Beware of red circus lemonade
Mar 17, 2017 7:52:46 GMT -5
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Nathan Saniti, Alexa Black, and 2 more like this
Post by Grimm on Mar 17, 2017 7:52:46 GMT -5
The Grimm had long devastated the federation. For over a decade – nearly two, now – it had cut a swath of violence and destruction from one edge of Pure Class Wrestling to the other. It welcomed newcomers as a means of introducing them to the dark nights of the soul they could expect from their new home. The Harvest ruined the aspirations of those long established names on the roster. Win, lose, or draw, the Grimm left its mark on everyone, friend and foe alike. And everyone who had walked with the Fiend in the Furrows would shudder all the days after whenever they were reminded of their time with it.
But The Queen could not be bothered with such ill tidings. She had somehow managed thus far to avoid falling to the Grimm’s onslaught, and had no intentions of displaying the anguish that was to be expected from those scheduled to face it head on. The Queen was fierce. She was fabulous. And she fancied herself as one with such moral fiber and rectitude that the looming shadow would not breach her walls. The Grimm was not welcome here.
And so it was toward the close of the third month of The Queen’s reign that, in response to the impending challenge to that very crown, she gathered together her closest friends and acquaintances for a gala unlike any the federation had ever seen. The ball was to be free from hate and fear and ignorance, and despite the collective lifetimes of frustrations gathered there, it was expected to be a night of mirth and whimsy and…eccentricities.
The masquerade was something to behold. It was as though The Queen had taken her grand entrances and in-ring celebrations, combined them, and unleashed this one final revelry upon her home and her guests. It was a Mardi Gras parade in perpetuity. Sequins, glitter, and animal prints exploded everywhere. Rainbow blasts of confetti rained down from cannon fire and churned in fountains. A menagerie of peacocks and birds of paradise strutted about, competing with each other and the guests for color and spectacle. Though there was no competing with The Queen – she stood heels and shoulder pads above the party, holding dominion over all.
Not the say the specter of the Grimm could be barred from the festivities completely. The World Title belt hung in its place of honor and reflected the spectrum of lights. There was no pretending it didn’t. And the conversations swirling through the crowds inevitably turned to the coming days of their host. Try as they might, they could not ignore it. When they uttered its name, no matter how hushed the tone, the music seemed to pause. Gyrations froze in mid-swivel. A pall settled on the proceedings. But it would not last. The Queen forbid it. And so the pulsing beats resumed, and the fuscia-hued leather chaps flashed in sync with the vitally important pelvic thrusts of several well-oiled courtiers. A sense of filigreed madness infected them all. The willing indignities lasted far into the night.
Now it must be understood that some throughout the halls of the federation viewed the Grimm as more of a presence or a force than a mere man. It stood in the ring like a mountain of granite and ice formed under the violent tensions of the earth, and, like a mountain capped with snow and whose peak was hidden by clouds, some attempted the climb simply because it was there. And like a mountain, it would still remain standing, unfazed and unimpressed, no matter the success or failure of the mountaineer. Some may reach the top to plant their flag in triumph. Others would stumble in embarrassment or, perhaps, in their demise. But at the very least the mountain would claim some fingers, or an ear, or a nose, along the way. The challenger would remember it, regardless, to repeat the story far into his or her twilight years.
All to say this was why a certain figure caused such a reaction when it arrived at the ball. As has been established, this was not just any party. This was The Queen’s party, and as such it was flamboyant beyond the limits of the definition of the word. There existed within the boundaries of those walls events and personages that would have resulted in uproar on the outside. There were things you wouldn’t understand. Things you couldn’t understand. Things you shouldn’t understand. Even so, as the party neared the witching hour, the gathering became aware of a presence among the halls and within the nooks and crannies of the house. And it disturbed even them. The newly arrived figure made its way through the urban decay in a guise unlike any other. Its mask appeared formed from the very earth itself, a weaving together of vines and the bark of the silver birch. Oak and sycamore leaves fell together in something of a mane, and it bore a beard of grizzled holly. Bees swarmed about its head as a droning halo. Long and lean, the figure was clad in a peculiar suit patched together from burlap, moss in all forty shades of green, the blues and silvers of lichen, and tatters of leather. The suit was a testament to the skills of the sylvan tailor who had fashioned the ensemble in that as the figure moved it shimmered, shifting from the dimming of an autumn glow to the clear cold shine of a winter gloaming. It was wildly out of place but all who saw it had to admit they found it quite impressive. It brought to mind dark groves, and tangles of honeysuckle, and pain.
As the Grimm approached its target, the others in attendance, both human and beast, fell away one by one. Just as its opponents had found over the years, they had no choice but to surrender to its lore. To submit to its logic. A fight with the Grimm was more of an experience from which to look within than it was a conquest. It was a challenge against the self.
And now the Grimm made its presence known to the Queen. It stood alone in the main hall, silent, a great despair greeted only by the flickering gutters of the candles. The Queen muttered blasphemies and threats that shall not be repeated here. She strode forward across the marble floor, her garments swirling as a maelstrom at full vigor. As she drew near the Grimm it dipped in an exaggerated bow, as if the dandiest of the dandy. From here it raised its head to look up at the Queen. Eyes of the deepest, coldest ice glared out from the mask. Vines curled, briars shifted, and it smiled at all that was coming.
But The Queen could not be bothered with such ill tidings. She had somehow managed thus far to avoid falling to the Grimm’s onslaught, and had no intentions of displaying the anguish that was to be expected from those scheduled to face it head on. The Queen was fierce. She was fabulous. And she fancied herself as one with such moral fiber and rectitude that the looming shadow would not breach her walls. The Grimm was not welcome here.
And so it was toward the close of the third month of The Queen’s reign that, in response to the impending challenge to that very crown, she gathered together her closest friends and acquaintances for a gala unlike any the federation had ever seen. The ball was to be free from hate and fear and ignorance, and despite the collective lifetimes of frustrations gathered there, it was expected to be a night of mirth and whimsy and…eccentricities.
The masquerade was something to behold. It was as though The Queen had taken her grand entrances and in-ring celebrations, combined them, and unleashed this one final revelry upon her home and her guests. It was a Mardi Gras parade in perpetuity. Sequins, glitter, and animal prints exploded everywhere. Rainbow blasts of confetti rained down from cannon fire and churned in fountains. A menagerie of peacocks and birds of paradise strutted about, competing with each other and the guests for color and spectacle. Though there was no competing with The Queen – she stood heels and shoulder pads above the party, holding dominion over all.
Not the say the specter of the Grimm could be barred from the festivities completely. The World Title belt hung in its place of honor and reflected the spectrum of lights. There was no pretending it didn’t. And the conversations swirling through the crowds inevitably turned to the coming days of their host. Try as they might, they could not ignore it. When they uttered its name, no matter how hushed the tone, the music seemed to pause. Gyrations froze in mid-swivel. A pall settled on the proceedings. But it would not last. The Queen forbid it. And so the pulsing beats resumed, and the fuscia-hued leather chaps flashed in sync with the vitally important pelvic thrusts of several well-oiled courtiers. A sense of filigreed madness infected them all. The willing indignities lasted far into the night.
Now it must be understood that some throughout the halls of the federation viewed the Grimm as more of a presence or a force than a mere man. It stood in the ring like a mountain of granite and ice formed under the violent tensions of the earth, and, like a mountain capped with snow and whose peak was hidden by clouds, some attempted the climb simply because it was there. And like a mountain, it would still remain standing, unfazed and unimpressed, no matter the success or failure of the mountaineer. Some may reach the top to plant their flag in triumph. Others would stumble in embarrassment or, perhaps, in their demise. But at the very least the mountain would claim some fingers, or an ear, or a nose, along the way. The challenger would remember it, regardless, to repeat the story far into his or her twilight years.
All to say this was why a certain figure caused such a reaction when it arrived at the ball. As has been established, this was not just any party. This was The Queen’s party, and as such it was flamboyant beyond the limits of the definition of the word. There existed within the boundaries of those walls events and personages that would have resulted in uproar on the outside. There were things you wouldn’t understand. Things you couldn’t understand. Things you shouldn’t understand. Even so, as the party neared the witching hour, the gathering became aware of a presence among the halls and within the nooks and crannies of the house. And it disturbed even them. The newly arrived figure made its way through the urban decay in a guise unlike any other. Its mask appeared formed from the very earth itself, a weaving together of vines and the bark of the silver birch. Oak and sycamore leaves fell together in something of a mane, and it bore a beard of grizzled holly. Bees swarmed about its head as a droning halo. Long and lean, the figure was clad in a peculiar suit patched together from burlap, moss in all forty shades of green, the blues and silvers of lichen, and tatters of leather. The suit was a testament to the skills of the sylvan tailor who had fashioned the ensemble in that as the figure moved it shimmered, shifting from the dimming of an autumn glow to the clear cold shine of a winter gloaming. It was wildly out of place but all who saw it had to admit they found it quite impressive. It brought to mind dark groves, and tangles of honeysuckle, and pain.
As the Grimm approached its target, the others in attendance, both human and beast, fell away one by one. Just as its opponents had found over the years, they had no choice but to surrender to its lore. To submit to its logic. A fight with the Grimm was more of an experience from which to look within than it was a conquest. It was a challenge against the self.
And now the Grimm made its presence known to the Queen. It stood alone in the main hall, silent, a great despair greeted only by the flickering gutters of the candles. The Queen muttered blasphemies and threats that shall not be repeated here. She strode forward across the marble floor, her garments swirling as a maelstrom at full vigor. As she drew near the Grimm it dipped in an exaggerated bow, as if the dandiest of the dandy. From here it raised its head to look up at the Queen. Eyes of the deepest, coldest ice glared out from the mask. Vines curled, briars shifted, and it smiled at all that was coming.
