𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝕲𝕺𝕯

[vaevictisbd]

𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝕲𝕺𝕯

Rain falls from the dark clouds above and pelts the soil below, turning what's dry into solid wet earth. The breeze that rattles the trees is cold, ferocious, and demanding. The headstone of various graves are lined up like soldiers, at peace despite the violent act of nature that hits their resting place without discrimination, the flowers that decorated them by their loved ones are stripped away in a losing battle to the elements. The yard of the dead is vast, one living occupant is the sea of graves stands with a dark parasol to shield herself from the destructive downpour. She stands at the edge of an empty grave, a dress as dark as midnight as she holds a bouquet of roses that share her color pallet. She does not look to be mourning; rather she looks to be devoid of emotion entirely as the 6-foot deep hole of dirt sits unoccupied. Her striking beauty becomes a haunting visage as her vacancy of emotion does not even change as her painted lips usher opening words to the candid.

Soothsayer Crisanta: Loss and grief brings man to pray for that which dies finds new life. They invest all hope they find it in the kingdom of heaven, or damnation forevermore. And yet, they are to be buried all the same. Why is that? Why do we bury dead, bury the people we remember as good and loved in the same dirt next to thieves, murderers, or the otherwise dregs of humanity? Because it's not asked of us to judge the dead, only to respect the fact that they are.

Crisanta removes a single rose for the bouquet, looking its every delicate feature over with eyes so cold and careless.

Soothsayer Crisanta: They say we're all equal in death, but how can we ever know for sure? When we are not capable of judging the value of a human life, we can only make the rash decision to end one at the risk of what it implicates to our own. But it's the one thing all things share; the capacity to die. From the pedal of a beautiful rose inconsequential is it dances dead in the wind, to even the lights on a battlefield where many are willing to risk life and limb for momentary glory; to live infinitely.

 She plucks from the rose she examines a single pedal, resting it in her palm as the wind whips it away.

Soothsayer Crisanta: To even the career of a man who once believed himself to be a god. Oh Infinite Pro Wrestling; how you draw in the false idols like a flame does a careless moth. How you beg for relevance by squeezing the dry husk of a man who has very little left to offer a world that has moved on without him. How you latch onto the very idea of Nasir Moore to be some kind of savior for a brand on the brink of death. One could hardly blame you... but we take exception to this false idols return and the whoring of his complex.

Her grip tightens against the roses' stem, digging a number of barbs into the palm of her hand.

Soothsayer Crisanta: The measure of both lives, the concept of IPW and the career of Nasir Moore, is relevance. Something both crave. Relevance strong enough for both to crawl from their freshly dug graves for one more drink from the chalice of pride in hopes that it's plentiful and infinite. Desperation to keep from withering and dying.

Drip. Drip. The red ichor that falls from the clenched palm falls onto the grass at her feet.

Soothsayer Crisanta: But all things that reside in the light of God are indiscriminately not infinite. Something the career of Nasir Moore should speak testament to. It’s something you know, all too well. A tumultuous lifetime of strife and loss; the yearning for infinite opportunity to wave your hand over all you see and lace it with gold and glory — a career that came to a slow and painful end. A career that, in the eyes of some, makes you a legend of the industry. In the eyes of others, the career of a pariah. All the same, the destination that awaits you sits before me; the dirt just like anyone else. Regaled as the god you pretended to be, or as something you could never convince them you could be. Should you even be remembered at all.

She opens her hand, cut by the briars of her rose, tossing the flower into the hole at her feet.

Soothsayer Crisanta: To be remembered forever, Nasir, may not be the fate you want to wish for. So as your career just found life anew, so quickly it may be taken away — having crawled back into the light of God, just to be blinded and burned away by his omnipotent anger for entertaining the notion of being of similar status. Of being a God of Destruction.

For the first time this candid, emotion showed on her face. A smile that curled on her lip, albeit one of amused pity.

Soothsayer Crisanta: You haven't the faintest of what true destruction is, Nasir. Destruction on the level of any force of nature. A typhoon that cuts through the land and consumes. A tidal wave that crashes onto the shores and washes away all beneath it and drags all into the sea. Events that leave nothing in its wake besides utter devastation, if not complete extinction. That, my poor lost soul, is the destruction that awaits you. Awaits you in the form of the man that, in their own desperation to appease and gain favor, those in the office of IPW have pitted you against. A titan of God's destruction.

She launches the rest of the bouquet into the open grave, and then looks at the cuts on her hand, almost like she were admiring it.

Soothsayer Crisanta: You will mistake him for but another wrestler proclaiming themselves as something more mighty than they are; think him little more than one of the many John Doe's that have been the mortar in which you've built your house of self-worship. But he is not like anything you've faced before in your life; in a wrestling ring, or in any other aspect that has troubled your existence. No blood rivalry. No ugly divorce. No wrestling company who moved on so carelessly after you parted ways. You face, for the first time from one darkness to another, a cruel reality that will put your place in the universe into question. A man who will break your body beyond repair, and your spirit with it. You face the monster of god, who will bring you face-to-face with his holy vengeance unto the world, and realize your presence is but one of many -- nothing extraordinary; a casualty among casualties.

She reaches up the neck of her umbrella, undoing a latch as the rain began to ease, the canopy and metal folds closing in as lightning harshly strikes the background in a blinding light. Just as quickly, a suited figure is suddenly standing behind Crisanta. Menacing. Eclipsing entirely. Though, she either doesn't notice or isn't surprised at all by the inhuman appearance that now towers behind her.

Soothsayer Crisanta: All paths lead to an end, Nasir. All paths lead to death. All paths end at Mordos.