Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Apr 22, 2019 23:00:25 GMT -5
There is something soothing about the perpetual autumnal coloration of Hangtown even in the height of spring. The trees provide little in terms of shade from the sizzling heat. There is no time to sit back and relish in the sunshine though. There is work to be done. There is always work to be done; as evident by a repetitive metallic clunk followed by rumbling hiss. The culprit of these crimes against silence is none other than the man synonymous with such a location; The Hangtown Horror himself.
The dirt immediately surrenders to his shovel’s blade. The dried soil hisses as Phinehas prises it from the ground and tips in a heap adjacent to the long, narrow hole being formed. So invested is he in his work that he barely notices the silhouette of a beast skulking through the woodland. It stalks him from the shadows; the pinnacle of stealth. It is only when Phinehas’ eyes flicker upwards that The Zenith ceases whatever game it was that he was trying to play. It is unconventional for Grimm to flicker such a smile. Knowing that Dominic is spending time away from ‘Chronological’ is the source of such elation.
The Temporal Tyrant says not a word to his Black Hand cohort. Instead, he meagrely takes a hold of the shovel in Phinehas’ hand and takes a few large steps to his left, positioning himself in a fresh spot amidst the wizened grassland. Unlike Phinehas, who had taken a great level of time and delicacy in forming a neatly shaped hole, Dominic thrusts the shovel so deep into the ground, to tear up such a quantity of soil, that the shovel’s wooden stem creaks and groans from the forces being applied at either end. With an almighty heave, the dirt is hauled from the ground in a thick clump.
There are countless graves scattered within the boundaries of Hangtown. Yet, these underground mausoleums are not crafted to inhabit the victims of a pandemic. Hangtown is not known for it’s high mortality rate. It begs the question then; why are these tombs in such high demand?
What has now formed at Dominic’s feet is a rectangular hole already a good two feet deep. He is now stood within the manmade fissure. His height still rivals that of Phinehas despite being deeper into the ground; a testament to the sheer size and scale of the monstrous man. The Destroyer at Noonday watches on in silence, admiring the craftsmanship of the grave.
“What do you intend on leaving here?” Phinehas asks, peering deeper into the crevasse.
“There is no hole big enough to bury the past,” Dominic grunts as he thrusts the shovel’s blade into the earth. “This will merely be a mass grave for my demons. I think I’m ready to leave them behind.” He continues to dig deeper. And deeper. Mesmerised by the task at hand, Dominic could easily dig himself all the way to China and remain none the wiser. “Just because the past is already behind you doesn’t mean it is easy to leave it there. That’s what Dolores says, anyway,” Dominic justifies his actions further. Phinehas gently bobs his head in understanding behind Dominic’s back as The Zenith wipes a patch of sweat from his brow.
In the long month that has passed, Dominic had luxuriated distantly from the hardships of Horacio’s grand design. Dolores had come across as trying to be far more prominent than she deserved to be. She was the one who had broke the news of The Watchmen’s disbandment; acting as a go-between from Horacio’s greatest asset to the founder himself. According to Ms. Aurelian, Matthew remained vocally active within the Order, whilst Harley had returned to his chop shop in the North. Marx had gone to spend some much needed time with his family, perhaps to properly grieve over the loss of his sister.
Maybe it was this notion that Dominic shared with Marx that has resulted in this; the burial of Amy’s memory, committing her to the ground for the rest of time.
“Do you trust them?” Phinehas finally utters, the thought playing on his mind since The Temporal King’s arrival.
“No,” Dominic replies point-blank. “No matter how many doubts I have in my mind, I have little choice but to believe them. Or tolerate them at the very least.”
“You’re so far under Horacio’s thumb, it’s almost painful,” Phinehas remarks almost snidely, yet his jesting is more brotherly than it is malicious.
“He doesn’t control me,” Dominic is quick to dissolve such a claim. “I have chosen to remain with the Order as a matter of necessity.”
“Even in spite of his seemingly endless deceit?” Phinehas cynically responds with a judgemental frown. “He has exhibited on many occasions the reasons that your trust shouldn’t be cast in his direction.”
“It is my decision to make,” Dominic responds bluntly, to which Phinehas cannot argue against.
“So be it,” Phinehas says. “He’s clearly been trying to mould you into his own idea of perfection. The difference between pruning and punishment is intention,” Phinehas smirks, wrapping is fingers around ’Pierce The Earth’ and effortlessly allowing it to slip from Dominic’s grasp. “It is not figuring out how one suffers in a way that differs from somebody else. Rather, it is figuring out precisely why they suffer. Whatever the method, the sufferings look and feel almost the same. For Mary gazing up a Golgotha, she saw two men being crucified beside her son. Screaming. Bleeding. Crying out in delirious spasms of excruciating pain. Despite their resemblance, there was a critical difference.”
Phinehas strikes the ground with the shovel, allowing it to stand vertically through its own merit.
“Two were being punished. One was being pruned.”
“You’ve been around the Willards for far too long,” Dominic utters whilst cracking a half-hearted smile, the other half is adopted by The Destroyer of Noonday.
This showcase of whose gold shines the brightest doubles as a salubrious opportunity for The Zenith to truly establish the pecking order.
The most unimaginative outcome points towards victory for Gerard Angelo on the simple basis that he currently holds the company’s top prize. What a misguided notion. It is unusual for a champion to be in such a position whereby they still have something to prove. Angelo in particular has been something of a dark horse since his arrival in Pure Class Wrestling, slowly and quietly making a name for himself with little fanfare until his most recent demolition of the impenetrable wall that is, or was Kyle Shane.
It is a stark contrast to the rise of The Zenith. He has annihilated everybody in his path. Only their respective coronations mirror on another; Stormm being an equal to Shane in terms of notoriety. In that respect, it puts Dominator and Angelo much closer together in terms of prowess than the Hollywood Hero had even comprehended. It would not take long for The Zenith to establish just how far above he is to this company’s ‘top’ champion. All Gerard would have to do is allow the blood from his nose to pool in the palm of his hand to truly understand how far beneath The Temporal King he truly is.
Sicko’s dangerousness echoes Dominator’s own time as Underground King. As such, it is of little surprise that The Zenith knows precisely what to expect. The depraved clown may be tantamount to violence, but it is no different to the violent streak possessed by the now reigning North American Champion himself. There is no trick up the clown’s sleeve that The Temporal King cannot foresee. He is familiar with such a book of tricks.
The Zenith is in the fortunate position where he can see both ends of the spectrum. Many years ago, Dominator himself has been a World Champion. Granted, not within Pure Class’ confines, but that does not detract from his sense of taste for such glory. At the other end of the scale, he knows of the risks and brutal demands of being even a ‘lower tier’ champion. It is not a matter of the title’s value. It is a matter of the man‘s value.
The dirt immediately surrenders to his shovel’s blade. The dried soil hisses as Phinehas prises it from the ground and tips in a heap adjacent to the long, narrow hole being formed. So invested is he in his work that he barely notices the silhouette of a beast skulking through the woodland. It stalks him from the shadows; the pinnacle of stealth. It is only when Phinehas’ eyes flicker upwards that The Zenith ceases whatever game it was that he was trying to play. It is unconventional for Grimm to flicker such a smile. Knowing that Dominic is spending time away from ‘Chronological’ is the source of such elation.
The Temporal Tyrant says not a word to his Black Hand cohort. Instead, he meagrely takes a hold of the shovel in Phinehas’ hand and takes a few large steps to his left, positioning himself in a fresh spot amidst the wizened grassland. Unlike Phinehas, who had taken a great level of time and delicacy in forming a neatly shaped hole, Dominic thrusts the shovel so deep into the ground, to tear up such a quantity of soil, that the shovel’s wooden stem creaks and groans from the forces being applied at either end. With an almighty heave, the dirt is hauled from the ground in a thick clump.
There are countless graves scattered within the boundaries of Hangtown. Yet, these underground mausoleums are not crafted to inhabit the victims of a pandemic. Hangtown is not known for it’s high mortality rate. It begs the question then; why are these tombs in such high demand?
What has now formed at Dominic’s feet is a rectangular hole already a good two feet deep. He is now stood within the manmade fissure. His height still rivals that of Phinehas despite being deeper into the ground; a testament to the sheer size and scale of the monstrous man. The Destroyer at Noonday watches on in silence, admiring the craftsmanship of the grave.
“What do you intend on leaving here?” Phinehas asks, peering deeper into the crevasse.
“There is no hole big enough to bury the past,” Dominic grunts as he thrusts the shovel’s blade into the earth. “This will merely be a mass grave for my demons. I think I’m ready to leave them behind.” He continues to dig deeper. And deeper. Mesmerised by the task at hand, Dominic could easily dig himself all the way to China and remain none the wiser. “Just because the past is already behind you doesn’t mean it is easy to leave it there. That’s what Dolores says, anyway,” Dominic justifies his actions further. Phinehas gently bobs his head in understanding behind Dominic’s back as The Zenith wipes a patch of sweat from his brow.
In the long month that has passed, Dominic had luxuriated distantly from the hardships of Horacio’s grand design. Dolores had come across as trying to be far more prominent than she deserved to be. She was the one who had broke the news of The Watchmen’s disbandment; acting as a go-between from Horacio’s greatest asset to the founder himself. According to Ms. Aurelian, Matthew remained vocally active within the Order, whilst Harley had returned to his chop shop in the North. Marx had gone to spend some much needed time with his family, perhaps to properly grieve over the loss of his sister.
Maybe it was this notion that Dominic shared with Marx that has resulted in this; the burial of Amy’s memory, committing her to the ground for the rest of time.
“Do you trust them?” Phinehas finally utters, the thought playing on his mind since The Temporal King’s arrival.
“No,” Dominic replies point-blank. “No matter how many doubts I have in my mind, I have little choice but to believe them. Or tolerate them at the very least.”
“You’re so far under Horacio’s thumb, it’s almost painful,” Phinehas remarks almost snidely, yet his jesting is more brotherly than it is malicious.
“He doesn’t control me,” Dominic is quick to dissolve such a claim. “I have chosen to remain with the Order as a matter of necessity.”
“Even in spite of his seemingly endless deceit?” Phinehas cynically responds with a judgemental frown. “He has exhibited on many occasions the reasons that your trust shouldn’t be cast in his direction.”
“It is my decision to make,” Dominic responds bluntly, to which Phinehas cannot argue against.
“So be it,” Phinehas says. “He’s clearly been trying to mould you into his own idea of perfection. The difference between pruning and punishment is intention,” Phinehas smirks, wrapping is fingers around ’Pierce The Earth’ and effortlessly allowing it to slip from Dominic’s grasp. “It is not figuring out how one suffers in a way that differs from somebody else. Rather, it is figuring out precisely why they suffer. Whatever the method, the sufferings look and feel almost the same. For Mary gazing up a Golgotha, she saw two men being crucified beside her son. Screaming. Bleeding. Crying out in delirious spasms of excruciating pain. Despite their resemblance, there was a critical difference.”
Phinehas strikes the ground with the shovel, allowing it to stand vertically through its own merit.
“Two were being punished. One was being pruned.”
“You’ve been around the Willards for far too long,” Dominic utters whilst cracking a half-hearted smile, the other half is adopted by The Destroyer of Noonday.
This showcase of whose gold shines the brightest doubles as a salubrious opportunity for The Zenith to truly establish the pecking order.
The most unimaginative outcome points towards victory for Gerard Angelo on the simple basis that he currently holds the company’s top prize. What a misguided notion. It is unusual for a champion to be in such a position whereby they still have something to prove. Angelo in particular has been something of a dark horse since his arrival in Pure Class Wrestling, slowly and quietly making a name for himself with little fanfare until his most recent demolition of the impenetrable wall that is, or was Kyle Shane.
It is a stark contrast to the rise of The Zenith. He has annihilated everybody in his path. Only their respective coronations mirror on another; Stormm being an equal to Shane in terms of notoriety. In that respect, it puts Dominator and Angelo much closer together in terms of prowess than the Hollywood Hero had even comprehended. It would not take long for The Zenith to establish just how far above he is to this company’s ‘top’ champion. All Gerard would have to do is allow the blood from his nose to pool in the palm of his hand to truly understand how far beneath The Temporal King he truly is.
Sicko’s dangerousness echoes Dominator’s own time as Underground King. As such, it is of little surprise that The Zenith knows precisely what to expect. The depraved clown may be tantamount to violence, but it is no different to the violent streak possessed by the now reigning North American Champion himself. There is no trick up the clown’s sleeve that The Temporal King cannot foresee. He is familiar with such a book of tricks.
The Zenith is in the fortunate position where he can see both ends of the spectrum. Many years ago, Dominator himself has been a World Champion. Granted, not within Pure Class’ confines, but that does not detract from his sense of taste for such glory. At the other end of the scale, he knows of the risks and brutal demands of being even a ‘lower tier’ champion. It is not a matter of the title’s value. It is a matter of the man‘s value.
