Post by vaevictisbd on May 18, 2023 14:01:31 GMT
𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖋𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖍
Desolate, a wasteland of scorching sands that spoke to a different kind of death and decay from the candid previous. One without peace -- death in a graveyard vast that buries the dead beneath the elements. Unable to be claimed. Unable to be mourned. The blistering heat translates through the visuals, the sun hanging low on the torrid sand that gets picked up by the cutting winds and the very air itself bends and warps from the sheer intensity of the temperature. These hellacious lands devoid of life, all remains of the departed here have been long since buried beneath the unknowable measures of sand, like a beautiful mirage on the horizon approaches the figure of a woman dawning black like the reaper. Her voice, haunting in its elegance, has already been made familiar to all that hear it -- the Prophet of the Coming End. All serpents who would be king cower in the presence of she who is referred to as The Sin Eater; Soothsayer Crisanta.
Soothsayer Crisanta: Overcome by his sense of pride, Lucifer -- once believed to be the most magnificent and beautiful of Gods angels -- was cast out of the kingdom of heaven, rendered ugly and ashamed. He who believed himself elevated above all others, so arrogant to entertain he could so easily become God himself, defeated and vile. Undone by the pride he held so highly as a virtue. An apropos analogy, do you not think?
She wore a veil that covered her face, masquerading her features as it protects from the violent winds that blasts the desert sand in all directions, uncaring of casualty and condition.
Soothsayer Crisanta: Pride became the deadliest of sins -- the progenitor of all others. Greed. Envy. Gluttony. Wrath. Lust. And, prominent now in the most recent years in the tale of our returning hero; Sloth. All of which stem from the pride that poisons a mans soul. I compare the story of Lucifer's fall from grace to the career of Nasir Moore as the parallels weave an inevitable fate. As had the angel named to be the light-bringer's arrogance cast them from the eternal glory of Heaven, so too did the man who proclaimed himself the Best Wrestler Alive from the heights of the ivory tower of his career. Built on the foundation of his rampant vanity, a self-serving legacy of feeding an insatiable messiah complex.
Closer and closer, the image blurs as the heat intensified and gives the illusion of someone that projects their presence wherever they choose.
Soothsayer Crisanta: You have been celebrated. But you elect to remain silent. Your reputation proceeds you. It is by no means a compliment. To your ability, nor your impact on the world. As every land you laid a foundation upon tore down all you built, replaced it with another, inconsequentially moved on as you hid from the flashing, blinding lights that once witnessed your greatest victories... as well your most crushing defeats. But temptation itself is a mirage that will show a desperate man his greatest desires as he approaches the end of his life, as it would show a man in the desert the slightest impression of water to enjoy one last feeble moment of hope before despair finishes him off.
As the visage dissipates again under the scorching suns intensity, it is joined by another for but a moment. An imposing figure, black suit, donning a mask of a bleached skull that wore a crown of thorns over the eyes, but disappears with the waves of the heated air.
Soothsayer Crisanta: IPW advertised the return of who the masses herald as a legend. A return made out to feed that corrupting pride; like the second coming of the wrestling industry messiah -- returned to pick up where he left off. It is but a cheap imitation of a man long since expired from his former glory. The past far more kind than the prospects of his future; a man looking to receive his flowers from a scorched earth. And the road you walk to receive them is one of absolute ruination.
She pauses, her expression solemn but her eyes as emotionless as ever.
Soothsayer Crisanta: Your sins are far too great to be forgiven, Nasir. Your life of manufacturing the world around you in your own image, propelling those who sang your praises to your promises and delusions of grandeur -- the complex of a god that could destroy all that didn't satisfy him. In the end, all an imitation of the wrath you have provoked. Your rise to prominence too undeserving to be true; your fall will be too inevitable to be anything but biblical.
The sun behind her grows brighter, intensely until it completely consumes her and all things visual with a burning hot white. A voice echoes; distant and commanding.
?: Therefore, thus says the Lord; Behold, I am bringing disaster upon them that they cannot escape. Though they cry to me, I will not listen to them.
It's him. Doomsday Incarnate. Harbinger of the End. The Zealot of Gods Hate known as MORDOS. He had been a silent yet imposing enigma up until now, but as the intensity of the light fades into the abyss of absolute darkness, IPW bares witness to God's Unchained Monster for the very first time. His tone is deep, commanding, and malevolent towards the subject of his debut.
MORDOS: God created fire to bring life to a dark world. It brought warmth to the cold. But fire consumes, and allowed to burn without control devours anything in its path. Destruction left in its wake. But you are no God of Destruction, Nasir -- just an effigy that was allowed to burn uncontrolled until it consumed you. Your pride consumed you. The man that stands before me at Discovery is that same man; the narcissist that believed himself to be the Best Wrestler Alive. If you live up to that moniker, you are just an example that even the best alive are destined to fall. Abandon all hope of redemption. Abandon all ideas of forgiveness. Whatever glory you seek in these fleeting moments of your prime, you will not find it walking a path that ends with me. Those a product of their perilous pride have a fate sealed to carry weight so heavy they can never challenge anyone with their defiant eyes. I find no defiance left in you, Nasir. You are too silent. Too complacent. Too broken a man trying to have one last moment in the sun of God. Name value to whore for attention, but little else of worth. They hope to bleed the last of that value from you. Discovery, for something to rise from the ashes, something needs to burn. You will burn inconsequentially. You will fall at my feet, at the end of your path, as all others will follow. As all paths end at me.