Post by LACKLAN on Nov 24, 2018 23:02:37 GMT -5
Hello, Dear Children
This is a time within this odd little county of the United States were we find thanks for things. We thank one another for our blessings as we break bread together. We thank our fortunes. We, in the hopes of this Queen, thank our Creator. We find thanks where it is due, and perhaps offer up a prayer for those who have lost their way. My husband, Il est ressuscité, would often toast to absent friends, and thus to remind those in attendance to keep their thoughts on those who mattered but were not present, and I find myself thinking of his words at this time. Because I find thanks in both those around me and those who are scattered to the winds. And while I normally would have little thanks for our Creative Director, as Monsieur Hastings’ insistence on a romantic relationship earlier in the year was both tiresome and bothersome, he, or perhaps his hat, have given me something to be thankful for on Monday.
Roxy Cotton and I have had surprisingly little contact during our times in this company, at least as far as within the ring. We see much of one another outside of the ring, of course, what with her association with my daughters and our part on the silly football team, but what matters most is, as always, what happens in that ring. Monday will be an opportunity for both of us to change how the wrestling world views us, and I am ever thankful of that.
Last week, I triumphed in the match involving Cotton, but she was not involved in the actual outcome, which is dissatisfying. While it DID feel wonderful to stomp into the not exactly natural woman’s back again and again, it was the debuting Salvatore whole felt the embrace of God, and as I was dismissal of her in the first place, it was not a win of great renown. Thus, I am thankful for this opportunity to fully take back the indignity of what seemed to be twenty-seven Muff Divers back in September. I am thankful for the opportunity to pin the woman’s shoulders to the mat and remind her that, no matter how many children slap her back in support or groan in sinful pleasure at her cam show, she is not at the level of the Queen of Red. Also, this will, again, be a reminder that being the “forever champion” in Ladies All Star means nothing to the living, breathing, fighting, defending Champion of Chaos.
Though if I were her, I would also find thanks in the Creative Director’s hat. This week gives Cotton on opportunity to show the world that a certain misstep of hers was not the defining moment of her career, though it certainly is an important milestone: Her loss to Dynamo on Chill. The entire trajectory of her career in UGWC was thrown asunder by that tables match. Before being sent through the wood with that powerslam, Cotton was battling the Court alongside her best friend in the entire world, Milisandre Crowthorne, as well as the Vaughn girl. She even won Cooperative championship gold with the latter! But being defeated by Dynamo sent her into a whirlwind of listlessness that has left her in countless useless matches, being used by a dead and forgotten “monster,” and receiving the home game version of “That’s My Pierce!” for all of her troubles.
All because she lost to Dynamo at Chill.
Partners or not, this is an opportunity for Cotton to outshine the supposed star. This is her opportunity to show Dynamo that she is worthy of her respect and notice, because as has been clearly made by this point, she has little of it. She should be thankful for this opportunity to find herself in the good graces of the number one contender. She should be thankful of this opportunity to show the Consortium that she deserves at least some spotlight at Horizons. She should be thankful for this opportunity to be more than a sideshow attraction to be brought out whenever the male demographic from the ages of eighteen to thirty-five needs to be swelled with a Foxy Boxing catfight. She should be thankful for this opportunity to not only lose to me again, not only provide Dynamo with another failure on her record, but also to help prop up Salvatore and give her that first win she desperately needs.
And I am thankful for the opportunity to make it all happen.
Dynamo herself will find herself thankful to once again have an opportunity to see what true brilliance looks like, and how she will never, no matter how Horizons goes, be on par with the Champion of Chaos.
Five times we have faced one another in a UGWC ring, and each time is a stark reminder to Dynamo of just how less she is. When she sees my platinum hair, she realizes that hers is like dark straw. When she sees my fair face, she realizes how plain, perhaps even dumpy, hers is. When she sees me move, when she sees me fight, she realizes just how slow she is, how her joints suffer from their arduous task. And while many here would likely make a joke about how DeVille’s boast of eating three whole turkeys for Thanksgiving would be the play of a child for Dynamo, my point here is that, regardless of her health and size, seeing me in action reminds her of just how unathletic she is.
“But I won Battleground!” she will cry! And yes, she did! Yes, she triumphed in that odd little match! But she did not defeat me.
“But I pinned Eden in May!” she will retort! And yes, she did! She defeated Morgan in a match that the woman barely tried in. But she did not defeat me.
And thus is the great thanks she has to give this week to the Creative Director’s hat: The opportunity to look in the mirror and see someone who has not been able to do anything substantive to the Champion of Chaos.
Oh! How that loss in May must feel!
Oh! To have all of the hopes and dreams of the world crushed by the reality of God’s plan!
Oh! To have your lies pushed into the Light of Truth and see them wither away into nothing!
Several times now, Dynamo has presented the narrative of being some kind of hero. She was the hero who was going to defeat the evil Blood Princess. She was going to be the leader of a new generation who dance to a different beat. She was going to shine through the dark. And now she is to be the person who rose from nothing, from the very bottom of the ladder, and ascend to the top at Horizons.
I am thankful for this opportunity to destroy yet another of your lies, Dynamo.
I have this ability to get under your skin, to make you...how do the children put it...shook? Yes, shook. The way you reacted when I destroyed the lie of you being handed nothing in your career was glorious. The way your voice quivered. The way you hand shook. The way your eyes gleamed with tears about to fall. All because my words stripped away your veil of lies and left the plain girl for all to see. How many times have you nearly left this company because of your lies amounting to nothing? Did you almost leave after I pinned you in May? Likely. Did you almost leave after Lucy crushed you at WrestleStock? Likely. After being decimated and sent into dreamland by the Blood Princess? Likely. Will we see you next year after what might well be a crushing loss at Horizons? Doubtful. And here is why:
Your claim of starting from the very bottom of the ladder in UGWC is a lie. Let us discount your debut on Chill, yes? Let us strip that away, since what happens on Chill has no bearing on Synergy. Let us then think of your match against Mizore as your official return, yes? Your first match in UGWC since WrestleStock nearly two years before, was it? At least the last of consequence. And if, as you say, you were starting at the bottom of the ladder, this would mean an opening match, I assume? Perhaps even before the cameras began and the audience was half full? Certainly that would be the bottom of the ladder.
Except that was reserved for Wallace and Scott to crush two fleas in what ended as a squash. Your match was…
A number one contender match for my title.
Your very first match on Synergy was a number one contender match for the most important title in this industry.
Odd view from the bottom of that ladder, I would say.
You are a lie, Dynamo. You promote yourself in the best light as possible, and whenever someone does not agree with this vision of yourself, you either cut them out of your life or run away from their dissenting words. The truth is something which scares you, which makes you weep, which makes you hide in a corner. Time and again you have found yourself burned out by the truth’s light in this company, and this will happen again on Monday. Because no matter what happens at Horizons, whether it be the embarrassing squash most are predicting or an upset of gigantic proportions, the reality is that every person in the business will be focused on me and the destruction I cause as I defend the Chaos Championship. Why, I would not be shocked if half the audience was gone by the time your match came around! Because the idea of you defeating Vain is not just a silly thing, but as big of a falsehood as your claims of being handed nothing, starting at the bottom of the ladder, or being even half as inspirational as you claim to be.
I want you to be thankful for this opportunity, Dynamo. Be thankful for another chance to see, in the flesh, everything that is great, just, and right. The opportunity to make the Consortium look at Cotton in a better light by being able to compare her to your commonplace appearance and skill. And the opportunity to see your better, your superior, do yet another thing that seemingly no one can do:
When we last met, I used you to bring Raab to the Winner’s Circle. And now I will do the same with Salvatore.
She will thank me later.
~~Thursday, November 22nd, 2018~~
Aveline Lacklan sits.
The Queen of Red rests at the end of a long table with a dour expression on her fair face. She is dressed even more extravagantly than we are accustomed, with her platinum hair pulled up into a high hive, the entire length wrapped in green jewels; a gown of pale yellow with a neck high up to her chin, the long sleeves slashed with purple; long earrings falling from her lobes and to her shoulder, emeralds the size of thumbnails picking up candle light in their cleavage. But as regal as she looks, there is a sadness in her green eyes, a sadness which seems to pull the color from her face and make her seem the “Bordy” of old, the woman who danced with a stuffed chicken and narrowly dodged the amorous attention of the Creative Director.
“...pourquoi ne m'aiment-ils pas…?”
Ava rocks slightly in her seat as the words slip from her mouth with a painful croak. Her eyes move back and forth between the items on the table, begging for our attention. We give it and take in a colorful array of foodstuffs all along the table’s length. Centered by a massive golden brown turkey, the table was filled with side dishes numbering in the dozens, including several types of potato, roasted vegetables, salads, New England’s famed creamed onion, and pumpkin and blueberry pies, the latter which were painstakingly cultivated from the compound’s own Legacy bushes. Several sets of china sat along the table, each plate from Lenox edged in gold and from their Westchester line, along with a purple cloth emblazoned with the symbol of the Path of the Light Church, a cross within a sunburst. Each set sat before a chair.
Each chair was empty.
“...pourquoi ne m'aiment-ils pas…?”
No one came to visit her on Thanksgiving. Not her step-daughter, Sarah, nor her daughter-in-law Kenzi. Not the second daughter of her late husband, Angie. Not their friend Roxy and that handsome man she was engaged to. Not Eden and Baal. Not even her Grand Vizier, Sidney, was there that day.
No one.
“...pourquoi ne m'aiment-ils pas…?”
She didn’t understand. Sarah had come to her and brokered a deal. They could come home for holidays and Sarah would work on getting Kenzi to understand what it meant to be a Lacklan, perhaps begin to sway her toward the Path. They were there at Halloween, and Sarah was neck deep in plans for Christmas, but they were not here today. Why not? What happened? Where were they? Not even a call?
“...pourquoi ne m'aiment-ils pas…?”
Her eyes stray for a moment and find the bottle of wine in the center of the table. Her head aches for a moment in the painful memory of last week. She had spent a night drinking with Sidney, had shared stories of wayward daughters, but she remembered little else. All that was clear was empty bottles and waking up in her bed next to Redmaine with a head pounding with the very wrath of God. She had not heard from Sidney since, and the two had not even had their customary meal before the UGWC show on Monday.
“...pourquoi ne m'aiment-ils pas…?”
Much of her existence the last few years had been that of loneliness. Alone in the hospital, though she had the occasional message sent to her from Redmaine by way of loyal denizens. Alone on the road. Alone in her warehouse. That had lifted after she revealed herself and spent time with the sinners and downtrodden, being their voice. It had lifted more when she allowed Redmaine to give her servants and a guard. Even more when she returned home at Kenzi’s insistence. And then dispersed when she, after seeing how much her late husband’s followers loved and cherished her, took her rightful place on the throne. But now…
“...pourquoi ne m'aiment-ils pas…?”
She worked hard to show her daughters what it meant to be a great person. To be a strong person. To be a righteous and penitent person. She deserved their love. She deserved their devotion. She deserved their companionship. She deserved more than to be forgotten on a day of thanks.
“My Queen?”
The voice startles her from her thoughts with a shake. She blinks her eyes, trying to gain focus, and succeeds. One of her handmaidens, a woman dressed smartly in the black liverie with purple stripes of House Lacklan, stands at the mouth leading away from the empty dining room.
“Yes, Melaine?”
The handmaiden gives a small bow of her head.
“The...um…”
Nervousness fills her voice. She clears her voice and tries again.
“The Marchioness is here.”
Ava’s eyes blink.
“Marchioness?”
A noble woman? A handful of people had been given “rank” within the confines of the compound. Her late husband was the Mountain King, of course, just as she was the Queen of Red. Sarah was the Blood Princess, her wife the Duchess. Skeeter had been given the honorable position of First Citizen for the way he cared for her husband at the end of his life, using his myriad holistic remedies and techniques to ease his pain. And Angie would without doubt find a title and rooms if she would stop being so stubborn and come home. But who-
Ava’s eyes go wide as a woman walks into the room amidst the sound of heavy boots on the hardwood floor. She is not overly tall, though had some height on her, with raven black hair down past her shoulders which was filled with so much grey that it added years to her age. Her face was pale and lined with heavy lines, and the powerfully green eyes shown out from underneath deep circles. Her body was hidden underneath a coat, but Ava knew well that what was hiding may well be far more sinewy muscle than a normal woman just shy of forty would have.
“Nikita.”
She barely breathed the name. The woman looked around with sharp movements of her eyes, a skittish set to her movements which made her seem the cat wary of the rocking chair. After a few moments of those eyes flying around, she looks at Ava and chews her lips. Silence stretches into awkwardness before she finally finds voice.
“Ava.”
She looks around again, eyes flashing quickly, and then back. She looks her up and down, taking in the pale yellow dress with its purple stripes, and folds her arms around her waist, hugging herself loosely.
“I...uh...I heard you were here. I heard you...uh...were back.”
Her speech is halted, seeming the verbal equivalent to her nervous eyes and body.
“Where...where were you?”
Ava looks away for a moment, memories flooding her. Screaming. Cutting. Needles. Shocks. Dark green eyes find bright ones again.
“The Abyss.”
The woman gives her a nod, and somehow even that movement seemed stunted.
“I..um…”
She looks away again for a second.
“I’m sorry about...Jean.”
Ava bit the inside of her lips for a second. No one called him Jean except for her. His followers called him Lord Lacklan and those close to him called him Jean-Paul. Only she was allowed that level of intimacy.
“Il est ressuscité.”
Her constant mantra of “He is risen” had confused many people in the beginning, in particular her daughter-in-law, who had thought that Ava considered Jesus himself to be her husband. But the woman in the black coat gave her another nod.
“Il est sauvé du côté de Dieu.
Ava is taken aback at first, but then remembers where the woman was from. Ava had once spoken dismissively of “that lazy Canadian shit” that Angie spoke, but this woman’s French was as clear as her own. As a French woman, Ava would normally scoff at a Quebecer, but this was a different situation.
“I was here...you know…”
Bright green eyes shoot around again.
“When he...uh...when he died. The kid called me. I...uh...I flew in. Stayed a few days.”
She hugs herself tightly and shivers.
“It wasn’t good.”
Ava bit down on her lips again to keep her from lashing out. She was in the hospital when he died. She had wailed in agony when she received the note. And she had hurt people as she escaped to see for herself. “It wasn’t good” was an understatement.
“I had seen him...uh...a few months before. The kid debuted and I...uh...spent some time with him. He wasn’t well. But he could see me.”
Ava had heard that, at the very end, cataracts had formed over the strong grey eyes of her husband.
“When I flew in, I...um...was there for the kid. Met her girlfriend, or whatever she was supposed to be. Knowing her, that was just some...um...pretty, or whatever. She-”
“They are married.”
Ava couldn’t keep the disdain out of her voice. Women married. Ugh.
“...what?”
The woman blinked several times as Ava nodded.
“In August. Last year. They-”
“THAT IMPETUOUS CHILD!”
Ava’s eyes go wide as the woman roars and her entire continence changes. She takes a step forward as her hands fall to her waist, fingers clenched into fists. Her face flashes red and those bright green eyes glint in the candlelight of the chandelier.
“Why does she ALWAYS run off and do STUPID things?!”
She starts moving, pacing back and forth in a small path.
“How long were they together? Six months? LESS?! Hell, it was less than a YEAR before then that I had to DRAG HER off of that monk and out of that club BY HER HAIR! Married?! What the HELL is she thinking?!?”
Ava cannot help but smirk as she sees the woman become enraged. Nice to see that it wasn’t just her.
“She ALWAYS did things too fast. She pushed me to get past the basics so that she could learn moves. She pushed past mastering those moves so she could learn my ‘signatures,’ whatever the hell THAT was supposed to mean. She pushed past the lessons I gave about how to negotiate and navigate a business filled with men because she thought her damned DIMPLES would get her through any door! Damnit! Why is Sarah so damned STUPID?!”
Ava’s smirk turns into a full smile. She had known that this woman had trained her step-daughter, had been hand-picked by her husband to give Sarah a woman’s perspective, but she had never really known the extent. This was interesting.
“She spends half of her time making movies and modeling now. Did you know-”
“MY GOD! I have told her OVER AND OVER AGAIN that she had to QUIT that dumb marketing crap! If she wanted to be a REAL wrestler, if she wanted to be a World Champion like me and her father, then she would have to FOCUS! PLEASE tell me she AT LEAST stopped that STUPID blog of hers!”
The snicker turns into a laugh.
“It’s a video blog, now.”
“DAMN IT! SHE STOLE THAT FROM ME!”
She snarls as she paces until finally coming to a stop, her breathes coming in ragged. She finally breathes out slowly, clearly trying to calm herself.
“Where is she?”
Ava’s smile falls.
“I do not know. They didn’t come home.”
The woman shakes her head.
“Did they at least call?”
Ava shakes her head in return and the woman growls.
“Didn’t even call her step-mom on Thanksgiving. I am going to KILL that kid.”
She turns on her heel and stomps out of the room.
“Melaine! Prepare my rooms!”
Ava smiles again as the servant gives a deep curtsy to the Marchioness before following her out of the room. She had no idea why the woman had suddenly arrived, particularly since she was known to be quite the recluse, but having Sarah’s mentor here and as angry with her as she herself was was a good thing. Nikita Dolore had a level of influence on the stubborn girl that no one else alive did.
It seemed that, in the battle of getting Sarah in line, the Queen of Red finally had a friend.
She could be thankful for that.
~~FIN~~
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