Post by Swindle Shelldrake on Jul 7, 2021 1:48:55 GMT -5
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The scene begins with a moody overview of the Sydney nightlife. With dark skies clashing against the warm glows of street lights and illuminated windows, and the brighter hues of signboards across downtown. The camera follows through the street before a cut to the interior of a bar in down a side street of Sydney, Australia; off the beaten track of buzzing clubs that are filled to the brim with boozed-up party-goers. The only brightness coming from a bright neon wall behind the bar itself. It's all oddly quiet. What would on the surface seem more like the location of a chaotic rave at this time of night is instead home to still air more akin to that of a 50s jazz club, only replacing the sultry tones of a smokey alto singer and a saxophone with flowing, moody synths. The light twinkles through the displayed bottles, refracting off their many edges like small, dangerous disco balls dancing in the greens, blues and reds of the glass. Adding to the Neo-Noir ambience, a faint wisp of smoke floats across the bright wall, coming from the mouth of a tall, lanky figure leaning against the surface top, a shock of pink dashed over the fringe of hair that dangles over the right eye of this unfamiliar individual. His jet black leather jacket bears several patches and logos that match promotions across the world, all of which would be completely dwarfed by Project: Honor in terms of worldwide awareness. A small smile etches onto his face as he looks to the camera, accompanied with the reflective glint of the neon lights shining in his eye. A slow inhale from the cigarette between his fingers is followed by a second hypnotic claw of smoke dancing across the neon wall.
Proving Ground has a new player in the game.
SWINDLE SHELLDRAKE: "So this is what they call getting the big break, hmm?"
"Although my undivided attention hadn't been taken by any one place until now, Project: Honor has never been completely out of my sights. Rotation after rotation across the wrestling circuit, flying under the radar and now I find myself just one match away from a chance at the top gold. The very top. It all sounds too good to be true, too close to seem real....that's because it is. A gift once I signed on the dotted line that bares a malicious fine print in the an enticing offer. It doesn't take much digging to really see what's going on here. For this chance has been afforded to a whopping nineteen other lucky hopefuls, all with their 'equal' chance of competing not just against the best....but the champion of champions. Their very own shot to wrest that title away from an unstoppable force".
"The notion that we, a hoard of twenty could all be in the conversation for the most prestigious prize would be woefully naive. While definitely an exciting fight ahead, it says something between the lines. Something laced in the poisonous word of 'opportunity'. A sinister catch that makes it all feel further away. A lifetime away. The problem is that you've found such a specimen; such a domineering champion, that it boils down to more than being worthy. Never mind who could defeat the great Ozymandias....who can even contend? The answer wouldn't come easily, I can tell you that much. Leaving the masses to rip each other to shreds in a single skirmish; it sings a tune of hoping that the one destined to end it all and slay the monster will just magically make themselves known. Iron sharpens iron, forged through fire and the like. One could say that this is really where the gates to hell have been opened. Not through blood and pain for a middling slice of gold. The Warrior Rising Championship might have required more overt instruments, but the devil of this match speaks subtly. Through an open invitation. Practically free to all that are welcome, should the spirit be willing, befitting or otherwise to take that chance. Myself included. All the while, the beast we aspire to challenge has been let loose from the mountain down to cut his way through us as well. Starting to raise the question of what we're actually fighting for. Are we here to determine a rightful challenger? Or just to be another sacrifice? Sounds more like a trip to the gallows than a shiny new career move. The devil comes knocking with his opportunity".
"What hope would a daisy-fresh debutant like me have when staring down more experienced, more embedded competition in a Project: Honor ring? I'm not going to kid myself here, this match was not made for the likes of me. I don't hold such inhuman physical strength, or the adonis frame to really catch the eye of the top promotion. I wouldn't be here because of that".
"That's not what I was hired to do".
"Cynically, I'm here to make up the numbers. Make it an even twenty, nice and easy. No shame in knowing that. I'm sure a lot of people here would do well to realise that about themselves too. But when you look on the surface, I have just as much a shot than everyone above me on the totem pole. It might not be said, but this rumble match says a thousand more words than any that will speak. The prospect of victory seems minuscule at its brightest for everyone...."
"The whole thing sounds depressingly grim. I make defeat sound so....pragmatic, don't I?"
"Even through confident words, the others will feel that too. No doubt some would be too deafened and up-themselves to see just how cold it is. I would be the same through this whole ordeal too, having such an impossible victory on my debut no less....if my number was a little bit lower. You see, this is where the devil of this match really gets his dirty little fingers meddling with the established order of things. In reality, I would have to fight my way through god knows how many weeks of matches against god knows how many wrestlers for the consideration of contending for a championship. All under the caveat that I win those matches, of course. There would also be even greater champions than others. One summit of the mountain only hides another that is twice as tall. Ordinary circumstances would keep an order. But here, it's all squeezed into one match. Compressing that order into chaos. And not only that, but now, the devil places a little number on your head, through sheer luck of the draw...."
Swindle reaches underneath the bar and pulls out stacks of shot glasses and lines them up along the bar. Twenty of them to be exact. His other hand extends back and pulls a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. As he speaks, he starts to pour into each glass in turn, before all twenty are full. The cold, distanced and measured look on Shelldrake's face turns to a wry smile. Not to the point of laughter, but a knowing confidence and vigour grows as he continues.
SWINDLE SHELLDRAKE: "Think of it this way; you're sitting here in front of me right now, and you've ordered one single drink. But, no matter who you are, what you've accomplished, or even what you want and desire.....this is what you're all given. And the lower your number, the more of these shots you have to drink to step out of that door. What was once an equal opportunity in reality is just waiting to see how badly you've been fucked around by random chance. It's all a game to see which one of you can best hold your liquor. If you've been dealt a bad hand, or if this opportunity truly means something to you; maybe it's what you've always scratched and clawed for, then you will happily drink up as many shots you can handle until you drop. Intoxicated with how close it can all feel, just one match away from greatness. What damage would another sip be? Just one more shot after the next. And even then, it can all be taken away in an instant no matter how hard you try, and no matter how hard you want it. The match doesn't give a shit about your feelings. Pulled out of your hands by someone like me for example. Unassuming and undeserving at first glance, but someone who will trip you up at the last hurdle".
"To all the champions up and down the ladder that might be listening, your belts won't bring you any advantage here. Simply stepping into this madness leaves you exposed most of all. Bare naked like an open nerve. One wrong move....AND BAM!! A champion's precious record is tarnished in the blink of an eye. Stricken with a blemish that won't ever go away. All with time to think about it as you go over the top as well, thinking about the gap in the armour at someone will be able to hold it over you like a guillotine, the gap that you yourselves will have laid bare in some brazen attempt to balance your shoulder with another piece of hardware. To all the plucky hopefuls that vow to fight through the odds they've been given and finally achieve something, you won't. Go ahead, puff your chests and take a breath, your victories don't mean anything when the table has already been flipped. That catharsis any of you seek won't come today. If you're hungry for this win, then you can stay that way. Let the ravenous feeling keep you warm at night as you slink away empty-handed. The Hybrid Hunter has a way to defeat all of you. Every single one of you".
"I don't even like battle royals and rumbles, but personal preference for a match is transcended when it's broken down into little chunks we can all understand. Everyone stepping into this rumble match is someone we've all seen somewhere before; The rising star, the monster, the opportunist, the grappler, the striker, the aerialist.....none of it is exclusive. Just another coat of paint over the same mannequin. Your place in the Proving Ground is not exclusive to you. Nobody, champion or not, is special. Your potential, your look and your pedigree are not special. You're just one bottle on the wall that happens to be in a slightly more flattering light than the rest. And even that is fleeting. The sun always sets after all. But for me? The scales are never truly weighted against me because I know how to fight and dismantle everyone that may come my way. You could be strong, fast or skilled. Might even be great if you're lucky. But in the end, it won't matter because none of you are special. It doesn't take a legend to throw you out of the match. All it takes is someone who is ready and prepared for the uneven field that they battle on. And when fortune does happen to fall my way? Well, that's just a bonus on what's already leaning in my favour. Every sliver of good fortune that I hold, is another weapon what you all don't have. It makes that cute, yet stupid push to defy your luck all the more sad and grim. Depressingly grim".
"It won't be luck that will crown me as the last man standing. It'll be the fateful misfortune of every last one of you that gives me victory. And one way or another, you're all gonna to have to live with it. It'll all be so alluring to win from number one, or number five, to throw them all out and take your rightful place....when it simply won't happen. When it all goes down in the Sydney Super Dome, I'll use one of the nineteen soft openings in this brand to hook myself in. No more travelling around to nowhere battlegrounds, because The Kraken is here to stay and make every move that much more irritating for all of you. Won't be able to walk without the thought of Swindle Shelldrake making your fist tighten".
"Oh, and if you think it's all a ruse, that I'm just overconfident and actually holding a shitty number.....then you haven't been paying attention. The rumble is a cold and unforgiving place, as I have laid out. Should never reveal the devil's secrets, but not even I could hide that your hope would be an illusion".
"This match was never meant for me, but I will take it from you all the same".
Swindle takes two shot glasses seemingly at random and downs them in quick succession, the warbling synth music still humming in the background as the scene fades to black.
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The scene begins with a moody overview of the Sydney nightlife. With dark skies clashing against the warm glows of street lights and illuminated windows, and the brighter hues of signboards across downtown. The camera follows through the street before a cut to the interior of a bar in down a side street of Sydney, Australia; off the beaten track of buzzing clubs that are filled to the brim with boozed-up party-goers. The only brightness coming from a bright neon wall behind the bar itself. It's all oddly quiet. What would on the surface seem more like the location of a chaotic rave at this time of night is instead home to still air more akin to that of a 50s jazz club, only replacing the sultry tones of a smokey alto singer and a saxophone with flowing, moody synths. The light twinkles through the displayed bottles, refracting off their many edges like small, dangerous disco balls dancing in the greens, blues and reds of the glass. Adding to the Neo-Noir ambience, a faint wisp of smoke floats across the bright wall, coming from the mouth of a tall, lanky figure leaning against the surface top, a shock of pink dashed over the fringe of hair that dangles over the right eye of this unfamiliar individual. His jet black leather jacket bears several patches and logos that match promotions across the world, all of which would be completely dwarfed by Project: Honor in terms of worldwide awareness. A small smile etches onto his face as he looks to the camera, accompanied with the reflective glint of the neon lights shining in his eye. A slow inhale from the cigarette between his fingers is followed by a second hypnotic claw of smoke dancing across the neon wall.
Proving Ground has a new player in the game.
SWINDLE SHELLDRAKE: "So this is what they call getting the big break, hmm?"
"Although my undivided attention hadn't been taken by any one place until now, Project: Honor has never been completely out of my sights. Rotation after rotation across the wrestling circuit, flying under the radar and now I find myself just one match away from a chance at the top gold. The very top. It all sounds too good to be true, too close to seem real....that's because it is. A gift once I signed on the dotted line that bares a malicious fine print in the an enticing offer. It doesn't take much digging to really see what's going on here. For this chance has been afforded to a whopping nineteen other lucky hopefuls, all with their 'equal' chance of competing not just against the best....but the champion of champions. Their very own shot to wrest that title away from an unstoppable force".
"The notion that we, a hoard of twenty could all be in the conversation for the most prestigious prize would be woefully naive. While definitely an exciting fight ahead, it says something between the lines. Something laced in the poisonous word of 'opportunity'. A sinister catch that makes it all feel further away. A lifetime away. The problem is that you've found such a specimen; such a domineering champion, that it boils down to more than being worthy. Never mind who could defeat the great Ozymandias....who can even contend? The answer wouldn't come easily, I can tell you that much. Leaving the masses to rip each other to shreds in a single skirmish; it sings a tune of hoping that the one destined to end it all and slay the monster will just magically make themselves known. Iron sharpens iron, forged through fire and the like. One could say that this is really where the gates to hell have been opened. Not through blood and pain for a middling slice of gold. The Warrior Rising Championship might have required more overt instruments, but the devil of this match speaks subtly. Through an open invitation. Practically free to all that are welcome, should the spirit be willing, befitting or otherwise to take that chance. Myself included. All the while, the beast we aspire to challenge has been let loose from the mountain down to cut his way through us as well. Starting to raise the question of what we're actually fighting for. Are we here to determine a rightful challenger? Or just to be another sacrifice? Sounds more like a trip to the gallows than a shiny new career move. The devil comes knocking with his opportunity".
"What hope would a daisy-fresh debutant like me have when staring down more experienced, more embedded competition in a Project: Honor ring? I'm not going to kid myself here, this match was not made for the likes of me. I don't hold such inhuman physical strength, or the adonis frame to really catch the eye of the top promotion. I wouldn't be here because of that".
"That's not what I was hired to do".
"Cynically, I'm here to make up the numbers. Make it an even twenty, nice and easy. No shame in knowing that. I'm sure a lot of people here would do well to realise that about themselves too. But when you look on the surface, I have just as much a shot than everyone above me on the totem pole. It might not be said, but this rumble match says a thousand more words than any that will speak. The prospect of victory seems minuscule at its brightest for everyone...."
"The whole thing sounds depressingly grim. I make defeat sound so....pragmatic, don't I?"
"Even through confident words, the others will feel that too. No doubt some would be too deafened and up-themselves to see just how cold it is. I would be the same through this whole ordeal too, having such an impossible victory on my debut no less....if my number was a little bit lower. You see, this is where the devil of this match really gets his dirty little fingers meddling with the established order of things. In reality, I would have to fight my way through god knows how many weeks of matches against god knows how many wrestlers for the consideration of contending for a championship. All under the caveat that I win those matches, of course. There would also be even greater champions than others. One summit of the mountain only hides another that is twice as tall. Ordinary circumstances would keep an order. But here, it's all squeezed into one match. Compressing that order into chaos. And not only that, but now, the devil places a little number on your head, through sheer luck of the draw...."
Swindle reaches underneath the bar and pulls out stacks of shot glasses and lines them up along the bar. Twenty of them to be exact. His other hand extends back and pulls a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. As he speaks, he starts to pour into each glass in turn, before all twenty are full. The cold, distanced and measured look on Shelldrake's face turns to a wry smile. Not to the point of laughter, but a knowing confidence and vigour grows as he continues.
SWINDLE SHELLDRAKE: "Think of it this way; you're sitting here in front of me right now, and you've ordered one single drink. But, no matter who you are, what you've accomplished, or even what you want and desire.....this is what you're all given. And the lower your number, the more of these shots you have to drink to step out of that door. What was once an equal opportunity in reality is just waiting to see how badly you've been fucked around by random chance. It's all a game to see which one of you can best hold your liquor. If you've been dealt a bad hand, or if this opportunity truly means something to you; maybe it's what you've always scratched and clawed for, then you will happily drink up as many shots you can handle until you drop. Intoxicated with how close it can all feel, just one match away from greatness. What damage would another sip be? Just one more shot after the next. And even then, it can all be taken away in an instant no matter how hard you try, and no matter how hard you want it. The match doesn't give a shit about your feelings. Pulled out of your hands by someone like me for example. Unassuming and undeserving at first glance, but someone who will trip you up at the last hurdle".
"To all the champions up and down the ladder that might be listening, your belts won't bring you any advantage here. Simply stepping into this madness leaves you exposed most of all. Bare naked like an open nerve. One wrong move....AND BAM!! A champion's precious record is tarnished in the blink of an eye. Stricken with a blemish that won't ever go away. All with time to think about it as you go over the top as well, thinking about the gap in the armour at someone will be able to hold it over you like a guillotine, the gap that you yourselves will have laid bare in some brazen attempt to balance your shoulder with another piece of hardware. To all the plucky hopefuls that vow to fight through the odds they've been given and finally achieve something, you won't. Go ahead, puff your chests and take a breath, your victories don't mean anything when the table has already been flipped. That catharsis any of you seek won't come today. If you're hungry for this win, then you can stay that way. Let the ravenous feeling keep you warm at night as you slink away empty-handed. The Hybrid Hunter has a way to defeat all of you. Every single one of you".
"I don't even like battle royals and rumbles, but personal preference for a match is transcended when it's broken down into little chunks we can all understand. Everyone stepping into this rumble match is someone we've all seen somewhere before; The rising star, the monster, the opportunist, the grappler, the striker, the aerialist.....none of it is exclusive. Just another coat of paint over the same mannequin. Your place in the Proving Ground is not exclusive to you. Nobody, champion or not, is special. Your potential, your look and your pedigree are not special. You're just one bottle on the wall that happens to be in a slightly more flattering light than the rest. And even that is fleeting. The sun always sets after all. But for me? The scales are never truly weighted against me because I know how to fight and dismantle everyone that may come my way. You could be strong, fast or skilled. Might even be great if you're lucky. But in the end, it won't matter because none of you are special. It doesn't take a legend to throw you out of the match. All it takes is someone who is ready and prepared for the uneven field that they battle on. And when fortune does happen to fall my way? Well, that's just a bonus on what's already leaning in my favour. Every sliver of good fortune that I hold, is another weapon what you all don't have. It makes that cute, yet stupid push to defy your luck all the more sad and grim. Depressingly grim".
"It won't be luck that will crown me as the last man standing. It'll be the fateful misfortune of every last one of you that gives me victory. And one way or another, you're all gonna to have to live with it. It'll all be so alluring to win from number one, or number five, to throw them all out and take your rightful place....when it simply won't happen. When it all goes down in the Sydney Super Dome, I'll use one of the nineteen soft openings in this brand to hook myself in. No more travelling around to nowhere battlegrounds, because The Kraken is here to stay and make every move that much more irritating for all of you. Won't be able to walk without the thought of Swindle Shelldrake making your fist tighten".
"Oh, and if you think it's all a ruse, that I'm just overconfident and actually holding a shitty number.....then you haven't been paying attention. The rumble is a cold and unforgiving place, as I have laid out. Should never reveal the devil's secrets, but not even I could hide that your hope would be an illusion".
"This match was never meant for me, but I will take it from you all the same".
Swindle takes two shot glasses seemingly at random and downs them in quick succession, the warbling synth music still humming in the background as the scene fades to black.
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