Post by Brenna Gordon on May 23, 2016 14:21:58 GMT -5
The edges of Brenna's vision were too clear, a warning sign she was all too glad to ignore.
For reasons... no for excuses that were beyond her and that she wouldn't have pardoned no matter what they were, the masked cowards playing at being Hellhounds had waited until mere moments after her match with Dollface had ended to strike. She hadn't gotten the chance to so much as raise her newly-won championship over her head before the lights and life-sized marionettes and theatrics and threats had begun--and even if her mother would have wanted her to leave the pink-haired pugilist to her fate? Brenna couldn't abandon the other woman, not when she knew full well how it felt to be on the receiving end of mind games... or when staying by her side was the right thing to do. Without her clarity of an outsider's perspective, the sable-haired female couldn't imagine what would have happened to Kelli if she had faced all of that alone. And while she was glad that Dollface was okay--shaken, but okay-- and in the arms of her beloved now?
The fury she felt at not only being disrespected, but at being overshadowed just because some imbeciles wanted to play mind games was so thick that she almost couldn't breathe through it.
Production assistants and gaffers gave she who is Born of Myth a wide berth as she stalked down the hallway, her intention perhaps to return to her locker room--but she didn't get that far. Her temper is grabbing hold of her reins and sharply yanking to steer her toward a khaki-clad P.A. that is in the middle of using his iPhone to video chat with... well, did she really care? Whatever it was could wait, she decided without truly even considering if that was the case or not. Anything resembling rational thought beyond the barest dregs was long since gone, swallowed whole by a temper that hadn't slipped its chains in a long time--and that time contained had made it too strong for her to resist.
"Give me that." Her voice was thick with an accent that she had spent years trying to bury, the edge no less sharp from disuse than as if she'd always let it reign free.
His eyes--gray and watery and so very weak, she couldn't help but notice--went as wide as saucers. "B-But ma'am--"
"I said give it to me!" Brenna's fingers wrapped around the phone and yanked it free from his hand, the call ended without so much as a shred of courtesy. She was beyond such things, such... mortal concerns, not when she had something to say. And as it turned out?
A captive audience was exactly what she found herself with.
The video's start is erratic, shaking to the degree of threatening to induce motion sickness--but it only lasts long enough for the cell phone to be turned so the lens is pointing at the newly-crowned Underground Champion. With the closeness of the camera, the woman that some have begun to refer to as being 'Born Of Myth' fills the frame entirely... and with the combination of the harsh fluorescent lights overhead and the abundance of sweat upon her brow? Brenna's pale skin seems to glow subtly with an ethereal light, the angle making those large dark eyes seem all the more oversized and inhuman. Ebon hair still matted with sweat, all the more that she can do is draw in ragged, straining breaths for a moment before she speaks... though when she does, she's at least got herself together enough to be able to use complete sentences.
"I don't know who was behind what just happened out there, and I don't care," she all but snarls, the maelstrom of anger in her eyes making them grow all the darker in appearance somehow. There's nothing comforting there, no reprieve from the chilling burn of her voice. "The moment that your identity is revealed, I am going to personally drag each and every one of you down in the Rip Tide and leave you screaming for your lives in the Undertow until your lungs fill with water. You will drown for what you have done, make no mistake about it. Not just because of how you've chosen to hide behind smoke and mirrors and masks, not because of how you have been threatening two people whose only crimes seem to be being in love with one another and not backing down from the shadows you keep trying to expand upon... but because you thought that I was someone to take lightly, to overlook." Her laugh is the snicker-snack of a Vorpal Blade, a warning that those who consider the idea of encroaching upon her business will be wise to heed.
"I'd say I'm sorry to have not turned tail and ran like the little bitches that you are, but I'm not. You, though? Ohhh, you lot are all sorry down to the man and woman... and you've only just begun to be sorry. Saniti and Starr, they'll get their pounds of flesh from you I'm sure--but I'm not going to let your comeuppance stop there, ohhh no no no no." She leans in that little bit closer. "I'm going to rip your apologies from your dying breaths and leave your skulls shattered amidst the shards of your pathetic little masks. I'll make rugs out of your hides and jewelry from your teeth... and I'll throw the rest of your remains into the oceans as an offering to the others of my kind. You will be reduced to a footnote that will be forgotten while I will live on for eternity in the annals of history. But just in case you're too stupid to follow along, let me put it clearly for you."
Her other hand raises the Underground Championship into view, the reflection of her visage twisted and contorted... but still somehow lovely to behold, though the sound of her voice is decidedly far more of a fright even though it rises and falls like an ancient symphony.
"I will not be cowed, I will not be intimidated--and I sure as fuck will not be overlooked by you, by Saint Jury, by Nathan Saniti or Dan Fierce or anyone that crosses my path. I am the sound and the fury, I am the storm... I am the end of times given flesh." A scoff, low and baleful. "You should have kept your Mickey Mouse bullshit well away from me, because grade school theatrics are a horrible reason to meet your end, though I suppose it's fair enough. Live by the trite cowardice, after all... then you can damn well die by it."
And then all there is... is static.
Her heart threatens to burst its way out of her chest as Brenna regards her own reflection in the mirror of her locker room, the jackrabbit-pace threatening to tear the rest of her innards and viscera apart with it. She can feel the beginnings of pain blooming in her lungs from how she's hyperventilating, the world smearing around the edges thanks to the tears gathering in her eyes. Power, sweet and pure and driven entirely by the siren song of her bloodline, may have made her feel like the goddess her mother claimed to be... but now that it's gone? It's left a ruin of a woman behind, one whose white-knuckled grip is about the only thing keeping her from going head over teakettle onto the cold and unforgiving tile beneath her feet. The sound of the faucet dripping into the sink she's using as a lifeboat is drowned out by the sound of her pulse in her ears, the thunder of that vitae in her veins... but most of all, it's being blocked out by a single question that just will not leave her alone.
What have I done?!
Even if the phone she used wasn't hers, even if it was hooked up to the free Wi-Fi at the arena... there's still so many markers to be drawn forth from it to help her mother find her location. And if he crumpled like tissue paper at her demands, then how easily would he be seduced into Moira's service? And if he succumbs as easily as she thinks he will, then he'll just be the first. There will be a second, a third, a fourth--a weak sob leaves the Underground Champion's lips as she leans forward to rest her head against the glass even though part of her mind can't help but worry about how that leaves her open to the presence of the very woman she has spent so long trying to escape. The cool surface soothes her just enough for her to take a long, hard inhale through her nose--and the scent that tickles her nostrils is one that is so out of place that it jars her out of her self-pitying state. Wiping across her eyes with the back of a hand, she turns around and finds herself looking at something she missed when she rushed into her locker room in shame at what had just happened.
A few sprigs of hay in full seed poke out of a rough-hewn little vase whittled out of old barn wood with a note attached.
Despite its rustic appearance, the wood is smooth to the touch without a single splinter daring to poke out when she carefully picks it up to take a closer look at it. The tool-marks almost form an incidental pattern of some kind, she can't help but notice. She brings those fragments of field life to her nose and breathes deep while her other hand moves the note to where she can read it--and what she sees is written in a simple and direct hand, bereft of anything resembling frills or decoration.
Brenna doesn't need a signature to know who it's from, not when the calm she suddenly feels is all the explanation she needs.
For reasons... no for excuses that were beyond her and that she wouldn't have pardoned no matter what they were, the masked cowards playing at being Hellhounds had waited until mere moments after her match with Dollface had ended to strike. She hadn't gotten the chance to so much as raise her newly-won championship over her head before the lights and life-sized marionettes and theatrics and threats had begun--and even if her mother would have wanted her to leave the pink-haired pugilist to her fate? Brenna couldn't abandon the other woman, not when she knew full well how it felt to be on the receiving end of mind games... or when staying by her side was the right thing to do. Without her clarity of an outsider's perspective, the sable-haired female couldn't imagine what would have happened to Kelli if she had faced all of that alone. And while she was glad that Dollface was okay--shaken, but okay-- and in the arms of her beloved now?
The fury she felt at not only being disrespected, but at being overshadowed just because some imbeciles wanted to play mind games was so thick that she almost couldn't breathe through it.
Production assistants and gaffers gave she who is Born of Myth a wide berth as she stalked down the hallway, her intention perhaps to return to her locker room--but she didn't get that far. Her temper is grabbing hold of her reins and sharply yanking to steer her toward a khaki-clad P.A. that is in the middle of using his iPhone to video chat with... well, did she really care? Whatever it was could wait, she decided without truly even considering if that was the case or not. Anything resembling rational thought beyond the barest dregs was long since gone, swallowed whole by a temper that hadn't slipped its chains in a long time--and that time contained had made it too strong for her to resist.
"Give me that." Her voice was thick with an accent that she had spent years trying to bury, the edge no less sharp from disuse than as if she'd always let it reign free.
His eyes--gray and watery and so very weak, she couldn't help but notice--went as wide as saucers. "B-But ma'am--"
"I said give it to me!" Brenna's fingers wrapped around the phone and yanked it free from his hand, the call ended without so much as a shred of courtesy. She was beyond such things, such... mortal concerns, not when she had something to say. And as it turned out?
A captive audience was exactly what she found herself with.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
APPENDIX ONE
r e l e n t l e s s
------------------------------♒------------------------------
APPENDIX ONE
r e l e n t l e s s
------------------------------♒------------------------------
The video's start is erratic, shaking to the degree of threatening to induce motion sickness--but it only lasts long enough for the cell phone to be turned so the lens is pointing at the newly-crowned Underground Champion. With the closeness of the camera, the woman that some have begun to refer to as being 'Born Of Myth' fills the frame entirely... and with the combination of the harsh fluorescent lights overhead and the abundance of sweat upon her brow? Brenna's pale skin seems to glow subtly with an ethereal light, the angle making those large dark eyes seem all the more oversized and inhuman. Ebon hair still matted with sweat, all the more that she can do is draw in ragged, straining breaths for a moment before she speaks... though when she does, she's at least got herself together enough to be able to use complete sentences.
"I don't know who was behind what just happened out there, and I don't care," she all but snarls, the maelstrom of anger in her eyes making them grow all the darker in appearance somehow. There's nothing comforting there, no reprieve from the chilling burn of her voice. "The moment that your identity is revealed, I am going to personally drag each and every one of you down in the Rip Tide and leave you screaming for your lives in the Undertow until your lungs fill with water. You will drown for what you have done, make no mistake about it. Not just because of how you've chosen to hide behind smoke and mirrors and masks, not because of how you have been threatening two people whose only crimes seem to be being in love with one another and not backing down from the shadows you keep trying to expand upon... but because you thought that I was someone to take lightly, to overlook." Her laugh is the snicker-snack of a Vorpal Blade, a warning that those who consider the idea of encroaching upon her business will be wise to heed.
"I'd say I'm sorry to have not turned tail and ran like the little bitches that you are, but I'm not. You, though? Ohhh, you lot are all sorry down to the man and woman... and you've only just begun to be sorry. Saniti and Starr, they'll get their pounds of flesh from you I'm sure--but I'm not going to let your comeuppance stop there, ohhh no no no no." She leans in that little bit closer. "I'm going to rip your apologies from your dying breaths and leave your skulls shattered amidst the shards of your pathetic little masks. I'll make rugs out of your hides and jewelry from your teeth... and I'll throw the rest of your remains into the oceans as an offering to the others of my kind. You will be reduced to a footnote that will be forgotten while I will live on for eternity in the annals of history. But just in case you're too stupid to follow along, let me put it clearly for you."
Her other hand raises the Underground Championship into view, the reflection of her visage twisted and contorted... but still somehow lovely to behold, though the sound of her voice is decidedly far more of a fright even though it rises and falls like an ancient symphony.
"I will not be cowed, I will not be intimidated--and I sure as fuck will not be overlooked by you, by Saint Jury, by Nathan Saniti or Dan Fierce or anyone that crosses my path. I am the sound and the fury, I am the storm... I am the end of times given flesh." A scoff, low and baleful. "You should have kept your Mickey Mouse bullshit well away from me, because grade school theatrics are a horrible reason to meet your end, though I suppose it's fair enough. Live by the trite cowardice, after all... then you can damn well die by it."
And then all there is... is static.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
Her heart threatens to burst its way out of her chest as Brenna regards her own reflection in the mirror of her locker room, the jackrabbit-pace threatening to tear the rest of her innards and viscera apart with it. She can feel the beginnings of pain blooming in her lungs from how she's hyperventilating, the world smearing around the edges thanks to the tears gathering in her eyes. Power, sweet and pure and driven entirely by the siren song of her bloodline, may have made her feel like the goddess her mother claimed to be... but now that it's gone? It's left a ruin of a woman behind, one whose white-knuckled grip is about the only thing keeping her from going head over teakettle onto the cold and unforgiving tile beneath her feet. The sound of the faucet dripping into the sink she's using as a lifeboat is drowned out by the sound of her pulse in her ears, the thunder of that vitae in her veins... but most of all, it's being blocked out by a single question that just will not leave her alone.
What have I done?!
Even if the phone she used wasn't hers, even if it was hooked up to the free Wi-Fi at the arena... there's still so many markers to be drawn forth from it to help her mother find her location. And if he crumpled like tissue paper at her demands, then how easily would he be seduced into Moira's service? And if he succumbs as easily as she thinks he will, then he'll just be the first. There will be a second, a third, a fourth--a weak sob leaves the Underground Champion's lips as she leans forward to rest her head against the glass even though part of her mind can't help but worry about how that leaves her open to the presence of the very woman she has spent so long trying to escape. The cool surface soothes her just enough for her to take a long, hard inhale through her nose--and the scent that tickles her nostrils is one that is so out of place that it jars her out of her self-pitying state. Wiping across her eyes with the back of a hand, she turns around and finds herself looking at something she missed when she rushed into her locker room in shame at what had just happened.
A few sprigs of hay in full seed poke out of a rough-hewn little vase whittled out of old barn wood with a note attached.
Despite its rustic appearance, the wood is smooth to the touch without a single splinter daring to poke out when she carefully picks it up to take a closer look at it. The tool-marks almost form an incidental pattern of some kind, she can't help but notice. She brings those fragments of field life to her nose and breathes deep while her other hand moves the note to where she can read it--and what she sees is written in a simple and direct hand, bereft of anything resembling frills or decoration.
Congratulations.
Brenna doesn't need a signature to know who it's from, not when the calm she suddenly feels is all the explanation she needs.
