Post by cooltubesource on Nov 5, 2018 12:39:17 GMT -5
Presenting the Lacklan Saga Story of:
Ascension, Part IV
Worth Fighting For
~~January 13th, 2017~~
A cold January day in Bangor means the Lacklan Mistral blowing through the town, forcing those coats tighter against its sting, forcing the masses to huddle wherever they may for warmth and comfort. But that powerful wind loses much as it crosses the border into Lacklanland; indeed, the fear and suspicion borne of its howl turns to feelings of acceptance and love the closer it gets to the compound, the further into the madness it flies.
Amanda Williams was generally happy with her job working in the Garden. It was not just any garden, after all: That capital letter meant all the difference. This was not a place of merely pretty flowers but instead a collection of the world's most exotic and rare plants, an impossible dream for any botanist. Amanda was no botanist, of course, just a denizen of the village outside the compound. It wasn't her job to tend the plants, oh no, just till the ground. Spade goes in, dirt comes up, fresh plots for new plants.
It was not a glamorous life, of course, but she was happy enough. Her parents were followers of Lord Lacklan, had been for many years, were even some of the first to flock to him. She was little when they moved here, barely old enough to remember the drive, and had lived in the village nearly her whole life. They both worked with their hands, her dad a miller and her mom a gardener, and while she never really felt the reverence for Lord Lacklan that they did, her job was to support them, to love them. So she made the best of it.
Spade goes in, dirt comes up, fresh till for fresh bulbs. Day after day, year after year, no change.
Loud footsteps, many of them, make her look up from her work. A wall of black was making its way through the garden. Two lines of men and women, each wearing the matching black of the Lacklanland National Guard, slowly and efficiently marching down the path. The garden was full of brightly colored plants, full of purples and oranges, reds and greens, each more and more painful to the eye in contrast with those lines of black. Closer they come. Amanda stands up, as is customary for the Guard, but then takes in a sharp breath as she spies an explosion of red in the center of the black.
The Blood Princess was with them.
Amanda stood straighter as she saw the small woman in black and red. The Blood Princess had an air about her, something not quite tangible, that always made Amanda realize that she was not quite pretty enough, not quite smart enough, not quite witty enough. She had never spoken to the Blood Princess, of course, but she had heard her speak plenty of times from the tower at the end of Selena's Square. The Blood Princess' sermons were mandatory, of course, and public lashings were the punishment for any who would not attend, but there wasn't a man, woman, or child within the borders of Lacklanland who would even think of missing one of the sermons. Still, even from a distance, the grace of the Blood Princess made Amanda all too aware of her own clumsiness: The way she seemingly glided across the ground made her own gait feel heavy, the way her hand gestures and movements were so measured showed her just how clumsy and lumbering her own movements were.
Amanda bowed her head, of course, as the retinue moved passed her station, but she could not help but steal a glance. The Blood Princess wore one of her long gowns, red and black as per the usual, this particular one with a very long collar that rose up nearly to the top of her hair. That hair, pale silk that made her own dark feel like straw, was pulled up and back in an elaborate updo, bits of what was most likely diamonds placed within. Her skin was as pale as ever, her dark eye makeup pressed into pointed wings, her lips as red as firedrops.
The small girl suddenly raises an arm, gloved hand in a fist, and Amanda drops her eyes immediately, fear spiking throughout her body. Did she see her looking at her? Oh Light, no! Please do not let the Blood Princess have seen her. Please do not-
"What is your name, peasant girl?"
Ice fills Amanda's veins, her bowels nearly turning to water, as that voice fills her ears. That voice is as perfect as the rest of her, a voice which makes Amanda realize that her own is low and full of gravel. The Blood Princess' pure and perfect clarity make Amanda feel like she must gargle rocks daily. Sharp rocks.
She does not want to look up. Maybe she will be left alone? Maybe if she just kept her face down, her eyes down, she will-
The swishing of skirts, moving closer, is met by two small black boots stepping in front of her. The boots are slender, no doubt housing perfectly pedicured feet, and shine at points, but there are spots of dirt from the garden on them. Amanda tries hard not to raise her eyes, tries hard to pretend that everything will just go back to how it was two minutes ago, but that voice fills her ears again.
"'Tis no worry, peasant girl. You may look up."
The voice is sweet...but there is a menace hidden there, deep, and Amanda can hear it. She can feel it in her bones. But she must comply. So her eyes raise up. Above the dirty boots to massive skirts, black underneath translucent red. A small waist wrapped in the bodice of the outfit. Pert breasts pushed together, showing far more cleavage than the Blood Princess ever used to show, that red vial tucked between her breasts. Up the swan's neck, passed the lips of firedrops and high cheekbones. To her eyes.
Oh, Light! Her eyes!
No normal person had those eyes. Stories said that her eyes glowed fully red, like a cat's eyes catching the moon's light and glowing like a lighthouse. But up close, like all legends, this was not the case: They were normal, pools of white, black pupils. But the irises...oh, the irises! Red as her lips, red as the vial, red as blood. The stories...they were true.
"Do not be frightened, dearie."
Those firedrop lips curl into a smile. It was probably supposed to be a sweet smile, a comforting smile meant to put her at ease, but Amanda felt nothing of the sort. Small spots of white slipped out of the Blood Princess' lips as she smiled. Pointed spots of white. Tips of fangs. Oh no. The stories...they were true.
"What is your name?"
Amanda licks her lips and swallows a dry lump, her throat suddenly dry.
"A-Amanda," she says, barely croaking it out. The Blood Princess' eyes narrow a bit, her head turning to the side a bit.
"Pardon?"
The gardener swallows again, trying to find her voice.
"Amanda, my Lady."
The Blood Princess' lips turn into a full smirk, her eyes alight with sudden mirth.
"Amanda? Truly? Sweet Mother Mary...how beautiful."
The Blood Princess turns her head to look around at the garden.
"You tend these plants, Amanda? You are a gardener here?"
Amanda nods, wishing nothing more than to hide in some corner.
"They are very pretty. You must be quite skilled at your trade."
Amanda's heart skips a beat. She was being complimented? She was not to be punished for looking at the Blood Princess when not allowed? What a change of fortune! Light!
"Yes, my Lady," she says excitedly, her head bobbing. "I am a second generation gardener. My mother-"
"Then you must be equally skilled at cleaning dirt off things."
Amanda's face falls as her voice falters. She could smell trouble again. The words...the tone...were dangerous. The face of the Blood Princess did not seem nice anymore.
"Well, I-"
"My boots. They are dirty. Dirty from your garden. Clean them."
Amanda froze.
"My Lady, I-"
"Clean. Them."
The little woman's voice was ice, her face frozen rage. Amanda trembled as she dropped to her knees, her hand reaching into her pocket and pulling out a cloth. Just clean the boots and she would let her go. Make them shine again and-
"Not with that, peasant girl."
Amanda's face scrunches in confusion.
"But, then what-"
Her words are cut off as the Blood Princess leans forward and in, the red vial sliding free from its place between her breasts and swinging in front of Amanda. The Blood Princess' face is that of a stern executioner; no love, no warmth.
"With your tongue."
Amanda was in shock. But as the Blood Princess straightened, she realized that this was no jest. There was only one thing she could do. Leaning in lower, closing her eyes and swallowing her pride, the gardener licked the Blood Princess' boots clean. She made sure she got every speck of dirt, every grain. She had no choice but to swallow the dirt as she finished, knew there was no other path, the grains sliding down her throat and joining her pride.
After she was finished, she kept her eyes down, fearful of further punishment or embarrassment. She saw those boots, now shining brightly with her own saliva and free of any dirt, turn in obvious inspection.
"Acceptable."
The boots turn away from her, the swishing of skirts moving away.
"Bruce? Give the peasant girl thirty lashes for daring to look at me without permission. Immediately."
Strong hands pull her to her feet. Her eyes glaze over, seeing nothing but a blur, as those hands pull her shirt down, turn her around. Screams rip from her as leather is whipped against her bare back. In the distance, she can see the two lines of black with the spot of red that is the Blood Princess head towards the Manor.
The Blood Princess did not even bother to see her beating take place.
* * * * * * * * * *
Do you have something worth fighting for, Judas? Do you have something special, something pure, worth your whole heart? I get the feeling that you do not. I get the feeling that you are the kind of person who is going to SAY a whole bunch of stuff, that proverbial shit talk, but balk at actually getting anything done. I get the feeling that you are the kind of person who SAYS that he is going to win titles and put people in their places but when faced with true competition, and not just some dipshit named Kessler, you will stand in stupified silence before falling to the ground, clutching your pearls, and be pinned by anyone with true ability or ardor.
I have heard you speak of revolutions before, Judas. I have heard you speak of rebirth, of domination.
Heard you speak.
But as for seeing?
::giggle::
All I SEE is the pathetic flailing of an addled child. All I SEE is some feckless loser going on twitter and being all ERMAHGERD IMMA MAKE A PIC OF DA COUNT SESAME STREETS IS AMAZEBALLZ
Good fuck, Mister Hardy. This?!
.......................
Here is reality, Judas: You are not shit to me. That whole thing I said last time about your victories not being shit? Still applies. I get that you beat up Weaver. I get that you've got titles shots. But that does not mean you are worth a damn. It does not mean you are anything worthy of note in this business. After our match all your name is going to be is just part of the beginning of my legacy, part of the true rebirth of this business.
I was born to change everything, dearie. Born to burn this business to the fuckin' ground and sweep away the ashes. Guys like you, glorified jobbers to the stars, are going to get turned to ash without hope of salvation or a path to the Promised Land. There is no rebirth for you, no redemption, no chance of getting up and out of the muck and mire in which you dwell. Nothing but the Abyss for you.
See, even with only one match to my career I am STILL way above your level. I am the daughter of a world champion, nursed on this business like a babe brought to suck. I am the one kicking the ever-loving shit out of anyone standing in front of me. I am the one that is the true future of this business, the one who everyone wonders what they have to do or who to fuck in order to get me on their roster. I am the making an entire company in Dallas lose their shit because I showed my admittedly beautiful face on screen for 20 seconds while I dropped some little bitch on their head. I am the one the whole fuckin' internet is talking about.
You? You are barely above John Blade's level.
Yes, I said it! John fuckin' Blade!
See, I am not going to be taken down by someone who spends, like, 15 minutes throwing out platitudes and cliches in order to pad their interview time. ALPHA AND OMEGA BEGINNING AND END FIRST AND LAST. Good fuck, dearie, complete and utter lack of originality and creativity is not going to get shit done. I (COMPLETELY ACCURATELY) busted the Biscuit-Hater for looking and sounding like every other goddamn pretty face with no personality and skill that trolls twitter, but the same FUCKING THING can be said about you. You look like Justin Beiber before he put on the muscle, like a scrawny lesbian. Not even a butch, man. The goddamn skirt.
You look like so many Grimes rip-offs that I'm shocked Ashleigh hasn't fucked you yet. But, like my buddy Ally I mentioned last week, you aren't shit compared to them. Just a little bitch-boy trolling the internet and driving a car around like a scrub.
So while you spend your time looking and sounding like so many other of the feckless losers in this business, while you continue to fulfill the prophesy of this business NEEDING to be burnt to the fucking ground, I will continue to be me: Unique, unadulterated, unstoppable. NO ONE looks like me. NO ONE sounds like me. NO ONE is anything like me.
Though I suppose, in a way, I can be thankful for how overwhelmingly average you are. For you see, the forest would be awfully quiet if only the best birds sang. Those best and brightest, those sopranos of true renown, need both the average and pitiful to surround them so as to show the world how great they truly are. With you next to me, with someone as abhorrently bland and generic as you, I shine that much brighter, fly that much higher. Next to your scrawny ass of straight-up boring, my plumage is that much more resplendent.
Here is what is going to happen on Sunday: I will give you your 30 pieces of silver, Judas. I will pat you on your head, send you on your way. And when you turn away, full of glee at getting a pretty from a pretty, I will grab you by the back of your scrawny neck and drive you down straight into the Abyss.
No hope. No salvation. Just three seconds of the ref's hand hitting the mat. Another victory for the Blood Princess, another name to be forgotten added to the list of people I fucked up.
So much for your rebirth.
* * * * * * * * * *
~~January 17th, 2017~~
Lithe fingers, nails black with red and yellow flames, press down on black and white keys, perfectly tuned notes coming from the piano. They keys were real ivory, of course, made from the tusks of endangered African bull elephants. No silly synthetic ivory for the Lacklans, no sir! The fingers press down in a balanced combination of gentle yet firm, Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" filling the air. It was a simple enough piece, even for a beginner, but like all things of heavy importance, it took time in the saddle to truly play it correctly.
Four triplets. G-C-E, G-C-E, G-C-E, G-C-E.
The figure repeats, though with a change in the underlining chord, adding depth and darkness early in the piece. But it is not until those fingers bring their precious balance of gentle yet firm down on the higher octave, three G's, that everyone truly understood what this song was about. Three G's. Dotted eighth, sixteenth, dotted half.
G...G-G....
Sarah Selena Lacklan's fingers move along that piano, losing herself in the music, as the two men sit together, speaking softly over twin glasses of Skeeter's moonshine.
Dinner with Monk was...not quite what she had expected. It was necessary, but still not quite what she wanted. She could still hear her father's voice speaking to her earlier in the week, sitting her down to speak on the subject of importance.
"It...it is not...enough...to fight, Daughter. It is not...enough...to fight for the...sake...of fighting. You must...fight for more. You...must fight...for that which is...important. Fight...for what is worth...fighting for. I...I fought for God. And I fought...for your mother. And this year...I fought...I fought for Nikita. She...she would not have me...but still...it was a...worthy fight. All of you...you, Selena, Nikita...God...all worth fighting for. Fight...fight for something...worthy of your...rage...Daughter."
It was more words in one sitting than he had spoken in weeks. And it had taken a lot out of him; indeed, he had to sit and rest for an hour after such exertion. The cancer...she appreciated his sacrifice, appreciated the importance of his words.
What was worth fighting for? She was born for this fight, born to take up her father's sword and mantle, born to set the world on fire. Born to fight for God. Wasn't that a worthy enough fight? But her father's words come back to her, day after day, all week. He had fought for God, had been His Voice for 20 years, yet he still fought for her mother, and later her sensei Nikita. He...well...she supposed he fought for love.
Was love worth fighting for?
Fingers move along the keys, right hand moving closer to the edge, the eighth notes ascending as the song headed towards its depression conclusion. She had no place for love, no time for it. She had a mission to complete, a prophesy to fulfill, a world to burn. No distractions, no waylays. Yet here she was, spending her time playing the piano while her father spent some time with Monk.
Her father's words chased her all week, made her look in the mirror, made her fight herself. It is not enough to fight for the sake of fighting.
She knew she must make amends with Monk. Their breakup...it was her fault, wholly. She could try to justify it, say that her mind was elsewhere, on other things. Her father's retirement, the need to make sure he was comfortable, surely these things were the reason she could not think clearly, yes? But that was just an attempt to justify her mistake. She put Monk second, maybe even third, and hurt him. He did not deserve that, but there it was. He was right to fight her, right to question her.
Her father's words followed her all week. His words...and something from a musical he loved, a musical taken from a book.
"To love another person is to see the face of God."
If she was to fight for God...would love also be worth fighting for? Was it the same thing?
And then...of all things...a package found it's way on her doorstep. No one saw anyone come. No guards, no servants, no one. Not even the cameras saw her dropped it off. It was just there. Upon opening it, she found a handful of cake pops, her favorite treat, and a hand-written letter.
To my Vampires Goddess
Hello Sorry, I know we celebrated your debut win a few days ago, but this is for you. A thank you for letting me share that moment with you to begin with. I’m busy at the moment so I had Ninja bring the package over. It’s not much but sometimes it’s the small things that make the biggest impact right? Anyways enjoy.
Blasted Monk
Sweet Mother Mary...was he TRYING to make her fall in love?!
So she asked him to dinner. To apologize. To talk. No servants...no Chez Jean-Paul and their world-renowned Cajun cuisine. But food with her own hands. Cooking was rare for her, as any menial task was, but even more so after her...well...change. But she had enjoyed it. Flour under her fingernails and down her apron, a knife in her hand slicing through greens. Not something she could ever see herself doing on a regular basis, but he was worth fighting for. She would not fade away into the night.
He was stiff the moment he arrived. Oh, he was handsome, of course. Hair in place, lean face chiseled, tailored suit perfectly pressed. But that stiffness persisted. No hug...no kiss...just a small bow. Oh, her father received a bow and a firm handshake, a warmth of respect from old and young warrior alike. But for her? Just a bit of a smirk. Seems like he was going to put up a fight.
Over the evening, Monk had made it clear, in those moments of intimacy they found, that she caused trouble. She was...rambunctious, she knew that. She had a tendency to speak her mind without thinking, flirt with anything pretty without considering the ramifications, act without worrying about consequences. After all, she had lived a life as royalty, a princess, and never needed to worry about rules or restrictions. But she had said things...done things...that set off a bomb within The Elders, within Monk's family.
She had to make amends. It would not be easy. She would have to swallow her considerable pride and apologize to the offended parties. But she would. Because she had to fight for what was worth fighting for.
Her fingers get to the end of the song. The song...well...it was so much akin to her father's life. It seemed to end a few times, but never quite got there. Slow...painful...until the final note. Beethoven was not messing around when he wrote it. Her father stands, slowly, and bids them both good night, to sleep well. Her entire life, he sent her to bed with a "sleep well." She would miss that.
Her and Monk alone. Silent accept for the crackle of the fireplace, lit to fight off the cold of a Lacklanland night. No snow tonight, but cold nonetheless.
"I am sorry, baby."
Her voice nearly cracks, the tone watery, wavy. Her eye shine bright in the darkness, eyes wanting to water with red. She licks suddenly dry lips as she looks down at her hands.
"I should not have lashed out at you the way I did last month. I...I was not thinking clearly. I am sorry I pushed you away. I am sorry I pushed US away."
Silence from the Shaolin Monk, but not one to which she was unaccustomed. He was often quite, pensive. Oh, he chatted people up easy online, even purposefully making friendships with people she did not like just to annoy her, but he was slow to speak in person. He was careful with his words. Unlike her.
Her red eyes turn up to look at him, take in his face. Sharp angles in his chin and cheeks. Dark, almond-shaped eyes, jet black hair. So different from her. Yet he accepted her, accepted everything she was. He "got" her in a way no one else had.
"I will fight for you. I will fight for US. If you want me to."
She slides closer to him on the couch, her hand on his leg, eyes looking up into his.
"Do you want me to? Do you want me to fight for US?"
Blasted Monk smirks.
"Sure."
Sarah's face falls...but then she rolls her eyes and gives her own smirk.
"Punk ass."
She turns to press her back against the couch. He takes her hand in his. They sit in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire.
It would be enough.
It was worth fighting for.
* * * * * * * * * *
My mind just keeps going back to you talking about revolution when you were going to fight Weaver. Like, you said that word so many times in your breakdown of its stages that you sounded akin to Vizzini: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
Revolution...damnit...is about violent change. It is not about some soft tat-boy with a fancy car. It is not about the pursuit of money. It is not about winning some hunk of metal from a company no one gives a shit about to wear around your waist. Revolution is about hurting people. It is about forcing them to change their ways. It is about standing up for what is right, dropping any dumb bitch who thinks otherwise, and putting your boot on their fuckin' throat.
Revolution takes bravery, dearie. And you do not have that. You do not have the guts to do what you must, to hurt everyone around you, to run out of fucks before you even begin, to crush everything and everyone in your path. You are *far* too much of a pretty-boy for that. You know, that whole you're a totes Gavin/Beiber Hybrid Fucktard. You are too busy thinking you are kicking in the door of opportunity by making your mark little by little. Oh, I am sure you have been in a hardcore match or twelve, made people bleed a smidgen, maybe had a few thumbtacks sticking out of you. But all of your past accomplishments, as I have mentioned before, do not mean jack shit to anyone outside of yourself.
I do not care if you think you have the balls to lead a revolution...because I know that you do not. And I do not have time to hold your hand and show you the ways of true change. I do not have time to show you how to stand up straight, tuck in your shirt, wear your hat in the direction IT IS FUCKING SUPPOSED TO GO IN, or wipe your ass. I do not have time to be the mommy you never had.
I am too busy leading the revolution myself.
This world is sick, dearie. Idolization of false gods, reverence for shallow heroes, obsession over the latest toy, all while forsaking the Word and biting a thumb at His eye. But that shit ends now that I am come. The world had a chance to be cured, to be saved, when my father took up God's mission. He saved what he could, brought the Light to the furthest reaches of the darkness, but pieces of filth such as yourself always fled from the Light and cowered in the corners.
There is no more hiding, dearie. There is no more cowering. No more adulation for those lies which have fueled this world for thousands of years. NO MORE. Because now I am here to set it all on fire, raze it to the hot-damn ground, and rebuild in my image.
That is MY job, Judas. Not yours. It is the job of excellence, of genetic superiority, of Manifest Destiny. These are the gifts bestowed upon me, not you. *I* will lead the revolution. *I* will destroy any and all who resist. *I* am the match. And as Hugo told us, the colors of revolution are black and red, which just so happen to be my motif. I am the Blood Princess, the Princess of Pain, who shall soon ascend to the Red Queen. You? Nothing but the dust of life.
Last week I kicked that multi-color candy jackass so hard that he is still not sure what day today is. I made that two dimensional wildman squeal like a raped hog and tap his filthy fingers. I carried that boring, replaceable, interchangeable Biscuit-Hater to the only win she is going to have in this company. But you? You...you...are going straight to the Abyss.
It is cold there, you know. No warmth, no Light, no path out. No salvation, no safety. Just isolation, desolation. And I am going to drive your head into the mat so hard and fast that you will not even be aware enough to offer a prayer to anyone who will listen.
People like you think that this business is just a means to an end. Win matches, make money, buy stuff. And that is where you fail and will fall. This business is life, dearie, a microcosm for everything God wanted from Adam: Honesty, hard work, excellence. But people like you are like flees caught up in Eve's cloak of lambskin as she is cast down from Eden; along for the ride, naught but a dirty pest ruining the beauty of God's sacrifices and gifts.
Bring every weapon you have, dearie. Bring every joke that falls flat. Every winsome adventure that has absolutely nothing to do about anything anyone cares about. Every half-formed insult you probably overheard from a 10-year-old on a playground. Every reference to a video game that was shitty from even before I was born. You will need every single one of them to even be at the level of the servant who licks my boots. And I promise to give you plenty of opportunity to audition for the role of that servant as I drive my foot into your face again...and again...and again until you are nothing but a bubbling mass of red, lifesblood pooling upon the mat, and only then will I send you to the Abyss.
Sweet Mother Mary....it will be beautiful.
I have something worth fighting for, dearie. The sickness that infects this world...it needs to be burned away. My ends will just justify my means. God will smile down on me.
But your revolution? Over.
Your rebirth? Denied.
Mind the flames.
Sarah Selena Lacklan
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