Pathetic, the whole lot of you. To even speak your names feels like a waste of breath. Nothing more than cannon fodder, a match with two competitors and six throw-ins. Tune ups. Mere appetizers for the real meal."
Again, the shadows diverge and reconvene, molded into a familiar face. Long, stringy hair. A big, full beard.
"And perhaps one of you see themselves for who they truly are. Voss Holt. A man after our own heart. Don't mistake the order of discussion as reflective of our priorities, quite the contrary. I couldn't bear it to taint your name via association with the others. When you boil it down, really get into the nitty-gritty, there is one inevitability: our paths will cross. You will look my Devourer in the eye. And the winner of that exchange will walk out with the belt around your waist.
"There truly is no two ways about it. If Felix was not in this match, if the powers that be had decided to throw some other unlucky bastard in the eighth slot, this would be a cakewalk for you. You could come out first and power your way through half the field before breaking a sweat.
"But that's not the case. And, consequently, November 24th is where your reign ends. Not that I intend to slight you, Voss. I simply mean that any confrontation between you and theDead God is a zero sum game. Even staring down one of the few on this roster who holds a distinct height and weight advantage over the Devourer isn't enough to cast doubt on this inevitability, I'm afraid. All the mass in the world can't save you.
"Any combination of factors works in our favor, Voss. If you come out first, tear through the competition, and then have to face a fresh Felix? Instant disadvantage, something you can't afford. If the opposite is true, and you stare down the Devourer after he's feasted upon the rotten vitae of the fallen? Even if you meet to begin the event, two heads are better than one."
In a split second, Aurora emerges, seemingly from the shadows themselves which have conspicuously disappeared. She opens her hand to reveal a coin.
"No matter what: the Devourer feasts. The parasite consumes. TheDead God lives. And the gameā¦"
She flips the coin, following it with wide eyes.
"Was rigged from the start."
It lands in her palm. Heads.
"Tell me, children: What is it you see when you look in the mirror?"
The tendrils swirl once again, first congregating into one deep black mass at the dead center of the surface before taking shape. The mass widens and contracts, as if molded like clay. Finally, the mass is sculpted into a roaring facsimile of a lion, teeth bared.
"I'm sure the weakest among the herd view themselves as lions under the skin. Deep down below their unimpressive physiques and utterly unintimidating presence. It's all a matter of heart, is it? I'm sure they'll spew some tired rhetoric about how it's not about the size of the dog in the fight, but the fight in the dog as if that reflects any notable aspect of reality. Perhaps those among the seven should look back at the tape. See what the
"And do you know the worst part? Malachi White has more fight in the arm we tried to rip out of socket than the so-called underdogs of this match have in their whole, cumulative bodies. Perhaps I should stop beating around the bush. Does anyone, anyone at all actually believe that the likes of Estrella Luiz and Razzles Mars have a shot of walking out of this match on their own two feet, let alone with the shiny little trinket we're all fighting for? They can puff out their chest all they want, but no one believes them. Not for a second.
"After all, why should a crowd put their faith in Razzles Mars? After her impactful debut included falling short to a man who'd go on to be better remembered for assaulting someone entirely different and then getting her skull caved in by the other woman of discussion. And as for Estrella, are we really going to pretend a couple of temper tantrums constitute a killer instinct? That a girl who weighs less than a hundred pounds soaking wet is a physical threat to anyone in a straight up, one on contest, let alone to the Devourer himself?
"The greatest advantage you could have had, Estrella, was if this was a true cluster of a match. A match where you could get lost in the shuffle, pick your spots and maybe, just maybe, outmaneuver your competition. Instead you got the ultimate slap in the face: the possibility of staring down Felix Fortain in the flesh. Alone. With none of the friends you abandoned to help you. How do you think you're going to win that one? All your bravado, your delusions of grandeur will shatter like your ribcage when the Parasite drives his shoulder into it.
"And then what? Your sparkling re-emergence crumbles to dust. And you're right back where you started. La Princesa with her head under the guillotine's blade. It would be such a shame, if only expectations were higher."
The shadows shift and swarm once more, contorting into the motley grin of a jester's mask.
"Or maybe, some of you fancy yourself comedians. Jokesters. Entertainers, whose antics are endearing to a crowd of clapping troglodytes and wide-eyed sycophants. The likes of Flop, Judge Tennison, Hot Shot Wayne Austin, and perhaps even one RJ Collins. Pathetic, the whole lot of you. To even speak your names feels like a waste of breath. Nothing more than cannon fodder, a match with two competitors and six throw-ins. Tune ups. Mere appetizers for the real meal."
Again, the shadows diverge and reconvene, molded into a familiar face. Long, stringy hair. A big, full beard.
"And perhaps one of you see themselves for who they truly are. Voss Holt. A man after our own heart. Don't mistake the order of discussion as reflective of our priorities, quite the contrary. I couldn't bear it to taint your name via association with the others. When you boil it down, really get into the nitty-gritty, there is one inevitability: our paths will cross. You will look my Devourer in the eye. And the winner of that exchange will walk out with the belt around your waist.
"There truly is no two ways about it. If Felix was not in this match, if the powers that be had decided to throw some other unlucky bastard in the eighth slot, this would be a cakewalk for you. You could come out first and power your way through half the field before breaking a sweat.
"But that's not the case. And, consequently, November 24th is where your reign ends. Not that I intend to slight you, Voss. I simply mean that any confrontation between you and the
"Any combination of factors works in our favor, Voss. If you come out first, tear through the competition, and then have to face a fresh Felix? Instant disadvantage, something you can't afford. If the opposite is true, and you stare down the Devourer after he's feasted upon the rotten vitae of the fallen? Even if you meet to begin the event, two heads are better than one."
In a split second, Aurora emerges, seemingly from the shadows themselves which have conspicuously disappeared. She opens her hand to reveal a coin.
"No matter what: the Devourer feasts. The parasite consumes. The
She flips the coin, following it with wide eyes.
"Was rigged from the start."
It lands in her palm. Heads.