| [Illusions]; Battlelines vs. Sahara | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 10 2016, 03:46 AM (55 Views) | |
| Indrid Calder | May 10 2016, 03:46 AM Post #1 |
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EWA World Heavyweight Champion
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Calder watched the sweat burst from her pallid pores. He studied the depths of her emotional turmoil even while engaging her boyfriend in combat. Mister Draven was a key. You trigger a certain locking mechanism and release the rage and frustration that boils in his heart, and he takes up the chair, he feels that cold steel in his hands…he sees a Stranger and perhaps beyond that Stranger’s faceless face he is seeing the face of Mister Haven. It is the mirage that draws him in, the illusion that damns him. A mirage can have powerful consequences. Mister Draven wielded the cold steel and drew equally cold blood from a grinning, laughing, mocking thing and all the while that thing licked at the blood dripping from the nostril-faucets and the thing watched the true quarry. It was never about Michael. Michael’s role was to unlock the door, to clear the Path. He performed his role exceptionally. He is only human—and humans are willful, tumultuous creatures—prone to bursts of raw anger and crippling regret. Mister Draven felt both at Fight Night. The catharsis of rage…and the grim result of his actions. Michael is free once more to pursue his obsession…the Youth-ful man that haunts his existence. The door is open, Indrid has no more use for the key, the key is obsolete now, and his Path leads him to her. She of the sable hair. She of the skin kissed by moonbeams. She that smells of fear and lilacs. He spoke the words to Michael but it was not Michael that he was looking at when he spoke them. “Michael…” She stood there near the apron. Her eyes are so expressive—catlike almost—and the fluttering of her lashes matched the quivering of her lower lip. A breeze seemed to touch her, something like a night wind in a forgotten boneyard, forcing gooseflesh to break out along the exposed skin of her petite form. Indrid counted the goosebumps on her arms, savoring them. Why not savor them? They are little flesh-monuments that he erected himself. They are there because of him. She is a deer in headlights because of him. She stared at the tron and saw the brackets and he heard the beating of her heart even over the roar of the crowd. The quickened pace…such a sweet, soothing sound. “My will is done regardless.” Michael’s face slackened, becoming like putty, the rage changing to regret. The chair fell from his hands and it hit the canvas with a dull, final thud. It was not his fault. He simply played the role that Indrid forced him to play. He was a good key. His unplanned sacrifice opened the door of all doors, and waiting behind the threshold… Maggie McIntyre. It was always about her. This chain of events… All for her. ![]() Sahara. That’s a pretty name. Have you ever walked in the desert that bears your name? I have. The sands are endless. The dunes whisper in the wind when the right listener comes walking. Every horizon holds a mirage, a glimmering illusion. How fitting for the Sahara to love a mirage. The grit of a strong woman and the intelligence of a deceptive man…a pair meant to be. For the record, I agree with everything that your particular Mirage has said and done here in the EWA. The Hierarchy is a fractured brotherhood, a tarnished legacy, a group that resurrected into something unbecoming of what it was always meant to be. It is a cobbled together faction lacking in unity and direction, clearly outshined by a certain group of Youth-ful men. Mister Van Warren is a capable leader, but even he cannot rein in ranks that seem to have forgotten that they’re supposed to be a united force. Ray Willmott still seems a bit lethargic from his own faked death to even realize that he’s a member of The Hierarchy. Deacon Summers is a wild-hearted Son of Dionysus, more concerned with his own personal adventures than any Hierarchal brotherhood. Azrael Goeren is devoted to the cause, but he’s a harried man, distracted by the recent emergence of that sweet little petunia named Grace. I like her spunk, personally…but I doubt her papa would agree. Mister Van Warren cannot lead those that don’t want to be lead. Mirage saw all of that from the start. Mirage saw the doomed path of a once proud brotherhood, and he sought to rectify the issues before they became irreparable. Your husband chose the hard path, Sahara. He tried to shape up the troops…and I commend him for at least trying. He saw all of this force-fed nobility and he spat upon the very notion of it, knowing in his heart that The Hierarchy of old was not comprised of aimless lambs, but slavering, merciless wolves. I applaud Mister Mirage for attempting to sharpen the canines of those wolves, but some packs just aren’t meant to last, Sahara. Perhaps he feels disheartened by that. Perhaps he still licks his wounds after his war with the Son of Dionysus. I won’t presume to know the exact reason for his self-imposed exile, but that exile has brought you to me, Sahara. Pretty name…unforgiving desert. I can show you illusions too… Dark, twisting mirages that cause the eyeballs to rupture if you stare too long at them. But you like mirages, don’t you? There’s something about that deceiving shimmer…that just draws you in. I’ll explore your dunes, Sahara. I’ll let your sands sift through my fingers. I like lonely, unforgivable places. Those places call to me…those places are mine. I thrive in the places where other men bend and break. Anything can happen in places like that, Sahara. Anything at all. Listen deeply to the desert of yourself, Sahara. It is silent and it is empty and it is vast. That special Mirage that gives you solace will not be there…but do not lament. You won’t be alone. A Stranger comes walking, Sahara. A Stranger comes grinning and walking and trampling your sands…seeking the measure of your grit. I’ll howl at that lonely desert moon when I come walking, Sahara. I’ll howl for you. Edited by Indrid Calder, May 10 2016, 04:21 AM.
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