Post by Cupcake on Mar 11, 2017 14:40:07 GMT
[[Posting this here, since I don't trust the old boards]]
Late Summer 1879
Există o casă în ...
It was sleepy and warm, the afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows and entryway, the slatted swinging doors blocking it to a degree, letting motes of dust sparkle as they swirled in the dry air each time the doors swung open to admit another patron. Boots thudded over the wooden floor as the one wearing them marched with purpose towards the bar, intense green eyes focused on the bar tender, vibrant even in the shadows cast by the hat she wore over long dark hair twisted into tight braids. The silver conchas that decorated the band of her hat glimmered as she stepped up on the brass rail around the bottom of the bar, looking intently at the tender as the once boisterous bar patrons were simmered down to whispering about her. She was tall for a woman, long legs encased in buckskin pants and her fine boots, trail dust coated as they were. Over her white blouse, embroidered with bands of colourful thread in geometric designs that hearkened of places south of the border she wore a fine serape, which did nothing to hide the perfection of her curves.
Around her neck was a leather thong, a heavy silver coin hung from it that the sunlight touched lightly before skittering away, as if the light feared to linger. Clamped between her full red lips was an unlit cheroot, the dark paper vivid against her pale skin. There was a mirror behind the tender and she could see the room behind her among other things, filled with miners, a farmer or two, a group of more sketchy individuals were playing poker - one a man that caught her eye as being unusual with his dark hair and golden skin, a hat over his hair which was as dark a hue as her own. Across from him was an arresting individual wearing the collar and robe of a priest over gunslinger’s gear in black, his hair and skin white as new snow, his eyes greener even than her own. Between them was a definite rogue, eyes twinkling with humor as he watched things unfold. Her gaze flicked over them in the mirror before settling back to the tender.
“I’d like a shot of Black Bottle.”
“I don’t pour drinks for hoors.” He had a weird accent, the stress on the word making it sound twisted. “Hoorhouse, that’s across the street, like.”
There was some laughter behind them, and Rori slid a bright silver coin out of her pocket onto the bartop, and watched his eyes light with avarice. “I said, I’d like a shot of Black Bottle.” She waited patiently as he muttered about not having that brand before producing a bottle and setting it down with a glass - true to his word he didn’t pour the drink for her. She added another, far larger coin of golden hue to gleam next to the first. The cheroot was plucked from her lips and tucked into the band on her hat for later as she stared him down.
“What’s that for?”
“Information.” She picked up the bottle and poured herself a stiff drink, throwing it back before thumping the glass on the bar, and casually adding. “I’m looking for a man named Roque.” Eyeing how nervous the tender seemed, she poured another measure of liquor. “Now Roque? He ran with an outlaw name of Slaine Rodrick, may he rest in peace.”
A look of surprise, quickly covered. “Rodrick’s dead?”
Rori took the drink and casually finished it. “Yes sir.”
He swallowed, looking paler than even her natural tone. “How'd he die.”
Rori spoke, that famous breathy whisper to full effect. “I whispered in his ear.”
“Huh? Well, what was it?” He tried to stealthily put his fingertips on the shotgun he had behind the bar, his eyes on her.
“Come here.” He leaned in as she leaned over the bar and whispered even lower. “Bring them in.”
There was the sudden still quiet, you could hear a pin drop as he reared back with a look of confused terror, and there came the sound of guns being cocked, Rori didn’t spare the glance but the three men playing poker whom she’d noted before had drawn their pistols and were aiming them at a few patrons who were feeling froggy. In the blink of an eye Rori had drawn her pistols, spun around and shot three people who had tried to pull their own weapons on her, and spun back as Roque had gotten the shotgun past the top of the bar. A tut, a click of her tongue against her teeth and she shot him too before casually turning back to the room.
“Well? Someone get the sheriff. I’m a duly sworn Warrant Officer, here simply to collect a reward and to uphold the peace of this town, and that’s a wanted man, Richard Roque.” That cold glint in her eyes though, spoke of something far darker than justice delivered.
Aurora Jansen stepped into a spotlight, letting that cold brilliance wash over her for a few moments, bright enough that only a few pertinent details shone through. The glare off of the title plate of her brand new Rebirth title, nestled around her waist. The shimmer from the zippers of her leather jacket and boots. The so black it looks wet sheen of her dress, the warm burnish of the brass knuckles nestled on the fingers of her right hand as she lifted it to point at the camera loving her every motion.
“I know I shouldn’t even wonder what you’ll say to me, because I’ve seen the type a hundred times, Calvin. You’re not the chameleon, who changes his stripes on whim - you’ve been more than what you currently are, at least. That’s promising. You’ve got to understand that I’m working very hard here Calvin to give you some sort of due - because I never half-ass anything. That’s a path that leads to disaster, no matter how ungodly gifted one may be, and I am.
I can’t therefore lump you in with the Christophers, Chaos and Shields, who could never defeat me but damned if they didn’t try and sell their souls over it. The shade and disrespect those two men threw my way was amazing in volume but sorely lacking in substance. Shields at least last I heard went and did better for himself, and I begrudge him none of his happiness or success. Chaos? The only sniff of him around are his molars that I kicked right out of his disrespectful mouth and currently decorate my husband’s cufflinks.
Please don’t take that as a threat, Calvin. I don’t make them, because I find them useless. Spewing hot air about something that can’t be guaranteed is a waste of everyone’s time, don’t you agree?”
She stepped forward out of the spotlight, leaning towards the camera, her brilliant green eyes focused and her expression calm.
“To be completely frank here? You’d be hard pressed to find anyone you could talk to that would actually speak with you that has defeated me. They are exceptionally rare creatures, these. Just because they’re rare however doesn’t mean they don’t exist, or I think that I’m somehow magically unbeatable. That’s ridiculous, as I’ve said even I’ve lost a match here and there - and I respect every single person that’s done so, no matter other personal feelings. Lots of wrestlers love to talk about matches not being personal, we’ve both likely heard it or said it ad nauseum by now. The thing is, that’s a truth for me - and I walk the walk, have no doubt of that.
Now back to the matter at hand - you’re hopefully not going to try and stand up and tell the world you have no idea who the fuck I am, implying I must be nothing. That is a time worn dead horse that people love to beat on when they can’t be arsed to do any actual work, have lived under a rock, or simply moved in different circles. Compared to others you’ve faced, you might look at my handful of title reigns though, and turn up your nose. I am not a sixteen time World Champion, Calvin. I am a one time World Champion in a reign that spanned well over a calendar year, breaking my company’s record formerly held by one “Pretty Boy Assassin” William Bateman. I never lost that title, though I suspended my counting of days when the company closed.
I’m classy that way. I was content you see, to be that final World Champion. I didn’t need multiple reigns to prove how fucking singularly amazing I am, because I never managed to lose my title. Because the flipside of course, of being a multi-time champion is the fact that goes hand in hand with that, you lost that many times too.
Me? I’ve broken records with every title I’ve held. It’s just what I do.”
Rori gave a gentle shrug of her shoulders that made the tabs on the zippers chime like bells.
“I would in fact like to be able to say that you’re not that guy, Calvin! Does it surprise you that I want to believe that you won’t be so stupid as to walk up in MY HOUSE and drag your ass on my carpet and try to take a cold one out of the fridge without asking? But you know, I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen people sign up for a tournament where they’d end up facing me for my title at the end and have no idea who I was. They were that hungry for gold that they didn’t understand that they’d just jumped out of their little self-contained goldfish bowl directly into the motherfucking open ocean and here be sharks.”
Her grin was wide, bright and maybe, just maybe showed too many teeth before she relaxed, her voice that signature breathy whisper.
“I want to believe that you will be a real challenge for me, Calvin Harris. I want you to be more than a collection of data, numbers that don’t stack quite how you’d like them to, to be more than words that others before you have tried and failed to use to impose your will on me. But not every opponent can be that man or woman, we both know that. I am cautiously optimistic, I am magnanimously giving you the benefit of the doubt as we have yet to stand across from one another when that bell rings, when the signal for pure violence and mayhem that is a street fight begins. I haven’t watched your irises widen out after the first time I’ve moved so fast and dropped you with one of my DDTs and you realize that you can’t stop me.
I haven’t felt your conviction yet, to wonder if you even have any when you lift your fists against me and try to defend yourself. These words sound harsh, I know they do, and the funny thing is I don’t seek to unman you with them. Words are after all just that… though I am singularly spectacular at following through.
You’ll say what you want to say, Calvin. You’ll either speak sense, or dig a hole so deep you’ll panic as the walls crumble as you try to climb out, the choice is yours. I may have never stepped foot in a ring with you before this IKT match - but that doesn’t matter, because I’m me. You’ll see what I mean, after this is over.”
She unhooked the Rebirth Championship from around her waist and held it up to the camera, her eyes intense and narrowed, displaying what the prize in this match actually was, beyond advancing. She turned it back and forth with a twist of her wrist, before the camera faded out.
Late Summer 1879
It had taken longer than she liked to straighten up the matter of the warrant, but she’d watched with a barely suppressed grin as they held the poster up next to the dead Roque’s face and all had to agree that it was him. Gazing up at the sky she calculated she had plenty of time to get back on the trail to hunting down her next quarry when a young man had come up and given her quite a tale of woe, talking about men slaughtered in the streets by a greedy bastard who wanted their land for mining. An all too familiar tale, though she’d felt no sting in turning him down when he sought to hire her. The sister though, had proven a little more problematic with her helpless but dignified demeanor, her cutting words of ‘will you make me run after your horse’ getting Rori to actually pause, and have to look at her. Admit she’d heard the tale of woe, and was willing to ride on despite ‘decencies sake’, which led her to let the girl Mia tell the tale with more details - though the bag of gold she’d tossed to her to prove she could pay held more weight than those, until she said this to go with it, when asked how much it was.
“It’s everything. It’s all we have.”
“Never been offered someone’s everything before…” Then she pulled up sharp, those amazing green eyes staring into Mia’s so hard the girl shivered despite holding her ground. The reaction was clearly to the name she’d spoken with great loathing mere seconds before, telling how he’d had her husband shot down in the street and ordered him left there a few days to rot. “That’s him? The man that’s killing your town. Him.” A pause and Rori adjusted her hat on her braided hair. “Fate is a fickle bitch. I’ll take the job. I’ve got a couple likely prospects here in town, we’ll meet you on the road before the afternoon is dead. I’m going to need a few good people that aren’t afraid to get their hands awfully, awfully dirty.”
For the cost of a pawned horse, a bottle of expensive booze, and the promise of glory (and more gold) she had three men with her when she rode out to meet Mia and her brother - the rakishly handsome rogue Gordon Fury, the albino priest who called himself Legacy, and the exotic master of knives, Masaru Inoue. As she looked over the group, she tipped her head slightly to the left. “We need a couple more, I think, for my plan to work.” She took her cheroot down from where she’d tucked it and Fury leaned over from his horse, striking a wooden match to light it for her. She nodded and took a few idle puffs as she stared off down the road a moment.
“And I know just where to find them.”
Word Count: 2500 via Word Counter Tool
Late Summer 1879
Există o casă în ...
It was sleepy and warm, the afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows and entryway, the slatted swinging doors blocking it to a degree, letting motes of dust sparkle as they swirled in the dry air each time the doors swung open to admit another patron. Boots thudded over the wooden floor as the one wearing them marched with purpose towards the bar, intense green eyes focused on the bar tender, vibrant even in the shadows cast by the hat she wore over long dark hair twisted into tight braids. The silver conchas that decorated the band of her hat glimmered as she stepped up on the brass rail around the bottom of the bar, looking intently at the tender as the once boisterous bar patrons were simmered down to whispering about her. She was tall for a woman, long legs encased in buckskin pants and her fine boots, trail dust coated as they were. Over her white blouse, embroidered with bands of colourful thread in geometric designs that hearkened of places south of the border she wore a fine serape, which did nothing to hide the perfection of her curves.
Around her neck was a leather thong, a heavy silver coin hung from it that the sunlight touched lightly before skittering away, as if the light feared to linger. Clamped between her full red lips was an unlit cheroot, the dark paper vivid against her pale skin. There was a mirror behind the tender and she could see the room behind her among other things, filled with miners, a farmer or two, a group of more sketchy individuals were playing poker - one a man that caught her eye as being unusual with his dark hair and golden skin, a hat over his hair which was as dark a hue as her own. Across from him was an arresting individual wearing the collar and robe of a priest over gunslinger’s gear in black, his hair and skin white as new snow, his eyes greener even than her own. Between them was a definite rogue, eyes twinkling with humor as he watched things unfold. Her gaze flicked over them in the mirror before settling back to the tender.
“I’d like a shot of Black Bottle.”
“I don’t pour drinks for hoors.” He had a weird accent, the stress on the word making it sound twisted. “Hoorhouse, that’s across the street, like.”
There was some laughter behind them, and Rori slid a bright silver coin out of her pocket onto the bartop, and watched his eyes light with avarice. “I said, I’d like a shot of Black Bottle.” She waited patiently as he muttered about not having that brand before producing a bottle and setting it down with a glass - true to his word he didn’t pour the drink for her. She added another, far larger coin of golden hue to gleam next to the first. The cheroot was plucked from her lips and tucked into the band on her hat for later as she stared him down.
“What’s that for?”
“Information.” She picked up the bottle and poured herself a stiff drink, throwing it back before thumping the glass on the bar, and casually adding. “I’m looking for a man named Roque.” Eyeing how nervous the tender seemed, she poured another measure of liquor. “Now Roque? He ran with an outlaw name of Slaine Rodrick, may he rest in peace.”
A look of surprise, quickly covered. “Rodrick’s dead?”
Rori took the drink and casually finished it. “Yes sir.”
He swallowed, looking paler than even her natural tone. “How'd he die.”
Rori spoke, that famous breathy whisper to full effect. “I whispered in his ear.”
“Huh? Well, what was it?” He tried to stealthily put his fingertips on the shotgun he had behind the bar, his eyes on her.
“Come here.” He leaned in as she leaned over the bar and whispered even lower. “Bring them in.”
There was the sudden still quiet, you could hear a pin drop as he reared back with a look of confused terror, and there came the sound of guns being cocked, Rori didn’t spare the glance but the three men playing poker whom she’d noted before had drawn their pistols and were aiming them at a few patrons who were feeling froggy. In the blink of an eye Rori had drawn her pistols, spun around and shot three people who had tried to pull their own weapons on her, and spun back as Roque had gotten the shotgun past the top of the bar. A tut, a click of her tongue against her teeth and she shot him too before casually turning back to the room.
“Well? Someone get the sheriff. I’m a duly sworn Warrant Officer, here simply to collect a reward and to uphold the peace of this town, and that’s a wanted man, Richard Roque.” That cold glint in her eyes though, spoke of something far darker than justice delivered.
Aurora Jansen stepped into a spotlight, letting that cold brilliance wash over her for a few moments, bright enough that only a few pertinent details shone through. The glare off of the title plate of her brand new Rebirth title, nestled around her waist. The shimmer from the zippers of her leather jacket and boots. The so black it looks wet sheen of her dress, the warm burnish of the brass knuckles nestled on the fingers of her right hand as she lifted it to point at the camera loving her every motion.
“I know I shouldn’t even wonder what you’ll say to me, because I’ve seen the type a hundred times, Calvin. You’re not the chameleon, who changes his stripes on whim - you’ve been more than what you currently are, at least. That’s promising. You’ve got to understand that I’m working very hard here Calvin to give you some sort of due - because I never half-ass anything. That’s a path that leads to disaster, no matter how ungodly gifted one may be, and I am.
I can’t therefore lump you in with the Christophers, Chaos and Shields, who could never defeat me but damned if they didn’t try and sell their souls over it. The shade and disrespect those two men threw my way was amazing in volume but sorely lacking in substance. Shields at least last I heard went and did better for himself, and I begrudge him none of his happiness or success. Chaos? The only sniff of him around are his molars that I kicked right out of his disrespectful mouth and currently decorate my husband’s cufflinks.
Please don’t take that as a threat, Calvin. I don’t make them, because I find them useless. Spewing hot air about something that can’t be guaranteed is a waste of everyone’s time, don’t you agree?”
She stepped forward out of the spotlight, leaning towards the camera, her brilliant green eyes focused and her expression calm.
“To be completely frank here? You’d be hard pressed to find anyone you could talk to that would actually speak with you that has defeated me. They are exceptionally rare creatures, these. Just because they’re rare however doesn’t mean they don’t exist, or I think that I’m somehow magically unbeatable. That’s ridiculous, as I’ve said even I’ve lost a match here and there - and I respect every single person that’s done so, no matter other personal feelings. Lots of wrestlers love to talk about matches not being personal, we’ve both likely heard it or said it ad nauseum by now. The thing is, that’s a truth for me - and I walk the walk, have no doubt of that.
Now back to the matter at hand - you’re hopefully not going to try and stand up and tell the world you have no idea who the fuck I am, implying I must be nothing. That is a time worn dead horse that people love to beat on when they can’t be arsed to do any actual work, have lived under a rock, or simply moved in different circles. Compared to others you’ve faced, you might look at my handful of title reigns though, and turn up your nose. I am not a sixteen time World Champion, Calvin. I am a one time World Champion in a reign that spanned well over a calendar year, breaking my company’s record formerly held by one “Pretty Boy Assassin” William Bateman. I never lost that title, though I suspended my counting of days when the company closed.
I’m classy that way. I was content you see, to be that final World Champion. I didn’t need multiple reigns to prove how fucking singularly amazing I am, because I never managed to lose my title. Because the flipside of course, of being a multi-time champion is the fact that goes hand in hand with that, you lost that many times too.
Me? I’ve broken records with every title I’ve held. It’s just what I do.”
Rori gave a gentle shrug of her shoulders that made the tabs on the zippers chime like bells.
“I would in fact like to be able to say that you’re not that guy, Calvin! Does it surprise you that I want to believe that you won’t be so stupid as to walk up in MY HOUSE and drag your ass on my carpet and try to take a cold one out of the fridge without asking? But you know, I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen people sign up for a tournament where they’d end up facing me for my title at the end and have no idea who I was. They were that hungry for gold that they didn’t understand that they’d just jumped out of their little self-contained goldfish bowl directly into the motherfucking open ocean and here be sharks.”
Her grin was wide, bright and maybe, just maybe showed too many teeth before she relaxed, her voice that signature breathy whisper.
“I want to believe that you will be a real challenge for me, Calvin Harris. I want you to be more than a collection of data, numbers that don’t stack quite how you’d like them to, to be more than words that others before you have tried and failed to use to impose your will on me. But not every opponent can be that man or woman, we both know that. I am cautiously optimistic, I am magnanimously giving you the benefit of the doubt as we have yet to stand across from one another when that bell rings, when the signal for pure violence and mayhem that is a street fight begins. I haven’t watched your irises widen out after the first time I’ve moved so fast and dropped you with one of my DDTs and you realize that you can’t stop me.
I haven’t felt your conviction yet, to wonder if you even have any when you lift your fists against me and try to defend yourself. These words sound harsh, I know they do, and the funny thing is I don’t seek to unman you with them. Words are after all just that… though I am singularly spectacular at following through.
You’ll say what you want to say, Calvin. You’ll either speak sense, or dig a hole so deep you’ll panic as the walls crumble as you try to climb out, the choice is yours. I may have never stepped foot in a ring with you before this IKT match - but that doesn’t matter, because I’m me. You’ll see what I mean, after this is over.”
She unhooked the Rebirth Championship from around her waist and held it up to the camera, her eyes intense and narrowed, displaying what the prize in this match actually was, beyond advancing. She turned it back and forth with a twist of her wrist, before the camera faded out.
Late Summer 1879
It had taken longer than she liked to straighten up the matter of the warrant, but she’d watched with a barely suppressed grin as they held the poster up next to the dead Roque’s face and all had to agree that it was him. Gazing up at the sky she calculated she had plenty of time to get back on the trail to hunting down her next quarry when a young man had come up and given her quite a tale of woe, talking about men slaughtered in the streets by a greedy bastard who wanted their land for mining. An all too familiar tale, though she’d felt no sting in turning him down when he sought to hire her. The sister though, had proven a little more problematic with her helpless but dignified demeanor, her cutting words of ‘will you make me run after your horse’ getting Rori to actually pause, and have to look at her. Admit she’d heard the tale of woe, and was willing to ride on despite ‘decencies sake’, which led her to let the girl Mia tell the tale with more details - though the bag of gold she’d tossed to her to prove she could pay held more weight than those, until she said this to go with it, when asked how much it was.
“It’s everything. It’s all we have.”
“Never been offered someone’s everything before…” Then she pulled up sharp, those amazing green eyes staring into Mia’s so hard the girl shivered despite holding her ground. The reaction was clearly to the name she’d spoken with great loathing mere seconds before, telling how he’d had her husband shot down in the street and ordered him left there a few days to rot. “That’s him? The man that’s killing your town. Him.” A pause and Rori adjusted her hat on her braided hair. “Fate is a fickle bitch. I’ll take the job. I’ve got a couple likely prospects here in town, we’ll meet you on the road before the afternoon is dead. I’m going to need a few good people that aren’t afraid to get their hands awfully, awfully dirty.”
For the cost of a pawned horse, a bottle of expensive booze, and the promise of glory (and more gold) she had three men with her when she rode out to meet Mia and her brother - the rakishly handsome rogue Gordon Fury, the albino priest who called himself Legacy, and the exotic master of knives, Masaru Inoue. As she looked over the group, she tipped her head slightly to the left. “We need a couple more, I think, for my plan to work.” She took her cheroot down from where she’d tucked it and Fury leaned over from his horse, striking a wooden match to light it for her. She nodded and took a few idle puffs as she stared off down the road a moment.
“And I know just where to find them.”
Word Count: 2500 via Word Counter Tool