Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
Add Reply
[Michael]; POTW: Fight Night
Topic Started: May 3 2016, 09:14 PM (47 Views)
Indrid Calder
EWA World Heavyweight Champion


The pitted surface of the wall is decorated in photographs of Dredd, articles about his life and accomplishments, pins and pieces of string connecting tidbits of information about his family and his more infamous vices. It’s a vast web constructed by a spider in the form of a man, a black label overtop the entire web with the words “CURRENT PROJECT” in typeface across it.

Calder studies this display for a moment, and then he begins to move through his living quarters. The Stranger is shirtless, his upper body uncommonly smooth and unmarked by scars or lacerations. It seems odd for a man in this violent profession to bear no scars, but his flesh is seemingly as blank as his own past. There is literally no furniture at all in Calder’s living quarters. No chairs. No bed. Nothing to suggest that he sleeps or rests or cooks or eats or does anything at all that a normal human being would do. There’s an inherit wrongness about this dwelling, something that can’t be properly defined.

There are stacks and stacks of books piled up along the walls, these dusty tomes reaching up so high that they’ve become like aisles that he must weave through in order to move around. The corridor of books leads him to a rusty spiral staircase, and he ascends this staircase with familiar grace. Calder moves past more stacks of books—some ancient and dusty, others new and crisp—some mad bibliophile navigating his own deathly silent library. It seems that most of the books on this level seem to have some relation to the occult, but Indrid doesn’t linger long enough for us to be able to decipher any of the titles.

He approaches a set of long silken drapes, black as midnight, a single crimson candle burning on a table beside them. We assume it’s a window, but as Indrid throws the drapes open, it’s simply a crumbling brick wall that’s been modified into a sort of shrine. There is only a single photograph on this wall and a lock of hair taped beside it. It seems an unfinished collection, something that Indrid has just started to add to. Above it is another black label, and in the same typeface font the words “FUTURE PROJECT” stand out in stark contrast.

The photograph is a large black and white shot of Maggie McIntyre.

It’s a candid shot, Maggie laughing with her sable hair flowing out behind her shoulders as she speaks to someone backstage, all smiling eyes, totally unaware that she’s being photographed.

Indrid reaches up towards the lock of hair, letting his fingers drift across it for a moment. The texture seems to please him. His nostrils flare, drawing in her scent…that sweet rookie scent. He’s fluttered in and out her life at random intervals recently like a death’s head moth, simply observing her, letting his presence take up ghostly residence in her mind…a nightmare to draw the sweat from her delicate pores and the screams from her tortured throat.

That’s just the first phase. The mental flirting…before the mental fucking.

Indrid has such games planned for Maggie McIntyre, the young, impressionable girl in a dark, dark world. He’ll force her petals open like an orchid, and he’ll taste the essence that hides within. Dredd was chosen. Dredd is the current project.

Maggie McIntyre has the honor of being the next project.

Maggie McIntyre…is chosen.

Posted Image


I’m happy for you, Michael.

It seems life is finally handing you lemons. Gates has been exorcized from the EWA, the corpulent piggie thrown out on his pork-lathered ass…much to the disdain of his hired whores like Kilminster and Dietrich, I’m sure. The Draven Dynasty is back in a position of power. Such a feel good fairytale ending.

The authority figures here mean little to me, nor do the revolving door power plays that seem commonplace. I don’t care who governs the EWA. I do what I wish whenever I wish, and as long as the authority figureheads don’t interfere with my affairs then I pay them as much attention as I would pay a homeless wretch begging on a street corner. That…is no attention at all.

You have gained my attention though, Michael.

Not because you’ve regained some cardboard authority role. Nothing as trivial as that.

It is your character that commands my attention. So many men on this roster are monotonous braggarts. They posture and preen and regurgitate out their long lists of accomplishments, spraying chunks of vomitous former glory all over themselves as though it’s supposed to mean something. I’m tempted to offer most of them baby bibs…because to me they just sound like infants belching up ego bubbles.

You’re not like that, Michael. You are a flawed, imperfect human being…and you seem very transparent about those flaws. You don’t hide your shortcomings or make excuses for your mistakes. What many fail to realize around here is that Michael Draven’s greatest strength…is his vulnerability. I want to explore that vulnerability. I want to test the limits of it. You’re a man undeterred by defeat. Mister Haven has defeated you more times than I care to recount and each time you drag your carcass back up to a vertical base and you march right back up to him and demand that he fight you again.

You are unbreakable in that regard, Michael.

So that leads to the question…what breaks the unbreakable?

I know what breaks you, Michael.

I know what wounds you in a way that nothing else can wound you.

It’s the woman that loves you.

She’s your heart, your rock, the one to hold your imperfect head at night and stroke your hair and speak words of inspiration in your ear…

Did it hurt you to see her humiliated, Michael?

Did it hurt you to see her made numb and helpless?

Did it…break you just a little…to see her violated?

You weren’t there to save her, Michael. When she needed you the most…you weren’t there to save her from me. You weren’t there when she sipped her tainted drink and fell boneless to the floor. You weren’t there when I caressed her like a lover and spoke whispers to her slumbering form.

You weren’t there when I delivered her into the hands of your archenemy.

You were blissfully ignorant to the defilement of the woman that loves you…

You left her alone and afraid while Mister Haven and Miss Marie posed her naked limbs like she was just a cheap mannequin to be displayed in a shop window. You didn’t rescue her while the flashbulbs were going off and the naughty pictures were being taken. She was groggy and lost, so desperate for a savior…just a nude, vulnerable girl in a cold, merciless world.

I can only imagine the trauma she felt in those fateful moments.

I think those photos are masterpieces, Michael. I’ve even spoken to Mister Haven about having one of my favorites framed for me. She looked like a glassy-eyed pornstar—fresh to the business, harrowed and haunted—her sable hair all mussed, her skin red with pinches and rough kisses. She looked fragile, a tiny living doll propped up against her will to be spat upon and licked with many seeking tongues.

That photoset is a perfect depiction of innocence lost.

Innocence taken by force, ripped and pulled from desperate hands…made to pose there like a cock-hungry nymphomaniac in a bed with two Youth-ful serpents.

And it’s all because of me, Michael.

I damned her.

I delivered her.

I turned your woman into a pretty, pliable mannequin…and I tossed her to Mister Haven so that he could drive the stake a little deeper into your heart.

This Path of the Warrior Tournament is very important to me, Michael.

I intend to smash through the competition in this tournament with every single fiber of my being…until I reach the bitter end.

I don’t care how I get past you, Michael…but I will get past you.

And have you looked at the brackets? Those brackets are pivotal. They carry such weight, Michael. Such back-breaking weight…

Because if I do get past you, Michael…a particular person waits in my Path.

Her.

The woman that loves you…

Maggie McIntyre.

She’s the one I want, Michael.

She’s the one I’ll get.

And all this Team Draven celebratory happiness will fade like wind through the reeds…when the woman that loves you is mine to toy with.

Her pale flesh…

Shivering and afraid…

Just aching to be nibbled on by the teeth of a Stranger.
Edited by Indrid Calder, May 3 2016, 11:42 PM.
Posted Image
Posted Image
Offline Profile Quote Post Goto Top
 
1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous)
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Fully Featured & Customizable Free Forums
« Previous Topic · The Warrior's Den · Next Topic »
Add Reply