MD 130 - Ramparte vs Dorian Slaughter
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Prior to Ascension 106
Silence resonates through the desolate arena. The Great Deceiver surveys the ring from atop the entrance ramp, the chilling silence cools the dampness on the back of His neck, sending a quiver down His spine. Commotion displaced by peace, anarchy by order, the empty echoes of an uninhabited venue.
Tonight would be His Second Coming. Logan McAllister had spoiled His return to this world, but had also reopened His eyes.
The sense of renewal had dissipated, the need for retribution for past transgressions, while it still festered in the recesses of His soul, had become faint. Constantine was no longer the centrifugal force in His Second Coming.
The reborn world which He had once destroyed flourished with life once more. Yet, despite how things had changed, Death remained constant. Choosing Death over life was once more the focus of His conquests. Beauty through disorder, an aesthetic destruction of principles; these things formed His desires. These things wrote the script of liberation.
The Angel of Death runs His palm across the clean canvas of the ring as He circles its boundaries, remembering blood spilled in the name of darkness, recalling wars waged against false idols and unworthily heralded heroes. Bending down to lift the apron, He takes residence in the darkness below.
Farther He falls, through the flames, the tormented screams of the vanquished fill His ears with elation. The sins of past lives swarm Him as He welcomes them all. Dining on injustice, feasting on the immoral, He absorbs the pain. It only bolsters His strength.
The familiar passage through the bleak depths of the pit, to a place that had become as close to home as anything He'd ever known. Where before Ragnarok, He sought guidance, yet received reassurance that Death was the only mortal. And through His past conquests, He had become revered.
In the pit of despair, He was Master. The fly that flew forth from the ark, His name is nowhere, His name is nothing, as a day without dawn, as a ray devoid of light.
As the swarms of hapless souls gathered together with word of His arrival, He takes His place at the altar, transformed as High Priest of the Underworld.
Slaughter: Harlots of Hell, Minions of Fear, Captors of Sin, behold, before you stands your Liberator.
A guttural groan overtakes the assembly of souls, beckoning to the will of The Great Deceiver. Eager not to hear His message, but to consume it, to become it.
Slaughter: Where Death and extinction once reigned supreme, new life has blossomed. Where brothers of the night once ran wildly through fields of gold, reducing lush plains to barren piles of ash, silence and doubt has overcome the once mighty beast.
Crowd: Hail Cerberus. Forever Hail Cerberus.
Slaughter: Silence!
The cold winds change their pattern and gain intensity as His voice shudders the masses of death. As He speaks, a putrid stench emanates from His mouth, the aqua-green smog engulfing the souls of the onlookers, quieting their reverence for the fallen Guard Dog.
Slaughter: The moniker of the once mighty beast shalt not inhabit the tongues of the believers. For the mighty have indeed been relegated to kneel. The once cunning Catalyst, stripped of articulation, now wallows in silence as an unfledged juvenile does his bidding.
Silence overtakes the crowd as a holocaust of fire rises behind the High Priest. The intensity of the raging flames illuminates His figure, glowing brightly upon the altar in the foreground of nothingness.
Slaughter: Perhaps liberation shall not be unwelcome by The Recluse. Perhaps the darkness by which Ramparte once walked still festers within the tombs of his own soul.
Crowd: Liberate him, oh Deceiver. Liberate his soul.
Slaughter: Perhaps I shall be the catalyst of Ramparte's own resurrection. For when Death becomes him, what choice would he have than to retreat within himself and succumb to the beckoning of the Lord of the night?
Ever the opportunist, Ramparte is not unfamiliar with deception. How then has he denied that which lives within, only to submit to that which offers a false sense of security?
Demons never die, Ramparte, they simply partake in slumber within a quiescent mind.
Crowd: Demons never die, demons never die.
Slaughter: And what of the Beast's first head? Caught in the midst of an inner turmoil, unable to overcome petty challengers, unable to achieve a modicum of the success he grew accustomed to as a loyal warrior of the Dark Army.
Crowd: Mussel, Flex, Mussel, Flex, Mussel, Flex.
Slaughter: The once robust figure of physical dominance, now spends his days physically lying in a hospital bed while mentally questioning his very existence.
Lightning flashes through the dulled sky overhead, touching down upon the barren ground, setting the crowd of souls ablaze. The Angel of Death peers upon the embalmed semblances of flesh, feeling their rage growing as He unleashes every word.
Slaughter: This, inhabitants of the Underworld, has become our battle call. We shall ascend, in many forms, to carry out this mission. Deception shall be our brother, deceit our bedfellow. To once again rid the world of timidity and doubt and to establish our malevolent domain upon the soils of the Earth. Ragnarok had come to pass, as it was written in The Book of Slaughter. Yet now, a new chapter shall be written, penned in the blood of those in dire need of liberation. Let us drink to Ramparte's desolation, let us drink to Flex's demise!
In the midst of the flaming crowd of souls, The Book of Slaughter rises. Its tattered cover swings open, releasing a putrid stream of black liquid which begins to flood the crowd. The pages of the ancient text flutter fiercely in the piercing wind, unstained and true as the day they were written.
Slaughter: I shall return, as I always have, to this place of solace. However, I will not return alone. Whether by soul or spirit, mind or body, their world will be relinquished to the grasp of their Liberator. Their souls shall be cleansed from false hope and true disorder shall displace the wretched beauty which blinds their spirits.
Crowd: Retrieve their souls, oh Deceiver.
Slaughter: The mighty have indeed fallen, yet from their prone beds of despair, they shall sink, only to rise again.
Crowd: Sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise....
As the crowd of souls chants, The Deceiver extends His arms overhead. A crevice forms in the Earth's crust above, from whence He came. As a forceful ray of light shone into the depths of depravity, the crowds' chants became increasingly vehement.
The Angel of Death, Book of Slaughter in hand, begins His ascension as the black liquid brimming from the pages of His book drowns out the cries from below. Smothering the eager souls, drowning them in the darkness, insulating their corpses with His message of liberation.
Silence resonates through the desolate arena. The Great Deceiver surveys the ring from atop the entrance ramp, the chilling silence cools the dampness on the back of His neck, sending a quiver down His spine. Commotion displaced by peace, anarchy by order, the empty echoes of an uninhabited venue.
Tonight would be His Second Coming. Logan McAllister had spoiled His return to this world, but had also reopened His eyes.
The sense of renewal had dissipated, the need for retribution for past transgressions, while it still festered in the recesses of His soul, had become faint. Constantine was no longer the centrifugal force in His Second Coming.
The reborn world which He had once destroyed flourished with life once more. Yet, despite how things had changed, Death remained constant. Choosing Death over life was once more the focus of His conquests. Beauty through disorder, an aesthetic destruction of principles; these things formed His desires. These things wrote the script of liberation.
The Angel of Death runs His palm across the clean canvas of the ring as He circles its boundaries, remembering blood spilled in the name of darkness, recalling wars waged against false idols and unworthily heralded heroes. Bending down to lift the apron, He takes residence in the darkness below.
Farther He falls, through the flames, the tormented screams of the vanquished fill His ears with elation. The sins of past lives swarm Him as He welcomes them all. Dining on injustice, feasting on the immoral, He absorbs the pain. It only bolsters His strength.
The familiar passage through the bleak depths of the pit, to a place that had become as close to home as anything He'd ever known. Where before Ragnarok, He sought guidance, yet received reassurance that Death was the only mortal. And through His past conquests, He had become revered.
In the pit of despair, He was Master. The fly that flew forth from the ark, His name is nowhere, His name is nothing, as a day without dawn, as a ray devoid of light.
As the swarms of hapless souls gathered together with word of His arrival, He takes His place at the altar, transformed as High Priest of the Underworld.
Slaughter: Harlots of Hell, Minions of Fear, Captors of Sin, behold, before you stands your Liberator.
A guttural groan overtakes the assembly of souls, beckoning to the will of The Great Deceiver. Eager not to hear His message, but to consume it, to become it.
Slaughter: Where Death and extinction once reigned supreme, new life has blossomed. Where brothers of the night once ran wildly through fields of gold, reducing lush plains to barren piles of ash, silence and doubt has overcome the once mighty beast.
Crowd: Hail Cerberus. Forever Hail Cerberus.
Slaughter: Silence!
The cold winds change their pattern and gain intensity as His voice shudders the masses of death. As He speaks, a putrid stench emanates from His mouth, the aqua-green smog engulfing the souls of the onlookers, quieting their reverence for the fallen Guard Dog.
Slaughter: The moniker of the once mighty beast shalt not inhabit the tongues of the believers. For the mighty have indeed been relegated to kneel. The once cunning Catalyst, stripped of articulation, now wallows in silence as an unfledged juvenile does his bidding.
Silence overtakes the crowd as a holocaust of fire rises behind the High Priest. The intensity of the raging flames illuminates His figure, glowing brightly upon the altar in the foreground of nothingness.
Slaughter: Perhaps liberation shall not be unwelcome by The Recluse. Perhaps the darkness by which Ramparte once walked still festers within the tombs of his own soul.
Crowd: Liberate him, oh Deceiver. Liberate his soul.
Slaughter: Perhaps I shall be the catalyst of Ramparte's own resurrection. For when Death becomes him, what choice would he have than to retreat within himself and succumb to the beckoning of the Lord of the night?
Ever the opportunist, Ramparte is not unfamiliar with deception. How then has he denied that which lives within, only to submit to that which offers a false sense of security?
Demons never die, Ramparte, they simply partake in slumber within a quiescent mind.
Crowd: Demons never die, demons never die.
Slaughter: And what of the Beast's first head? Caught in the midst of an inner turmoil, unable to overcome petty challengers, unable to achieve a modicum of the success he grew accustomed to as a loyal warrior of the Dark Army.
Crowd: Mussel, Flex, Mussel, Flex, Mussel, Flex.
Slaughter: The once robust figure of physical dominance, now spends his days physically lying in a hospital bed while mentally questioning his very existence.
Lightning flashes through the dulled sky overhead, touching down upon the barren ground, setting the crowd of souls ablaze. The Angel of Death peers upon the embalmed semblances of flesh, feeling their rage growing as He unleashes every word.
Slaughter: This, inhabitants of the Underworld, has become our battle call. We shall ascend, in many forms, to carry out this mission. Deception shall be our brother, deceit our bedfellow. To once again rid the world of timidity and doubt and to establish our malevolent domain upon the soils of the Earth. Ragnarok had come to pass, as it was written in The Book of Slaughter. Yet now, a new chapter shall be written, penned in the blood of those in dire need of liberation. Let us drink to Ramparte's desolation, let us drink to Flex's demise!
In the midst of the flaming crowd of souls, The Book of Slaughter rises. Its tattered cover swings open, releasing a putrid stream of black liquid which begins to flood the crowd. The pages of the ancient text flutter fiercely in the piercing wind, unstained and true as the day they were written.
Slaughter: I shall return, as I always have, to this place of solace. However, I will not return alone. Whether by soul or spirit, mind or body, their world will be relinquished to the grasp of their Liberator. Their souls shall be cleansed from false hope and true disorder shall displace the wretched beauty which blinds their spirits.
Crowd: Retrieve their souls, oh Deceiver.
Slaughter: The mighty have indeed fallen, yet from their prone beds of despair, they shall sink, only to rise again.
Crowd: Sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise, sink to rise....
As the crowd of souls chants, The Deceiver extends His arms overhead. A crevice forms in the Earth's crust above, from whence He came. As a forceful ray of light shone into the depths of depravity, the crowds' chants became increasingly vehement.
The Angel of Death, Book of Slaughter in hand, begins His ascension as the black liquid brimming from the pages of His book drowns out the cries from below. Smothering the eager souls, drowning them in the darkness, insulating their corpses with His message of liberation.
Spidey Revivey
Porn is okay here long as it ain't dudes.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colosal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colosal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
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