Post by Brenna Gordon on Sept 23, 2019 18:49:19 GMT -5
The cemetery was all but abandoned, something Brenna Gordon knew would've enraged her mother if only she were alive to see it.
Moira Gordon would've expected a wake the likes of which belonged to presidents and celebrities, prime ministers and kings... Hell, she would've expected so many mourners that the entire world's populace would have put on their mourning black and paid their respects, lamenting the loss of their goddess. The reality of there only being one person standing there as her coffin was lowered into the ground would've caused the kind of tantrum the likes of which most would've never seen before, though she who was Born of Myth would've just rolled her eyes at it. Delusions of grandeur were one of the most potent mental maladies to plague the (self professed) master poetess. It all but defined the deity complex that had first enchanted, then ensnared--
Brenna hadn't bothered to hire a priest, or a preacher, or a minister, or whoever the fuck it was that would officiate an atheist's funeral. There were no flower arrangements, no violinists or bagpipes--though the urge to hire the latter had raised itself, if only out of some urge for delayed and indirect punishment--just the only living relative of a woman that had pushed away everything and everyone that refused to fall under the spell of her delusions. Sure, she who was Born of Myth could've reached out to the few contacts she had... but it hadn't felt right to impose on people she hadn't spoken to in months, if not years. Besides, would Nathan or Kelli or, well, anyone understood the complicated relationship she had with her mother when she had done her damndest to hide it? Not that it would've been their fault, of course. What wasn't shared couldn't be understood, which meant that the storm of Brenna's grief was her burden to bear, so she'd bear it much the same as she always had; alone. Solitude was her chosen state of being, after all, so she couldn't really complain when one of the downsides hit her like a ton of bricks--
The familiar sensation of a calloused hand settled itself upon her shoulder, bringing with it the rustle of wind through fields of corn and the dry heat of a summer afternoon.
Even though she still stood there alone--something a glance over her shoulder confirmed--an alabaster hand rose to rest where that phantom sensation resided as a faint smile toyed at Brenna's lips, her loneliness easing just a bit. Her other hand slid into the pocket of that ebon-colored duster, wrapping around the roughly hewn wooden vase that resided within. The original sprig of wheat had turned to dust over the years, but the vase was still in good shape... almost unnaturally good shape, considering how there wasn't a ding or dent or scratch that hadn't been imparted by the chisel that had given it shape in the first place. It may have been simple in its design, but there was an elegance to its brutal stark design... or maybe she had just assigned those attributes to it because of whose hands had made it. There was another person she could've reached out to, but then again--how did one reach out to someone that defied description the way he did?
"The same way you did when she was still alive," Brenna mumbled to herself, her grip tightening around the gift-slash-talisman in her pocket. All she had to do was reach for him across whatever it was that had bound them together at one point... well, if it was still there beneath the cobwebs and seasons that had passed since the last time it had been active. For all she knew, her subconscious had just recalled the memory of how that felt in order to comfort her conscious mind. As little as she understood just what lay between herself and the man who embodied her alleged origin's opposing force, the most she could do was guess--though that wouldn't be good enough for much longer. Considering what had flooded her mind when she picked up Moira's journal, she had a sinking feeling in her stomach that she was going to need his help sooner rather than later.
She just hoped that Phinehas Dillinger would be open to the idea.
"Hello again, PCW." How strange it is, hearing that greeting aloud rather than reading it on a computer screen... but things have changed, the world shifting on its axis in a way that cannot be undone. Much can be said for the angle of the shot as the visual fades in, the camera tilted a bit cock-eyed from what one may assume to be a lack of experience in using a tripod. However, considering how Brenna Gordon is sitting on the edge of the generic hotel room bed that can really be in just about any city, maybe it's intentional after all--an artistic touch in a visual medium that is really no different than the 2-dimensional medium she still toys with from time to time. A shame, then, that artificial light is her only option for the time being thanks to the late hour. Ebon hair allowed to flow where it will, she who is Born of Myth is viewed in profile, thinnish lips pulling into a rueful little smile before she continues to speak. "The last time I set foot in the ring for active competition, my performance was... well, mediocre is the only way to put it. It was obvious that my heart just wasn't in it, and Kyle Shane's record took a hit on account of that. So did mine,obviously, but I deserved it, y'know? Play half-assed games, win half-assed prizes. He didn't, though, even if there were times he came across like the kind of smug bastard whose number I would've purposefully lost if he gave it to me in a bar if I still did the whole nightlife thing."
And now she felt old, though she didn't bother mentioning it aloud. A huff of a chuckle was all the more she granted the feeling before moving on, settling black-and-gray flannel covered elbows on black denim clad knees to lean forward some.
"So with my return failing so spectacularly last time, what's to stop the same thing from happening this time when my opponent was PCW World Champion not all that long ago?" The question is posed as matter-of-factly as it would be if she was asking anyone else, rather than herself. Using kid gloves isn't her style--never has been, never will be. "I could go on and on about how what was distracting me before isn't there anymore, which is true enough--but there's always something going on outside the ring, isn't there? No matter who you look at, we all have our trials and tribulations that have to be pushed aside so we can focus on the match at hand so, ultimately, while that's the explanation for me falling short... it doesn't excuse it, y'know? It can't, and I can't rely on that to overcome someone like Gerard Angelo who has accomplished feats here in PCW that I haven't. So what if he's been on a losing streak since he lost the World Title to Phinehas? And winning that tag match at Trauma 257 doesn't count because getting hit in the face by a shoe isn't the same thing as getting the pinfall or submission, no matter how you look at it. That just means he's desperate enough to go to whatever lengths he needs to in order to finally end the drought and drink deep of the victory he needs to get everything back on track, and that makes him a dangerous opponent indeed."
Brenna nods to herself, affirming that point.
"...but do you realize just what you're trying to chug when it comes to me, Gerard? I'm gonna guess not, seeing as how you've got such a full plate between wrestling and whatever it is you've got going on in Hollywood at the moment." An almost too-large eye finally focuses sidelong upon the camera's lens, something lurking around the edges of that faint smirk to make it seem sharp, somehow. Shark-like. "Trying to drink me down to satiate that thirst for victory's the same thing as chugging down ocean water. Sure, that resurging arrogance of yours will make it feel good about your chances at first--but as the salt enters your bloodstream, it'll suck every last inch of moisture out of every single one of your cells that it comes into contact with. And before too long, your chances of winning will die of dehydration, as ironic as it sounds... or is it ironic, considering the aforementioned drought that you just can't seem to escape no matter what you try? Now sure, you're still an arrogant little shit in spite of it all--maybe it's been dulled a little, but humility's still a long way off."
A pause; the sable-haired former Queen of the Underground lets out a chuckle that's music to the ears, touchably so almost.
"Then again, humility's a long way off for just about anyone that's in this business, isn't it? As much as it annoys me at times, the whole chest-thumping thing's as much a part of professional wrestling as the wrestling itself. And while your accomplishments and glories are fading further and further into the past, well... mine're even further back than yours. I may as well be starting over at this point, which is how I like it for one very simple reason--and for those that do remember, forgive me for repeating myself." Her head turns, dark and seal-like eyes directly meeting the camera's lens. "I did not come here for easy. I did not come here to lazily float by in mediocrity. I came here to stand toe-to-toe with the toughest competition I could ever hope come across--and for all that I've talked a little shit your way? Your accolades speak for themselves, which means you qualify. Unfortunately for you, though, I've got far too much to prove to let you get more than a single lungful of air once that bell rings. While it's true that there'll be other nights for both of us, Trauma 259 is where I will rise to the occasion and have my hand raised... while you?"
A pause; that sharklike smile makes a return, though straight-on it's clear that it's nowhere near illuminating the darkness of her eyes. If anything, it seems as if her pupils have consumed her irises whole... though it might also just be the dim light.
"You'll drown in the Undertow."
Fade.
Turning off the camera, she who was Born of Myth let out a long and slow breath.
That had felt--strange didn't come remotely close to describing it, especially since she had found the whole thing to be more comfortable than she could've ever expected. It was like riding a bike, addressing an opponent... and changing mediums hadn't been as much of an issue as she had thought. Was that a side effect of her mother passing away, feeling free enough to face the world now that she was no longer being hunted by Moira and her madness? Tch, maybe she should've just shot the damned video straight-on instead of trying to be a teensy bit artsy with it. Something to consider for next time. For now, the travel of the day and the mental marathon that had been filming her first promotional video since the impromptu one that had thrust her into the center of Seromine's attention once upon a time had taken its toll. She could shower in the morning.
It wasn't like she was expecting company, after all.
Undressing was a simple affair, clothes just sort of tossed toward her suitcase to be picked up come morning before she turned off all the lights save the one atop the bedside table. A few steps and Brenna threw back the corner of the covers just enough to slip under them and settle in. A sigh of satisfied contentment left her lips before she reached over and turned out the light--
Only to find that she wasn't alone anymore.
She didn't dare to look over at first, when she heard the mattress creak as if someone was shifting beside her. It wasn't until she felt an arm that was as cold as ice settling over her stomach that she turned her head... and what she saw, even though she knew it was logically impossible, made her lungs burn like they did that fateful night all those years ago. Silently staring at her uninvited guest, what remained of her usual sardonic wit couldn't help but to notice something. Namely?
Even when she was starting to decompose, Moira Gordon was still a beauty.
"Ceann beag," the apparition said, cuddling closer and numbing Brenna's very soul with its chill.
