Post by LACKLAN on Apr 18, 2019 20:36:24 GMT -5
Dearest Phrixus
I hope that this letter finds you in good health. I worry about you at times, my friend, and with increasing regularity considering your most recent living arrangements. Such an odd thing, to be sure. I had little knowledge of your relationship with Orson when he first brought his head up for the inaugural Chill to bring your menage a troi with the sandwich into the modern age, and did not appreciate how close you were, and I would be lying if I said it did not vex me so. And as we both know, I would never lie to you.
You and I head into battle once more in a few days and it has left me to ponder on many things. This place we have found ourselves in is obsessed with history, with what came before. Ghosts fill the halls of the Synergy Arena. Forgotten dreams are included in every ticket. The seats are washed with the tears of broken hopes. It has permeated. It has infested. And I write to you today to plead with you:
Let the past burn.
I know that this may seem odd coming from me. Much of who I am is rooted in my late husband. He fills me. He fulfills me. He pushes and presses. But he also hangs over. He watches. He bears. And that weight of him, that weight of his legacy, can be too much for my shoulders, at times. Indeed, the struggle of fighting both for him and for Him, for both the man who shared my bed and the Creator who now holds him at his side, occasionally fills my legs with lead, my feet with bricks. As I recently told Bonecrusher, this company is a slog, and I grow tired. The weight of God is heavy, but like a certain young 15th century countrywoman of mine, I will lead this revolution, even if it means the stake.
Something about us strikes me funny at this moment, which is perhaps another reason for this letter: Since my arrival in January of last year, you and I have found ourselves competing in a UGWC ring over ninety times, and in all those times, we have only faced one another in competition on for occasions. Was it God’s plan to have you and I tussle so few times? Is this, indeed, divine providence that so much of my time, of my fifty matches under this banner, to be against the likes of Vaughn and Cotton? Is he steering us somewhere? I believe he is, dear friend.
The need to fill the vacuum screams in the air, Phrixus. The Engine is dismantled. The Court adjourned. My friends, the Serpents, sit at the hand of God. And lest we sit and wait, lest we allow the machinations of the self-proclaimed puppet master that is our Creative Director play his games, that vacuum WILL be filled by my children and their odd benefactor in the former Director. We WILL find ourselves the victims of nature’s repugnance for the vacuum that this company has. Thus we must stand. Together. You and I both know that the Melee, Outlast, and Battleground loom large in the horizon, though they seem a lifetime away for those with less vision, and the time is NOW, dear friend.
Orson stands with you on Monday, but he is as a stone tied to your foot, an anchor holding you in place. Again and again, he has proven that he only stands tall when hoisted up by his betters, only when allowed to be that “tag along,” and even if he is to be that “hype man” who yips and yaps before his superiors’ bite, he does not even seem good enough for that, as of late. I have said before that he is proof positive that being obsessed with success in the past, at least in lieu of focusing on the success of today, is folly, and I worry that you will once again find yourself standing on the apron, your face a mask of derision, as his shoulders are pinned to the mat. Let him live in the past to be burned. Let him be too “mainstream,” though I admittedly am unclear on what that actually means, to be relevant for today. Let him be consumed by what was. Leave him for carrion, dear friend.
A final moment, if I may:
Two years ago today, I escaped from a prison. I escaped from Hell. I have let that prison haunt me. I have let that prison hold me. It took years to escape, years of madness. And while much of that time has fueled my efforts the last two years, it is time for me to exhaust that fuel. It is time for me to let the past burn so that I may change the future.
I stand upon the precipice of history. I gather forces of Light around me. And I WILL strike down the transgressors who worship falsehoods.
I look forward to seeing you on Monday, as always.
Yours,
Aveline Lacklan straightens.
The letter before her was filled with enough tightly-written script as to make her fingers cramp over the pen in her hand, but every word was important. Phrixus Deimos was a master at brevity and maximizing his words, and it was imperative that he appreciate her efforts.
Oh, he would appreciate something, alright
The Queen of Red rolls her eyes at the tiny voice in her head. Her affection for Fear was well known, at least to those paying attention to more than to the goings-on of social media or political theatre, but she held no romance in her heart for anyone but her husband. Her body yearned, of course, for a touch long forgotten, but such was the battle she fought. She had nearly broken with Redmaine, nearly given in to the wants of the body, but she had been strong enough to resist.
Her fingers run down the paper as she lightly blows on it, her lips pleasantly plump as she perses them, and casts her green eyes over the words. While she did not go in for the pomp and circumstance, as silly as it was, of using a quill and ink, as did her husband and his daughter-
SELFISH BITCH
-she still appreciated the fine paper products created by her people. A part of the forest was dedicated to the paper, made from strong trees lovingly cared for by the gardeners. Her empire was vast, though most did not realize it, for the Lacklans had been pillars of industry from the moment they set foot off the boat two centuries ago, and they never let a business go. While rarely under the name, she was indirectly in charge of numerous New England sectors, including paper, canning, and plastic, as well as a surprising amount of market share in robotics and medicine. Indeed, her husband's search to save himself, to erase the cancer that coursed through his body, had led him down odd paths, and aligned him with a plethora of people.
And you...with the enemy...
What would he think if he knew that she was working with Johnny Bonecrusher? They battled over championships and pride more than once in Texas, but it was more than that, of course. Her husband was looking to change the world, to bring alignment between above and below, and Johnny was open about questioning his sanity. She hoped Sidney was not too upset over being her erand woman that morning. Johnny deserved a person of importance to guide him, and for her money, there was no one more important than Sidney, other than herself. Aveline did not have many friends-
Neither did I, really
-but she counted the mother of her unfortunate step-daughter among them. She would make sure to make it up to the woman. Should she tell her of her idiot daughter-in-law's plan to dirty her bloodline? Should she tell Sidney of Kenzi's childish spite-filled desire to ruin her house with servant blood? She might well have an ally, if she did. And she needed allies.
Remember what puddin' did!
Her husband would be proud of her. Many people were being played at this moment. Did Kenzi suspect that her new "coach" on her disgusting football team was there because he wanted her wife's head on a platter? Did Johnny even fully realize it? She didn't know what the demon child did to anger him so, but his eyes lit up with rage whenever her name was mentioned. His hands shook. His demeanor hardened. And while she had never outright promised the man that she would maneuver her step-daughter into a position where he could fight her, the suggestion was there. Her husband might be saddened that his wife and daughter were ultimately headed into war, but he would understand. And appreciate how deftly she manipulated everyone in the process.
And he would forgive her for her rage.
Sarah's legs were not enough. Her career dimming to the point of mediocrity was not enough. It would NEVER be enough for what she did to her. It-
Her eyes move towards the cell phone as it begins to buzz. She places her pen and the paper back down on the table and presses a button on the phone to see the message.
She smiles lightly as local news notifications follow Redmaine's message.
She smiles as the voice in her head cackles.
Let the past burn.
I hope that this letter finds you in good health. I worry about you at times, my friend, and with increasing regularity considering your most recent living arrangements. Such an odd thing, to be sure. I had little knowledge of your relationship with Orson when he first brought his head up for the inaugural Chill to bring your menage a troi with the sandwich into the modern age, and did not appreciate how close you were, and I would be lying if I said it did not vex me so. And as we both know, I would never lie to you.
You and I head into battle once more in a few days and it has left me to ponder on many things. This place we have found ourselves in is obsessed with history, with what came before. Ghosts fill the halls of the Synergy Arena. Forgotten dreams are included in every ticket. The seats are washed with the tears of broken hopes. It has permeated. It has infested. And I write to you today to plead with you:
Let the past burn.
I know that this may seem odd coming from me. Much of who I am is rooted in my late husband. He fills me. He fulfills me. He pushes and presses. But he also hangs over. He watches. He bears. And that weight of him, that weight of his legacy, can be too much for my shoulders, at times. Indeed, the struggle of fighting both for him and for Him, for both the man who shared my bed and the Creator who now holds him at his side, occasionally fills my legs with lead, my feet with bricks. As I recently told Bonecrusher, this company is a slog, and I grow tired. The weight of God is heavy, but like a certain young 15th century countrywoman of mine, I will lead this revolution, even if it means the stake.
Something about us strikes me funny at this moment, which is perhaps another reason for this letter: Since my arrival in January of last year, you and I have found ourselves competing in a UGWC ring over ninety times, and in all those times, we have only faced one another in competition on for occasions. Was it God’s plan to have you and I tussle so few times? Is this, indeed, divine providence that so much of my time, of my fifty matches under this banner, to be against the likes of Vaughn and Cotton? Is he steering us somewhere? I believe he is, dear friend.
The need to fill the vacuum screams in the air, Phrixus. The Engine is dismantled. The Court adjourned. My friends, the Serpents, sit at the hand of God. And lest we sit and wait, lest we allow the machinations of the self-proclaimed puppet master that is our Creative Director play his games, that vacuum WILL be filled by my children and their odd benefactor in the former Director. We WILL find ourselves the victims of nature’s repugnance for the vacuum that this company has. Thus we must stand. Together. You and I both know that the Melee, Outlast, and Battleground loom large in the horizon, though they seem a lifetime away for those with less vision, and the time is NOW, dear friend.
Orson stands with you on Monday, but he is as a stone tied to your foot, an anchor holding you in place. Again and again, he has proven that he only stands tall when hoisted up by his betters, only when allowed to be that “tag along,” and even if he is to be that “hype man” who yips and yaps before his superiors’ bite, he does not even seem good enough for that, as of late. I have said before that he is proof positive that being obsessed with success in the past, at least in lieu of focusing on the success of today, is folly, and I worry that you will once again find yourself standing on the apron, your face a mask of derision, as his shoulders are pinned to the mat. Let him live in the past to be burned. Let him be too “mainstream,” though I admittedly am unclear on what that actually means, to be relevant for today. Let him be consumed by what was. Leave him for carrion, dear friend.
A final moment, if I may:
Two years ago today, I escaped from a prison. I escaped from Hell. I have let that prison haunt me. I have let that prison hold me. It took years to escape, years of madness. And while much of that time has fueled my efforts the last two years, it is time for me to exhaust that fuel. It is time for me to let the past burn so that I may change the future.
I stand upon the precipice of history. I gather forces of Light around me. And I WILL strike down the transgressors who worship falsehoods.
I look forward to seeing you on Monday, as always.
Yours,
-A.L
Aveline Lacklan straightens.
The letter before her was filled with enough tightly-written script as to make her fingers cramp over the pen in her hand, but every word was important. Phrixus Deimos was a master at brevity and maximizing his words, and it was imperative that he appreciate her efforts.
Oh, he would appreciate something, alright
The Queen of Red rolls her eyes at the tiny voice in her head. Her affection for Fear was well known, at least to those paying attention to more than to the goings-on of social media or political theatre, but she held no romance in her heart for anyone but her husband. Her body yearned, of course, for a touch long forgotten, but such was the battle she fought. She had nearly broken with Redmaine, nearly given in to the wants of the body, but she had been strong enough to resist.
Her fingers run down the paper as she lightly blows on it, her lips pleasantly plump as she perses them, and casts her green eyes over the words. While she did not go in for the pomp and circumstance, as silly as it was, of using a quill and ink, as did her husband and his daughter-
SELFISH BITCH
-she still appreciated the fine paper products created by her people. A part of the forest was dedicated to the paper, made from strong trees lovingly cared for by the gardeners. Her empire was vast, though most did not realize it, for the Lacklans had been pillars of industry from the moment they set foot off the boat two centuries ago, and they never let a business go. While rarely under the name, she was indirectly in charge of numerous New England sectors, including paper, canning, and plastic, as well as a surprising amount of market share in robotics and medicine. Indeed, her husband's search to save himself, to erase the cancer that coursed through his body, had led him down odd paths, and aligned him with a plethora of people.
And you...with the enemy...
What would he think if he knew that she was working with Johnny Bonecrusher? They battled over championships and pride more than once in Texas, but it was more than that, of course. Her husband was looking to change the world, to bring alignment between above and below, and Johnny was open about questioning his sanity. She hoped Sidney was not too upset over being her erand woman that morning. Johnny deserved a person of importance to guide him, and for her money, there was no one more important than Sidney, other than herself. Aveline did not have many friends-
Neither did I, really
-but she counted the mother of her unfortunate step-daughter among them. She would make sure to make it up to the woman. Should she tell her of her idiot daughter-in-law's plan to dirty her bloodline? Should she tell Sidney of Kenzi's childish spite-filled desire to ruin her house with servant blood? She might well have an ally, if she did. And she needed allies.
Remember what puddin' did!
Her husband would be proud of her. Many people were being played at this moment. Did Kenzi suspect that her new "coach" on her disgusting football team was there because he wanted her wife's head on a platter? Did Johnny even fully realize it? She didn't know what the demon child did to anger him so, but his eyes lit up with rage whenever her name was mentioned. His hands shook. His demeanor hardened. And while she had never outright promised the man that she would maneuver her step-daughter into a position where he could fight her, the suggestion was there. Her husband might be saddened that his wife and daughter were ultimately headed into war, but he would understand. And appreciate how deftly she manipulated everyone in the process.
And he would forgive her for her rage.
Sarah's legs were not enough. Her career dimming to the point of mediocrity was not enough. It would NEVER be enough for what she did to her. It-
Her eyes move towards the cell phone as it begins to buzz. She places her pen and the paper back down on the table and presses a button on the phone to see the message.
It has begun
She smiles lightly as local news notifications follow Redmaine's message.
Bangor Psychiatric Hospital emblazoned in massive fire
Fire Chief predicts complete destruction
She smiles as the voice in her head cackles.
Let the past burn.
x2