Post by Eden Morgan on Mar 18, 2017 22:05:00 GMT -5
“Donovan Hastings, Eden Morgan, you want me to make a mark? You want me to prove that I am a strong champion? You think I am a fucking weak link in the chain? BELIEVE THAT!”
Vidas throws the mic off camera, grabs his belt, and walks off set with the belt slung over his shoulder. The camera follows him as he rips open the door and disappears through it.
And seated at the small breakfast nook watching the display on her phone, Eden Morgan holds a cup of tea to her lips, pursing them and blowing softly on the steaming liquid. As the video ends, her startling eyes move away from the phone's screen, staring off into nothing, a soft smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“A little wicked” that's what he calls me
Cause that's what I am, that's what I am
The shackles that had bound her for so long fell away, clattering harmlessly onto the floor beneath her. Slowly, as if expecting things to fall back as they were, she rises to her feet, gazing cautiously down the long hallway before her. The hallway was always there, lined with mirrors, their reflective surfaces only broken by doors scattered at various points on both sides of the long stretch of hall. She takes one step-- and then another-- moving away from the quiet back of the hallway she had been positioned in for so long. She soon comes even with the first door, stopping before it and raising her hand to the smoothly rounded knob. She turns it and pushes inward.
The room was small, darkness eating at the edges of everything except for the center where she sees herself standing triumphantly over a mountain of human bodies, all forms cast in shadow except for her, reaching, reaching, ever reaching--
She backs out of the room and closes the door, her curiosity growing as she continues on. The second door is much like the first in size, only this one bears strange runes etched in a curving arc around it. She traces the symbols with light fingertips before opening the door and stepping through.
Where the first room had been small, this one is a vast, carrying ocean as far as the eye could see. She stands suspended above the water, the doorway floating just above, causing her to gasp and jump back, instantly fearful. She takes a wary step back into the room, frowning as she gazes around, seeing nothing but water-- there, there was something. A boat floating amid the waves, and inside the boat lay a person, a man. All manner of weaponry lay around him, but he was so still, and there in the distance she saw herself again, standing on the one patch of dry land, watching the water take him away.
She closes the door.
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
Beware the patient woman, cause this much I know
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
One of these days a-coming, I'm gonna take that boy's crown
There's a serpent in these still waters
Lying deep down
To the king I will bow
At least for now
One of these days a-coming, I'm gonna take that boy's crown
She continues her trek through the hallway, wondering what she might see next and when next a door would appear. She finds herself reflected back many times over in the mirrors around her, but no door appears. She walks faster, more determined, and then suddenly-- a door. No runes surround this one, in fact, it looks remarkably like the first.
She opens the door.
Inside is a small room, much like the first. And also like the first, she finds a cloying darkness with herself at the center of it, atop a shadowy pile of defeated bodies. Unlike the first room, however, she isn't alone. A man stands with her, the two of them seeming to be grasping for the same prize, the sense of urgency and rivalry between them strong.
She closes the door.
She cocks her head to the side, considering what she's seen, a peculiar smile curling her lips. She's so preoccupied with the contents of the other three rooms that she almost misses the fourth door. She stops, turning her head and studying the door, considering passing it for a moment. Her stomach ties into knots and she fills with a sense of dread. This door was black, but not like the normal dark hue that still retains some reflection of itself deep within its center; this was a dull, empty, void that seems to suck the light and life from anything and everything around it. She recoils at the thought of touching that door, yet knew she must. And so touch it, she does.
She opens the door.
She stands in the doorway of an apartment, a kitchen just to the left of her, an island bar visible. Keys lay haphazardly on the island, and she resists the urge to straighten them. A ragged sound of horror and despair greets her ears, and the dread grows within her. She simultaneously wants to run from the room and also peruse it at her leisure in some sort of macabre fantasy. It's this fantasy that propels her forward and draws her attention to the living room, a thin shaft of light illuminating the deformed winged angel displayed so grotesquely before the picturesque floor-to-ceiling windows. He was beyond making any sort of noise. She casts her eyes to the side, finding herself collapsed to the floor, the sounds coming from her, a tall, dark figure moving out from the shadows.
The door slams shut behind her.
Cause I am, I am a little wicked
I am, I am
Hands red, hands red, just like he said
I am a little wicked
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
I'll be high up in that tower he'll be down there getting stoned
Beware the patient woman
Cause this much I know
No one calls you honey when you're siting on a throne
When she finally emerges from the room, her appearance is more ragged than when she first started, her eyes haunted. She pulls the door to behind herself and leans against it, unable to move away as if it were a sticky tar for the soul, and in some ways it was. When she regains herself, she pushes away from the black door and steps out into the middle of the hallway, astonished to find the mirrors no longer revealing. The mirrors around her and as far as she can see have taken on a dark cast. Murky images dance within their depths, her movements eliciting some reflective qualities, but nowhere near the shining pristine images they had once been. She turns around and looks behind her, watching the same veiling creep into mirrors she had long since passed, clouding them to her sight.
She moves forward with not even herself for company.
The fifth door has the appearance of heaviness. Magnificent scrollwork decorates the outside, somehow inviting and cold all at the same time. Any hesitancy gone now, she opens the door.
Inside the smallest room yet, there stands a table with three chairs and three occupants- herself, the man from the boat in the second room, and another man, one she hasn't seen until now. A teapot sits at the center of the table, and she watches as the other her begins to move, pouring tea for the three of them, all of them laughing and talking amongst themselves in a very wooden way. The other passes prepared teacups to the two men and then sits back to enjoy her own. When the two men toast and then down their cups, they immediately fall face-down on the table. The other lowers her own cup and rises, pulling two daggers from behind her back and slamming each one hilt deep in either man's back. The other then returns to her seat, smiling over the carnage before her as she enjoys the cup she prepared for herself.
She gasps audibly at the scene before her, the other turning and giving a wink in her direction. She quickly rushes from the room, slamming the door shut behind her. She doesn't slow, running down the hallway, past the shrouded mirrors, before stopping before another door. Without preamble, she shoves it open, stepping inside.
Within the room, there stands the physical embodiment of a perfect man, his golden locks shining in the light, obviously the source of the power he emanates around the room. She watches him fondly as he preens to himself proudly, the smile slipping from her lips as the other comes into view. She braces, waiting for a weapon, but instead the other smiles and asks for a dance from the man. He graciously acquiesces and the two of them twirl away gracefully across the floor, their movements becoming more and more intricate as the dance goes on. Suddenly, the other snatches at the Adonis' hair and with a quick movement, sheers all of that golden luster away. He falls away from her, bereft, shorn and shown for what he is to all the world. The other stands over him, holding her prize aloft.
She leaves the room.
Cause I am, I am a little wicked
I am, I am
Hands red, hands red just like he said
I am a little wicked
As I lay me down to sleep
I will not sleep, I will not breathe
If he should die before he wakes
I'll pray the Lord his soul to take
No matter how far she seems to walk, the fog in the mirror follows her. Looking back, she wonders if, perhaps, she had dreamt of the light that had surrounded her in the beginning.
A door appears, this one stark in its simplicity. She runs knuckles over it lightly, feeling the dimpling in the wood before pulling it open.
There is no pretense this time, simply a freezing of two figures-- her with a cane leveraged against an older gentleman's throat. A cruel smile twists the other's face, seeming to draw more pressure against the cane though there had been no movement. She walks slowly around the two figures, watching them intently, when suddenly the other turns her head to look at her once again, mouthing a single word.
Run.
And so she does, for the second time, she runs out of a door and into the hallway, harsh laughter seeming to follow behind her. She runs and runs, sharp pains catching in her side as she continues on, no more doors appearing around her, the darkened mirrors following her, mocking her-- and then suddenly, she notices as they start to lighten. Only a little at first, but it seems progressive, though every now and again a dark one works its way in. She slows, watching the mirrors and the changes in them as she walks on, layers of a veil seeming to be lifted from each one until--
She reaches another door. This one, like none of the others, seems sturdy, well-built. Its wood is dark, but it's a natural darkness. She presses a hand to it and pushes, the door swinging inward.
Inside, she finds the warmth of a fireplace, the other her feeding books into that fireplace, the fire rising and falling with her literary sacrifices. A high-backed chair sits near the fireplace, the seat empty, though below it, attached to one of the sturdy legs is a chain. A cloaked figure sits hunched, lunging for each book as it is fed to flame, the chain preventing him from quite reaching his destination. She watches curiously and moves closer and closer to the other, unable to move away when the other suddenly moves forward-- and into her.
She leaves the room, an excited smile painted across her face. It's then that she hears the clashing and clamor of violence. She turns her head as a path appears before her. Without thinking, she starts to walk down it.
Cause I am, I am a little wicked
I am, yes I am
Hands red, hands red just like he said
I am a little wicked
Hands red, hands red, just like he said
Movement erupts around her, Eden glancing just to each side for a brief instant before training her eyes again on her destination. A heavy throne sits upon a raised dais, a callow youth perched precariously on the throne. A golden crown adorns his head, the crown ill-fitted and obviously too weighty for him as it causes him to stoop and slide within the throne. With each step she takes, the youth grows more and more restless, moving around in the throne, the crown listing to one side of his head and then the other. Their eyes meet and her gaze ensnares his, but only for a moment.
A fist comes crashing in from the left side, narrowly missing her. She turns her head slowly, staring at the bearer of the fist, forcing him back into his place among the teeming masses. Around her, a barrier is suddenly and unconsciously formed. Killian King, Alan Wallace, Jason Ingalls, and Zane Scott face off against each member of the Engine, Jet Somers backing Lucy Wylde into a corner. Eden smiles with satisfaction and continues her journey, aware of the eyes that watch her progression, some eagerly, others warily, still others with curiosity.
She climbs the dais.
I am... a little wicked
No one calls you honey...
Eden stands at the top of the dais for a moment, simply looking down at the would-be king. In one final hurrah, the youth summons what little strength he has, and attempts to right himself in his throne, to assert his kingly dominion over her, though he still refuses to meet her gaze. Eden shakes her head slowly. She raises a hand, the graceful movement a stark contrast to the ruthless violence occurring behind her, and places a single finger beneath the king's chin. She pushes upward, forcing him to raise his chin, the king no longer able to avoid her weighted stare.
And once he is so ensnared by the blue of her gaze, she leans down, closer to him, and small smile growing on her face as his skin turns ashen, realizing his folly. She leans in closer still, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she speaks eight words to him.
When you're sitting on a throne....
No one calls you honey...
The throne room has fallen eerily silent, the callow youth gone, tossed into the heap like so much refuse. In his place sits the Queen, no squirming or awkwardness to be seen. She sits straight and tall upon the throne that has been made for her, that she has been groomed for, the crown resting comfortably atop her dark tresses.
And around her stands her court, each with his own crown won amid the battle that raged on behind her even as she removed the false king from his throne.
Just as she knew she would when she started the journey.
When you're sitting... on a... throne...
Vidas throws the mic off camera, grabs his belt, and walks off set with the belt slung over his shoulder. The camera follows him as he rips open the door and disappears through it.
And seated at the small breakfast nook watching the display on her phone, Eden Morgan holds a cup of tea to her lips, pursing them and blowing softly on the steaming liquid. As the video ends, her startling eyes move away from the phone's screen, staring off into nothing, a soft smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“A little wicked” that's what he calls me
Cause that's what I am, that's what I am
The shackles that had bound her for so long fell away, clattering harmlessly onto the floor beneath her. Slowly, as if expecting things to fall back as they were, she rises to her feet, gazing cautiously down the long hallway before her. The hallway was always there, lined with mirrors, their reflective surfaces only broken by doors scattered at various points on both sides of the long stretch of hall. She takes one step-- and then another-- moving away from the quiet back of the hallway she had been positioned in for so long. She soon comes even with the first door, stopping before it and raising her hand to the smoothly rounded knob. She turns it and pushes inward.
The room was small, darkness eating at the edges of everything except for the center where she sees herself standing triumphantly over a mountain of human bodies, all forms cast in shadow except for her, reaching, reaching, ever reaching--
She backs out of the room and closes the door, her curiosity growing as she continues on. The second door is much like the first in size, only this one bears strange runes etched in a curving arc around it. She traces the symbols with light fingertips before opening the door and stepping through.
Where the first room had been small, this one is a vast, carrying ocean as far as the eye could see. She stands suspended above the water, the doorway floating just above, causing her to gasp and jump back, instantly fearful. She takes a wary step back into the room, frowning as she gazes around, seeing nothing but water-- there, there was something. A boat floating amid the waves, and inside the boat lay a person, a man. All manner of weaponry lay around him, but he was so still, and there in the distance she saw herself again, standing on the one patch of dry land, watching the water take him away.
She closes the door.
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
Beware the patient woman, cause this much I know
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
Dear Mil Vidas,
I would like to preface this by saying outright that I regret what happened at Synergy, but it was a necessity. I accept the blame for it; after all, I'm the reason you're in the predicament you're in. Had I not given up my spot in the Global Challenge to Jason Ingalls, you wouldn't be having the issues or the crisis of faith you seem to be having now. That's regrettable, but somewhat expected. I guess I really should have learned long ago to never send a man to do a woman's job.
I would like to preface this by saying outright that I regret what happened at Synergy, but it was a necessity. I accept the blame for it; after all, I'm the reason you're in the predicament you're in. Had I not given up my spot in the Global Challenge to Jason Ingalls, you wouldn't be having the issues or the crisis of faith you seem to be having now. That's regrettable, but somewhat expected. I guess I really should have learned long ago to never send a man to do a woman's job.
One of these days a-coming, I'm gonna take that boy's crown
There's a serpent in these still waters
Lying deep down
To the king I will bow
At least for now
One of these days a-coming, I'm gonna take that boy's crown
She continues her trek through the hallway, wondering what she might see next and when next a door would appear. She finds herself reflected back many times over in the mirrors around her, but no door appears. She walks faster, more determined, and then suddenly-- a door. No runes surround this one, in fact, it looks remarkably like the first.
She opens the door.
Inside is a small room, much like the first. And also like the first, she finds a cloying darkness with herself at the center of it, atop a shadowy pile of defeated bodies. Unlike the first room, however, she isn't alone. A man stands with her, the two of them seeming to be grasping for the same prize, the sense of urgency and rivalry between them strong.
She closes the door.
She cocks her head to the side, considering what she's seen, a peculiar smile curling her lips. She's so preoccupied with the contents of the other three rooms that she almost misses the fourth door. She stops, turning her head and studying the door, considering passing it for a moment. Her stomach ties into knots and she fills with a sense of dread. This door was black, but not like the normal dark hue that still retains some reflection of itself deep within its center; this was a dull, empty, void that seems to suck the light and life from anything and everything around it. She recoils at the thought of touching that door, yet knew she must. And so touch it, she does.
She opens the door.
She stands in the doorway of an apartment, a kitchen just to the left of her, an island bar visible. Keys lay haphazardly on the island, and she resists the urge to straighten them. A ragged sound of horror and despair greets her ears, and the dread grows within her. She simultaneously wants to run from the room and also peruse it at her leisure in some sort of macabre fantasy. It's this fantasy that propels her forward and draws her attention to the living room, a thin shaft of light illuminating the deformed winged angel displayed so grotesquely before the picturesque floor-to-ceiling windows. He was beyond making any sort of noise. She casts her eyes to the side, finding herself collapsed to the floor, the sounds coming from her, a tall, dark figure moving out from the shadows.
The door slams shut behind her.
Cause I am, I am a little wicked
I am, I am
Hands red, hands red, just like he said
I am a little wicked
You claim that I stabbed you in the back, you call me a snake, waiting for an opportune moment to strike, and I suppose I can see where you might believe that. But consider this- despite your claims to the contrary, we have been acquaintances at best, acquaintances in a field known for deceit amidst the competition. In other words, you really should have listened to everyone around you and seen it coming. Having said that, I did have high hopes for your run as King of this mountain. It was good to see fresh blood injected, and I hoped that your performance at Infinity was indicative of the strength and perseverance we could expect from your reign. It didn't take long for those hopes to turn to ashes for many reasons, the most pressing of which have been your inadequacies and complacencies in a position you've held for a mere few weeks. The way you've behaved has been more like the tired, war-weary, downtrodden, and all-but-beaten Travis Roberts that we saw at the end, affecting what it's like to be a champion. I'm not the only one who has spotted the weakling attempting to stand at the head of our glittering throng.
No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne
I'll be high up in that tower he'll be down there getting stoned
Beware the patient woman
Cause this much I know
No one calls you honey when you're siting on a throne
When she finally emerges from the room, her appearance is more ragged than when she first started, her eyes haunted. She pulls the door to behind herself and leans against it, unable to move away as if it were a sticky tar for the soul, and in some ways it was. When she regains herself, she pushes away from the black door and steps out into the middle of the hallway, astonished to find the mirrors no longer revealing. The mirrors around her and as far as she can see have taken on a dark cast. Murky images dance within their depths, her movements eliciting some reflective qualities, but nowhere near the shining pristine images they had once been. She turns around and looks behind her, watching the same veiling creep into mirrors she had long since passed, clouding them to her sight.
She moves forward with not even herself for company.
The fifth door has the appearance of heaviness. Magnificent scrollwork decorates the outside, somehow inviting and cold all at the same time. Any hesitancy gone now, she opens the door.
Inside the smallest room yet, there stands a table with three chairs and three occupants- herself, the man from the boat in the second room, and another man, one she hasn't seen until now. A teapot sits at the center of the table, and she watches as the other her begins to move, pouring tea for the three of them, all of them laughing and talking amongst themselves in a very wooden way. The other passes prepared teacups to the two men and then sits back to enjoy her own. When the two men toast and then down their cups, they immediately fall face-down on the table. The other lowers her own cup and rises, pulling two daggers from behind her back and slamming each one hilt deep in either man's back. The other then returns to her seat, smiling over the carnage before her as she enjoys the cup she prepared for herself.
She gasps audibly at the scene before her, the other turning and giving a wink in her direction. She quickly rushes from the room, slamming the door shut behind her. She doesn't slow, running down the hallway, past the shrouded mirrors, before stopping before another door. Without preamble, she shoves it open, stepping inside.
Within the room, there stands the physical embodiment of a perfect man, his golden locks shining in the light, obviously the source of the power he emanates around the room. She watches him fondly as he preens to himself proudly, the smile slipping from her lips as the other comes into view. She braces, waiting for a weapon, but instead the other smiles and asks for a dance from the man. He graciously acquiesces and the two of them twirl away gracefully across the floor, their movements becoming more and more intricate as the dance goes on. Suddenly, the other snatches at the Adonis' hair and with a quick movement, sheers all of that golden luster away. He falls away from her, bereft, shorn and shown for what he is to all the world. The other stands over him, holding her prize aloft.
She leaves the room.
Cause I am, I am a little wicked
I am, I am
Hands red, hands red just like he said
I am a little wicked
I saw myself in you, Vidas, or I thought I did. I thought you had the same plucky underdog skill that was evident in myself the moment I arrived. But, what have you done since you won the highest of championship in this company? Granted, it was against Travis Roberts after Alan had destroyed the champion that he was. He was never the same after Horizons, Alan has that victory to his credit, which proves that sometimes titles aren't the only thing on the line. Remember that. But what, exactly, have you done? You've lost two matches, one to myself, and one to a man I beat when he was at his prime. You've given half-hearted interviews, thankfully you haven't returned to a bar, I'm sure we were all expecting that. The one match you managed to win was against your new confidante and adviser, “The Lord of Pain” himself. I do have to question relying on intelligence from the likes of Donovan Hastings, a man who has become relegated to the role of Twitter pest and is best left to the washed-up pile currently occupied by his bestie Travis Roberts. I suppose he neglected to mention that in 2014 when he held the very title you don't seem intent on keeping, the match between the two of us was called due to interference. I never received a rematch. Donovan then lost the title later to Jet, and when he regained it at Sin City, well, we know how that went down. He regained that title for a mere few seconds before I took it from him. He's been salty ever since.
As I lay me down to sleep
I will not sleep, I will not breathe
If he should die before he wakes
I'll pray the Lord his soul to take
No matter how far she seems to walk, the fog in the mirror follows her. Looking back, she wonders if, perhaps, she had dreamt of the light that had surrounded her in the beginning.
A door appears, this one stark in its simplicity. She runs knuckles over it lightly, feeling the dimpling in the wood before pulling it open.
There is no pretense this time, simply a freezing of two figures-- her with a cane leveraged against an older gentleman's throat. A cruel smile twists the other's face, seeming to draw more pressure against the cane though there had been no movement. She walks slowly around the two figures, watching them intently, when suddenly the other turns her head to look at her once again, mouthing a single word.
Run.
And so she does, for the second time, she runs out of a door and into the hallway, harsh laughter seeming to follow behind her. She runs and runs, sharp pains catching in her side as she continues on, no more doors appearing around her, the darkened mirrors following her, mocking her-- and then suddenly, she notices as they start to lighten. Only a little at first, but it seems progressive, though every now and again a dark one works its way in. She slows, watching the mirrors and the changes in them as she walks on, layers of a veil seeming to be lifted from each one until--
She reaches another door. This one, like none of the others, seems sturdy, well-built. Its wood is dark, but it's a natural darkness. She presses a hand to it and pushes, the door swinging inward.
Inside, she finds the warmth of a fireplace, the other her feeding books into that fireplace, the fire rising and falling with her literary sacrifices. A high-backed chair sits near the fireplace, the seat empty, though below it, attached to one of the sturdy legs is a chain. A cloaked figure sits hunched, lunging for each book as it is fed to flame, the chain preventing him from quite reaching his destination. She watches curiously and moves closer and closer to the other, unable to move away when the other suddenly moves forward-- and into her.
She leaves the room, an excited smile painted across her face. It's then that she hears the clashing and clamor of violence. She turns her head as a path appears before her. Without thinking, she starts to walk down it.
Cause I am, I am a little wicked
I am, yes I am
Hands red, hands red just like he said
I am a little wicked
As to his claims that I've saved my purse money just for you, please don't feel so special. I cashed in on Alan Wallace at Sin City 2015. I also paid Ichabod, Quentin Barnes, and Killian King's entrance fees into the High Rollers match in a sadistic bet with myself to see if I could orchestrate my own downfall. I had to do it myself because no one else could. I also bought the Through the Looking Glass match against Phrixus Deimos at Horizons last year. So no, I haven't horded my purse, I've spent more freely than over half of the roster, and still my funds continue to grow, because I win matches, and I am. That. Damned. Good. Can you say the same? Don't hesitate now. The clock's ticking.
Hands red, hands red, just like he said
Movement erupts around her, Eden glancing just to each side for a brief instant before training her eyes again on her destination. A heavy throne sits upon a raised dais, a callow youth perched precariously on the throne. A golden crown adorns his head, the crown ill-fitted and obviously too weighty for him as it causes him to stoop and slide within the throne. With each step she takes, the youth grows more and more restless, moving around in the throne, the crown listing to one side of his head and then the other. Their eyes meet and her gaze ensnares his, but only for a moment.
A fist comes crashing in from the left side, narrowly missing her. She turns her head slowly, staring at the bearer of the fist, forcing him back into his place among the teeming masses. Around her, a barrier is suddenly and unconsciously formed. Killian King, Alan Wallace, Jason Ingalls, and Zane Scott face off against each member of the Engine, Jet Somers backing Lucy Wylde into a corner. Eden smiles with satisfaction and continues her journey, aware of the eyes that watch her progression, some eagerly, others warily, still others with curiosity.
She climbs the dais.
I am... a little wicked
I'm afraid you've ascribed far more importance to yourself than you really deserve, Vidas. Because you are, in more ways than one, a pawn in a game that you're too simple to understand the rules of, let alone make a play in. We've already ascertained that the only reason you hold what you do is because I gave my Global Challenge slot to Jase. In the words of Alan Wallace, you're fucking welcome. But it's become increasingly evident to me that there's a bigger story at play, an extra cog in the wheel. Despite your feeble attempts to prove otherwise, and despite your no doubt heartfelt objections, you continue to be the pawn of the Engine of Chaos. What titles they don't hold in this company, their pawns do. You and Lucy Wylde. Unfortunately, the Engine of Chaos seems to have overplayed their hand, because while enough well-placed pawns can bring down a kingdom, there is always a final say. The Queen will have that.
No one calls you honey...
Eden stands at the top of the dais for a moment, simply looking down at the would-be king. In one final hurrah, the youth summons what little strength he has, and attempts to right himself in his throne, to assert his kingly dominion over her, though he still refuses to meet her gaze. Eden shakes her head slowly. She raises a hand, the graceful movement a stark contrast to the ruthless violence occurring behind her, and places a single finger beneath the king's chin. She pushes upward, forcing him to raise his chin, the king no longer able to avoid her weighted stare.
And once he is so ensnared by the blue of her gaze, she leans down, closer to him, and small smile growing on her face as his skin turns ashen, realizing his folly. She leans in closer still, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she speaks eight words to him.
When you're sitting on a throne....
What you don't see is that Rise or Fall will not only relegate you back to the mid-card where you've proven you belong, it will also see Lucy Wylde fold to Jet Somers; The Engine will fall to Sex and Violence as well as Zane Scott, maybe even, dare I say it, Jason Ingalls. In one fell swoop, they will lose the war they've been so intent on waging. Why do you think they want you in the position that you're in? Why do you think they attacked Travis Roberts, they attacked and threatened Alan Wallace, and they've attacked and threatened me, but not you? They reveal easily what they're afraid of. Deep down, you know it's true, you know you're their pawn, their weak, pathetic pawn who they claim to want in power because he isn't the “established order” when the truth is, it's because of that very weakness they want you where you are. You're safekeeping for them, just as Lucy Wylde is. That changes at Rise or Fall. We've allowed them to play and manipulate long enough.
No one calls you honey...
The throne room has fallen eerily silent, the callow youth gone, tossed into the heap like so much refuse. In his place sits the Queen, no squirming or awkwardness to be seen. She sits straight and tall upon the throne that has been made for her, that she has been groomed for, the crown resting comfortably atop her dark tresses.
And around her stands her court, each with his own crown won amid the battle that raged on behind her even as she removed the false king from his throne.
Just as she knew she would when she started the journey.
When you're sitting... on a... throne...
And you thought this was just a game.
Sincerely,
Eden Morgan
Sincerely,
Eden Morgan
2013, '18, '23 
2013 
