Post by OZYMANDIAS on Jul 27, 2021 20:09:04 GMT -5
TRIBUS
The Number 3.
Synonymous with power, with control, with finesse. A perfect equation, a mathematician's dream number. Equally divisible, multiplicative and rounded to make any combinations powerful, no lesser nor no greater.
The number bodes such power that it has made its way through time, a trio of names combined in every format. Look to the stars of Norse to find Odin with his two sons, or seek the Gods of Egypt to find the God Ra, flanked by the dark and the light.
The number dictates a vision of stability, of support. Two legs to support the body. Two swords behind the shield. Three pillars to support the sky. The gates of Hell were guarded by a beast of three heads itself, while the fables of past mention a great winged beast of three heads, fire and fury escaping it’s mouths.
The Gods bore weapons of three prongs, like the trident of Poseidon. The stories of fables adopted the number, down to the story of Christianity, Jesus with his bearers Mary and Joseph. The number stands the test of time, that no matter what powers are united… a trio will still stand after the War is over.
A warrior, rising the ranks in formidable force. Unmatched in competition, biding her time to explode into the circuit of Gods, Kings and Demons.
A beast, more monster than man, hulking and brooding. Hungry for his next fight, his next meal. Watching through piercing dark eyes as his foes misjudge him, miscalculate his size and speed. Watching as they fall before his boot.
A zealot, blind to the world outside of his goals, his campaign. Fighting for more than himself, fighting for more than gold, glory or gratitude, but fighting for a greater world. A machine, looking to remold the world to his true God, and bring forth a new era of peace, harmony and everlasting life.
Alone, they might fall. They might break. They might crumble. But united?
They are the three-headed beast of old.
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FRUITS OF HIS LABOUR
Old Harbour, Alaska. The residential village of the Butcher and his enamored cast of fanatics, all lumbering together towards a new world and a new hope. Their efforts and their pledges allow them time to devote themselves to the Great Dreamer, the slumbering God at the depths of the Pacific.
But today, they get a day off. Sunday’s are known to be a day of rest, and even the ‘worshippers of the deep’ allow themselves a Sunday to rest up. Their stalls in the market place are shut, the fishing trawlers are moored in the harbour and there isn't a lobster or crab pot to pull in. The village itself, is at peace.
Surviving the endless storms the rough spring season brings, Old Harbour now sits peacefully on the edge of the world, the soft trickling waves lapping at the shores are the only sign of bad weather. The skies open and the bright blue of the sea reflecting down on them, things in Old Harbour are at peace.
“Good morning, Ozymandias.”
The Butcher of Reine, the breaker of Tyrants. The most formidable man on the entire Proving Grounds roster… standing on his doorstep in nothing but a loose pair of pants. The early rising sun has brought him from his slumber, and those passing by acknowledge him with a salute, a warm wave of a smile and a happy blessing. To most men who encounter him, the Butcher is a beast. A merciless brute that seeks only suffering from his foes.
But to the people of Old Harbour? He is their protector. Their provider. Their support and their captain, driving them forward and helping them to grow not only as people individually, but as a community. A strong presence, a veritable champion of the people. Ozymandias is the backbone of these people, and should they fall off their chosen path or find themselves in water too deep, he decides on how to amend that.
Or to let them go.
Sipping from a steaming mug of coffee, maskless, he looks around the village to the early risers before him. Most tending to their produce or their livestock, but others simple reveling in the morning to bodes another great day.
“Praise the Old Ones for such a blessing today!”
A cheerful older lady shares her thoughts and support of the Gods, ecstatic to get a simple nod in return from the Warrior. To most Sunday is a day of rest, a day of slow preparation for the week to come. But to Ozymandias, it’s is simply another day.
However, to be able to step outside his door, unmasked and unprotected, and to watch the beautiful town before him, the people so joyful and full of life… this is what he lives for. The idyllic peaceful future of his dreams.
This, is what he fights for.
THE OLD GUARD
Dressed and properly woken up, Ozymandias exits his home in a more formidable attire - black boots over green khaki pants, a black tanktop and his infamous mask now firmly attached to his face. A support mechanism for his laboured breathing, an after-effect from drawing himself in devotion to his Gods. The metallic tubes, the shape of the tentacle-like mandible, the bracing strap over his face… it is apparent this man lives with his decisions, and wishes the world to know who he belongs to.
The Great Old One, sleeping beneath the sea at R’lyeh.
He makes his way across town to the shores, as is his daily routine. To feel the cold of the water on his skin, feel the splash and spray of the salty air on his face, to listen to the slow and mindless flow of the waves, their power unknown to even them… peace.
At the pier he is joined by his partner in business, his friend in life and his soulmate in the new world - Meredith. She stands upon the pier awaiting his arrival, her black silken dress flowing in the wind almost as if it were made from smoke.
“We are truly blessed with this weather, it would seem.” He nods, saving his words for later. Not the first to have commented on the weather, Ozymandias knows this routine all too well within the community. “We should be fortunate enough to have smooth waters for the next fortnight, with sailing winds behind us to guide us forth.” Again, he merely nods.
The pair turn and walk along the pier, much slower than before when Ozymandias was striding forward. Their pace synchronizes almost instinctively, moving at a very casual, gradual pace.
“The old guard of Project Honor awaits you, Ozymandias.” Her eyes are trained forward, never side glancing, never diverting. “Darling wishes to test you more and more, escalating the challenge with each passing week.”
He grunts, but more so as a sign of acknowledgment more than anything.
“The chosen are all formidable foes, former champions and current hearts to our throne. Have you put much thought into the fight at hand?” She looks sideways to him, but his eyes remain on the pier before them, long and narrow but enough for them both to stride along comfortably. “Hmph, I thought as much. Darling plays cow, putting Lil’ Petey in a fight with you yet again-”
He raises his hand, to stop her before she even begins.
“Alas, what more could we say about the boy that has not already been said. You have bested him at every opportunity, and proven he doesn’t belong in your breathing space. But still, Indy Darling persists. Even with this rodent KaChow being allowed his time in the spotlight, Darling allows this travesty to occur.”
They walk forward, Ozymandias not even acknowledging Lil Petey’s name.
“I protest but it gets me little satisfaction… what do you think of the other two factors? Petey’s cohorts in this fight?” She looks to him but his pursuing silence slowly wears on her patience. “I do not need to explain to you the dangers of Dickie Watson, the most dominant Grand Champion before you. Hunter was lucky to get his time in the spotlight, but the Russian will stop at nothing to seize his glory once again.” She wipes her hands, almost wiping away something dirty. “It is all he has I fear… glory. A lost little boy, abandoned and forgotten. Without his fans and his attention he is merely… nothing.”
She looks to Ozymandias, but he still has not acknowledged anything she has said.
“Do you not hear what I say?”
“I hear you Meredith… and I need not hear you. Your words are falling on my ears in vain. These names, these fools, they mean nothing to me, nothing.”
This pauses her, leaving her without words for a moment.
“Good, then. So long as you understand the challenge before you."
“I understand what they are asking of me… but where you see a challenge, I do not.” He stops the walk, so that they stand one before the other. “Petey is a pest, one I have squashed on many occasions. Should he continue to fight, should he persist in trying to seize victory over me then I will simply not allow it. I will break him once more, and forever.”
She smiles, but her joy is cut short.
“You need to explain little to me about this ‘molotov’. A spoiled brat that ruled a paper kingdom. A Grand Champion when the roster was filled with amateurs, a bare half dozen opponents worth his time and effort. Dickie fought against the dregs of this industry and reveled in his time at the top of the tower. But his tower has grown, and he has not.”
Ozymandias twists his neck, rotating it enough to hear it crack, unloosening his stiffening joints.
“Dickie chose my victory to make his return. Dickie chose my inauguration to announce he returns, with his tail between his legs. Dickie returned expecting the world to bend and bow in his presence, but the reality is his presence was mere comedy. A failed champion, a broken boy, a spoiled brat finished his temper tantrum.”
They turns and begin to walk slowly again.
“Dickie’s time to reign is over. He means nothing to me.”
“And what of the final opponent? This Myojin, this ‘shining star’ that has the world in upheaval. The fans adore him, the people admire him. And his opponents fear him.”
“I do not concern myself over him, but alas we have not met. I have studied his career from afar, from our time in the XHF where he currently reigns supreme, to my time here. He is the only one on this fight that poses any consideration.”
They walk forward, the air growing tense between them. The pier is long and narrow, but as they walk further away from the shoreline the pier grows more unstable, the water growing is size and strength, the final stretch being deep into the ocean now.
“I dread this pier when the sky is blue. It is like the horrors beneath it’s surface hide… at least when the night is dark and terror surrounds us, we know what monsters await us in the depths.”
She peers over the edge as they walk forward, but stops suddenly in a matter-of-fact motion.
“If not Petey, then perhaps Dickie might pose a threat. If not Dickie then Myojin is the true contender. But with vengeance and glory on the line, what is to stop Petey from grinding against his own team to spoil Myojin’s attempts, and seize the victory?”
Ozymandias turns to face her, his eyes now glowing in anger. Not at her, per say, but at the situation ahead of him.
“My foes do not bother me, Meredith….”
“...but I am bothering you now.”
He sighs, his metal mask making an almost machine-like wheeze as he does so.
“I wish to continue the walk alone, to clear my thoughts. This discussion of shining stars and Russian bombs fills my heads with clutter. Petey understands his place before me, Dickie must learn that his era is over, and I will gladly show him. And Myojin? He is just another boy. I deserve a good fight, so I can only pray to our God that these three boys will give me that.”
“Very well, then you know what must be done.”
He nods, understanding her and she does the same, lingering with strong eye contact for a moment before turning and leaving him. As she walks away down the pier, away from him Ozymandias walks further out to sea, nearing the far end with each heavy step.
FERAL BEASTS
As the end of the pier lumbers into view, Ozymandias rubs his heads and slowly removes his metallic mask. Out here there is nothing but the air around him, the vast ocean before him and the small narrow stretch of stone that might lead him back to shore, to safety.
Out here, he controls everything. Out here, his life and his destiny are all in his hands to decide. Normally a place of rest, of meditation Ozymandias has grown to love the sound of silence more and more. His battles in the ring leave him with scars unseen to the eye, memories and flashbacks of cruelty and brutality best of forgetting.
Eye gouges. Heavy slams. Brutal bearhugs. Spine-breaking assaults. Inside that ring, Ozymandias has one job to do - win. He is not paid to show mercy, he is not rewarded for kindness of comradery. He is only acknowledged for his power, and his dominance.
Wielding a golden belt requires sacrifices, and none other in the federation have sacrificed as much as he. Pouring his world into the sea to rebirth the ancient God below, Ozymandias has given everything, everything, to his Gods. To Him.
Champions have walked before him, dominant figures in the ring. Formidable foes and masters of the mat, but none have walked with such brutal power and prowess as the Butcher. His job is very simple - to win. His opponents are there for one reason - to lose.
Fear and concern have no place in the ring, only victory and defeat.
He removes his clothes and boots, resting them in a pile on the pier. Finally placing his mask on top, he stands before the ocean naked as the day he was born, staring at its darkness before him. Staring at the horrors and unknowns of the depths, the unseen dangers ahead. Stretching and flexing for one last time, Ozymandias takes a run towards the edge.
And jumps.
*SPLASH*
The icy-cold water immediately grasps him, clinging to every inch of flesh and skin he owns. Cold tendrils shoot in and around his softer features, his eyes and inner nose almost freezing with the cold temperature, the inner skin of his fingers and toes stinging, urging his to escape this sub-artic water.
But her persists, and he remains, and allows himself to sink.
His meditation on the shore always returns his gaze to the stars, to the skies above. The appears of Vikings in his world has rocked his focus, from the warrior Ulf Hedir to the vicious Valkyrie, his safe space in Project Honor is now flanked by Norse warriors. And where the Norse roam, so too do their Gods.
Sitting on dry land he cannot help but look to the skies and ponder if Odin himself watches him, the all-seeing Allfather. If the thundering skies are a signal from Thor himself, or the howling of the wolves in the woods are the attack of Fenrir’s pack.
But here in the water, here is the sinking depths… he is alone. He is naked. He is weak.
The discussion thus far has been of concern and consideration for his foes, but he did little to ponder those at his sides that would stab him in the back just as soon.
Emmanuelle. A beautiful, vicious and dominating warrior, he watched her career explode in the halls of WrestleWorld. A true fighter and a true victor, she has claimed gold wherever she walks. She cannot be tamed by tiers, by what class she fights in. She holds no ranking on the card, except the very top.
To have the silver starlet by his side, as his support would be a huge relief. A veritable killer in her won rights, Emmanuelle is someone Ozymandias could rely on to help seize the match… but the fire in her eyes say otherwise. Her desire to rule and climb the ladder only pins her as a threat, one that would as easily decapitate Ozymandias as she would the competition.
And then the Bulldozer stands on the other side, a growing force in Proving Grounds. A lackey to the side of Mark Hunter now becomes the bull leading the charge. Holding the X-Factor will never suffice Williams, his ego and arrogance too brash and too grand to allow that. And sitting with a defeat at the hands of Ozymandias already… there is sure to be vengeance on his mind.
Lance Williams standing alongside Ozymandias will be a massive threat to the opposition, two giants standing before a trio of little boys. And the assassin-like skills of Emmanuelle alongside them, it is foolish to even consider any other outcome for this fight.
Alas, the Butcher walks in to this match with one very bright, very golden bullseye around his shoulder. To beat the best, is to become the best. And this menagerie of fame-hungry warriors understands that all too well.
“Why must I be surrounded at all times… from rumble fights to gauntlets, to this motley crue of would-be usurpers to my throne… why must they persist? Why must they rebel? Can they not just bow before me, kneel before me, honor me like they should?”
He speaks loudly, but the heavy pressure of water around him dulls all sound. He watches as he words go nowhere, except bubbles rising to the surface. Floating there in peace, he feels his chest tighten as air quickly depletes, and slowly he begins to rise up.
“With each fight I grow stronger, with each victory I gain infamy… how many more battles before my name is sown into their minds, as a threat you do not tempt into battle.”
Slowly rising and surfacing, he breaks the seal and pops his head over the surface for air, floating there in place. All around him is vast, heavy, deep ocean. Black to the eye, its secrets and terrors hidden from plain sight. For a moment he treads the water, his eyes closed as he floats there, begging a giant tentacle to grip him and finally pull him to his forever realm of R’lyeh.
But nothing comes. Nothing offers him sanctuary.
Having had enough he swims to the rocky pier and scales the steps to the side, exiting the icy waters and finding his place at the end to sit. The stone is warmed from the basking sunshine, so he sits there for a time, savouring the peace that the day brings him.
Baldur Magnusson. Just a man, naked and wet, warming in the summer sunshine.
For a moment, he is at peace, for a moment his world is calm and complete.
But as always, he must return down that pier to his real life. He must don the mask once again, to become the feared Ozymandias. And just as the people of Old Harbour expect of him, he must venture back to the halls of Project Honor, and show the world just how brutal and merciless he can be when cornered in a fight.
For he is but a man now, but a Champion to his people.
The Number 3.
Synonymous with power, with control, with finesse. A perfect equation, a mathematician's dream number. Equally divisible, multiplicative and rounded to make any combinations powerful, no lesser nor no greater.
The number bodes such power that it has made its way through time, a trio of names combined in every format. Look to the stars of Norse to find Odin with his two sons, or seek the Gods of Egypt to find the God Ra, flanked by the dark and the light.
The number dictates a vision of stability, of support. Two legs to support the body. Two swords behind the shield. Three pillars to support the sky. The gates of Hell were guarded by a beast of three heads itself, while the fables of past mention a great winged beast of three heads, fire and fury escaping it’s mouths.
The Gods bore weapons of three prongs, like the trident of Poseidon. The stories of fables adopted the number, down to the story of Christianity, Jesus with his bearers Mary and Joseph. The number stands the test of time, that no matter what powers are united… a trio will still stand after the War is over.
A warrior, rising the ranks in formidable force. Unmatched in competition, biding her time to explode into the circuit of Gods, Kings and Demons.
A beast, more monster than man, hulking and brooding. Hungry for his next fight, his next meal. Watching through piercing dark eyes as his foes misjudge him, miscalculate his size and speed. Watching as they fall before his boot.
A zealot, blind to the world outside of his goals, his campaign. Fighting for more than himself, fighting for more than gold, glory or gratitude, but fighting for a greater world. A machine, looking to remold the world to his true God, and bring forth a new era of peace, harmony and everlasting life.
Alone, they might fall. They might break. They might crumble. But united?
They are the three-headed beast of old.
FRUITS OF HIS LABOUR
Old Harbour, Alaska. The residential village of the Butcher and his enamored cast of fanatics, all lumbering together towards a new world and a new hope. Their efforts and their pledges allow them time to devote themselves to the Great Dreamer, the slumbering God at the depths of the Pacific.
But today, they get a day off. Sunday’s are known to be a day of rest, and even the ‘worshippers of the deep’ allow themselves a Sunday to rest up. Their stalls in the market place are shut, the fishing trawlers are moored in the harbour and there isn't a lobster or crab pot to pull in. The village itself, is at peace.
Surviving the endless storms the rough spring season brings, Old Harbour now sits peacefully on the edge of the world, the soft trickling waves lapping at the shores are the only sign of bad weather. The skies open and the bright blue of the sea reflecting down on them, things in Old Harbour are at peace.
“Good morning, Ozymandias.”
The Butcher of Reine, the breaker of Tyrants. The most formidable man on the entire Proving Grounds roster… standing on his doorstep in nothing but a loose pair of pants. The early rising sun has brought him from his slumber, and those passing by acknowledge him with a salute, a warm wave of a smile and a happy blessing. To most men who encounter him, the Butcher is a beast. A merciless brute that seeks only suffering from his foes.
But to the people of Old Harbour? He is their protector. Their provider. Their support and their captain, driving them forward and helping them to grow not only as people individually, but as a community. A strong presence, a veritable champion of the people. Ozymandias is the backbone of these people, and should they fall off their chosen path or find themselves in water too deep, he decides on how to amend that.
Or to let them go.
Sipping from a steaming mug of coffee, maskless, he looks around the village to the early risers before him. Most tending to their produce or their livestock, but others simple reveling in the morning to bodes another great day.
“Praise the Old Ones for such a blessing today!”
A cheerful older lady shares her thoughts and support of the Gods, ecstatic to get a simple nod in return from the Warrior. To most Sunday is a day of rest, a day of slow preparation for the week to come. But to Ozymandias, it’s is simply another day.
However, to be able to step outside his door, unmasked and unprotected, and to watch the beautiful town before him, the people so joyful and full of life… this is what he lives for. The idyllic peaceful future of his dreams.
This, is what he fights for.
THE OLD GUARD
Dressed and properly woken up, Ozymandias exits his home in a more formidable attire - black boots over green khaki pants, a black tanktop and his infamous mask now firmly attached to his face. A support mechanism for his laboured breathing, an after-effect from drawing himself in devotion to his Gods. The metallic tubes, the shape of the tentacle-like mandible, the bracing strap over his face… it is apparent this man lives with his decisions, and wishes the world to know who he belongs to.
The Great Old One, sleeping beneath the sea at R’lyeh.
He makes his way across town to the shores, as is his daily routine. To feel the cold of the water on his skin, feel the splash and spray of the salty air on his face, to listen to the slow and mindless flow of the waves, their power unknown to even them… peace.
At the pier he is joined by his partner in business, his friend in life and his soulmate in the new world - Meredith. She stands upon the pier awaiting his arrival, her black silken dress flowing in the wind almost as if it were made from smoke.
“We are truly blessed with this weather, it would seem.” He nods, saving his words for later. Not the first to have commented on the weather, Ozymandias knows this routine all too well within the community. “We should be fortunate enough to have smooth waters for the next fortnight, with sailing winds behind us to guide us forth.” Again, he merely nods.
The pair turn and walk along the pier, much slower than before when Ozymandias was striding forward. Their pace synchronizes almost instinctively, moving at a very casual, gradual pace.
“The old guard of Project Honor awaits you, Ozymandias.” Her eyes are trained forward, never side glancing, never diverting. “Darling wishes to test you more and more, escalating the challenge with each passing week.”
He grunts, but more so as a sign of acknowledgment more than anything.
“The chosen are all formidable foes, former champions and current hearts to our throne. Have you put much thought into the fight at hand?” She looks sideways to him, but his eyes remain on the pier before them, long and narrow but enough for them both to stride along comfortably. “Hmph, I thought as much. Darling plays cow, putting Lil’ Petey in a fight with you yet again-”
He raises his hand, to stop her before she even begins.
“Alas, what more could we say about the boy that has not already been said. You have bested him at every opportunity, and proven he doesn’t belong in your breathing space. But still, Indy Darling persists. Even with this rodent KaChow being allowed his time in the spotlight, Darling allows this travesty to occur.”
They walk forward, Ozymandias not even acknowledging Lil Petey’s name.
“I protest but it gets me little satisfaction… what do you think of the other two factors? Petey’s cohorts in this fight?” She looks to him but his pursuing silence slowly wears on her patience. “I do not need to explain to you the dangers of Dickie Watson, the most dominant Grand Champion before you. Hunter was lucky to get his time in the spotlight, but the Russian will stop at nothing to seize his glory once again.” She wipes her hands, almost wiping away something dirty. “It is all he has I fear… glory. A lost little boy, abandoned and forgotten. Without his fans and his attention he is merely… nothing.”
She looks to Ozymandias, but he still has not acknowledged anything she has said.
“Do you not hear what I say?”
“I hear you Meredith… and I need not hear you. Your words are falling on my ears in vain. These names, these fools, they mean nothing to me, nothing.”
This pauses her, leaving her without words for a moment.
“Good, then. So long as you understand the challenge before you."
“I understand what they are asking of me… but where you see a challenge, I do not.” He stops the walk, so that they stand one before the other. “Petey is a pest, one I have squashed on many occasions. Should he continue to fight, should he persist in trying to seize victory over me then I will simply not allow it. I will break him once more, and forever.”
She smiles, but her joy is cut short.
“You need to explain little to me about this ‘molotov’. A spoiled brat that ruled a paper kingdom. A Grand Champion when the roster was filled with amateurs, a bare half dozen opponents worth his time and effort. Dickie fought against the dregs of this industry and reveled in his time at the top of the tower. But his tower has grown, and he has not.”
Ozymandias twists his neck, rotating it enough to hear it crack, unloosening his stiffening joints.
“Dickie chose my victory to make his return. Dickie chose my inauguration to announce he returns, with his tail between his legs. Dickie returned expecting the world to bend and bow in his presence, but the reality is his presence was mere comedy. A failed champion, a broken boy, a spoiled brat finished his temper tantrum.”
They turns and begin to walk slowly again.
“Dickie’s time to reign is over. He means nothing to me.”
“And what of the final opponent? This Myojin, this ‘shining star’ that has the world in upheaval. The fans adore him, the people admire him. And his opponents fear him.”
“I do not concern myself over him, but alas we have not met. I have studied his career from afar, from our time in the XHF where he currently reigns supreme, to my time here. He is the only one on this fight that poses any consideration.”
They walk forward, the air growing tense between them. The pier is long and narrow, but as they walk further away from the shoreline the pier grows more unstable, the water growing is size and strength, the final stretch being deep into the ocean now.
“I dread this pier when the sky is blue. It is like the horrors beneath it’s surface hide… at least when the night is dark and terror surrounds us, we know what monsters await us in the depths.”
She peers over the edge as they walk forward, but stops suddenly in a matter-of-fact motion.
“If not Petey, then perhaps Dickie might pose a threat. If not Dickie then Myojin is the true contender. But with vengeance and glory on the line, what is to stop Petey from grinding against his own team to spoil Myojin’s attempts, and seize the victory?”
Ozymandias turns to face her, his eyes now glowing in anger. Not at her, per say, but at the situation ahead of him.
“My foes do not bother me, Meredith….”
“...but I am bothering you now.”
He sighs, his metal mask making an almost machine-like wheeze as he does so.
“I wish to continue the walk alone, to clear my thoughts. This discussion of shining stars and Russian bombs fills my heads with clutter. Petey understands his place before me, Dickie must learn that his era is over, and I will gladly show him. And Myojin? He is just another boy. I deserve a good fight, so I can only pray to our God that these three boys will give me that.”
“Very well, then you know what must be done.”
He nods, understanding her and she does the same, lingering with strong eye contact for a moment before turning and leaving him. As she walks away down the pier, away from him Ozymandias walks further out to sea, nearing the far end with each heavy step.
FERAL BEASTS
As the end of the pier lumbers into view, Ozymandias rubs his heads and slowly removes his metallic mask. Out here there is nothing but the air around him, the vast ocean before him and the small narrow stretch of stone that might lead him back to shore, to safety.
Out here, he controls everything. Out here, his life and his destiny are all in his hands to decide. Normally a place of rest, of meditation Ozymandias has grown to love the sound of silence more and more. His battles in the ring leave him with scars unseen to the eye, memories and flashbacks of cruelty and brutality best of forgetting.
Eye gouges. Heavy slams. Brutal bearhugs. Spine-breaking assaults. Inside that ring, Ozymandias has one job to do - win. He is not paid to show mercy, he is not rewarded for kindness of comradery. He is only acknowledged for his power, and his dominance.
Wielding a golden belt requires sacrifices, and none other in the federation have sacrificed as much as he. Pouring his world into the sea to rebirth the ancient God below, Ozymandias has given everything, everything, to his Gods. To Him.
Champions have walked before him, dominant figures in the ring. Formidable foes and masters of the mat, but none have walked with such brutal power and prowess as the Butcher. His job is very simple - to win. His opponents are there for one reason - to lose.
Fear and concern have no place in the ring, only victory and defeat.
He removes his clothes and boots, resting them in a pile on the pier. Finally placing his mask on top, he stands before the ocean naked as the day he was born, staring at its darkness before him. Staring at the horrors and unknowns of the depths, the unseen dangers ahead. Stretching and flexing for one last time, Ozymandias takes a run towards the edge.
And jumps.
*SPLASH*
The icy-cold water immediately grasps him, clinging to every inch of flesh and skin he owns. Cold tendrils shoot in and around his softer features, his eyes and inner nose almost freezing with the cold temperature, the inner skin of his fingers and toes stinging, urging his to escape this sub-artic water.
But her persists, and he remains, and allows himself to sink.
His meditation on the shore always returns his gaze to the stars, to the skies above. The appears of Vikings in his world has rocked his focus, from the warrior Ulf Hedir to the vicious Valkyrie, his safe space in Project Honor is now flanked by Norse warriors. And where the Norse roam, so too do their Gods.
Sitting on dry land he cannot help but look to the skies and ponder if Odin himself watches him, the all-seeing Allfather. If the thundering skies are a signal from Thor himself, or the howling of the wolves in the woods are the attack of Fenrir’s pack.
But here in the water, here is the sinking depths… he is alone. He is naked. He is weak.
The discussion thus far has been of concern and consideration for his foes, but he did little to ponder those at his sides that would stab him in the back just as soon.
Emmanuelle. A beautiful, vicious and dominating warrior, he watched her career explode in the halls of WrestleWorld. A true fighter and a true victor, she has claimed gold wherever she walks. She cannot be tamed by tiers, by what class she fights in. She holds no ranking on the card, except the very top.
To have the silver starlet by his side, as his support would be a huge relief. A veritable killer in her won rights, Emmanuelle is someone Ozymandias could rely on to help seize the match… but the fire in her eyes say otherwise. Her desire to rule and climb the ladder only pins her as a threat, one that would as easily decapitate Ozymandias as she would the competition.
And then the Bulldozer stands on the other side, a growing force in Proving Grounds. A lackey to the side of Mark Hunter now becomes the bull leading the charge. Holding the X-Factor will never suffice Williams, his ego and arrogance too brash and too grand to allow that. And sitting with a defeat at the hands of Ozymandias already… there is sure to be vengeance on his mind.
Lance Williams standing alongside Ozymandias will be a massive threat to the opposition, two giants standing before a trio of little boys. And the assassin-like skills of Emmanuelle alongside them, it is foolish to even consider any other outcome for this fight.
Alas, the Butcher walks in to this match with one very bright, very golden bullseye around his shoulder. To beat the best, is to become the best. And this menagerie of fame-hungry warriors understands that all too well.
“Why must I be surrounded at all times… from rumble fights to gauntlets, to this motley crue of would-be usurpers to my throne… why must they persist? Why must they rebel? Can they not just bow before me, kneel before me, honor me like they should?”
He speaks loudly, but the heavy pressure of water around him dulls all sound. He watches as he words go nowhere, except bubbles rising to the surface. Floating there in peace, he feels his chest tighten as air quickly depletes, and slowly he begins to rise up.
“With each fight I grow stronger, with each victory I gain infamy… how many more battles before my name is sown into their minds, as a threat you do not tempt into battle.”
Slowly rising and surfacing, he breaks the seal and pops his head over the surface for air, floating there in place. All around him is vast, heavy, deep ocean. Black to the eye, its secrets and terrors hidden from plain sight. For a moment he treads the water, his eyes closed as he floats there, begging a giant tentacle to grip him and finally pull him to his forever realm of R’lyeh.
But nothing comes. Nothing offers him sanctuary.
Having had enough he swims to the rocky pier and scales the steps to the side, exiting the icy waters and finding his place at the end to sit. The stone is warmed from the basking sunshine, so he sits there for a time, savouring the peace that the day brings him.
Baldur Magnusson. Just a man, naked and wet, warming in the summer sunshine.
For a moment, he is at peace, for a moment his world is calm and complete.
But as always, he must return down that pier to his real life. He must don the mask once again, to become the feared Ozymandias. And just as the people of Old Harbour expect of him, he must venture back to the halls of Project Honor, and show the world just how brutal and merciless he can be when cornered in a fight.
For he is but a man now, but a Champion to his people.
