Post by BRADDOCK on Sept 27, 2023 2:03:30 GMT -5
Dawn has barely broken, the sky is afire in orange, reds, and purple over the distant mountain range. The king climbs the earthen steps of his underground home and instinctively, his eyes scan his surroundings. The camp has started to show signs of life as others have awakened as well and are going about their daily business. Smoke crawls from the chimneys of a majority of the homes, including the King, the notorious “Blood King,” BRADDOCK.
He is clad in merely a loin cloth and moccasins that have been stained black. Around his neck hangs a golden medallion; the face of a snarling demon has been etched into both sides of the medallion. His body is a tapestry of ink; his legs, torso, arms, neck and face….everything has something tattooed on it.
He begins walking towards the sky high Redwood which shelters the villages main hall. It is where they convene for meals, meetings, celebrations, and where the women, children and the weak retreat to. It is a large building built from logs of many trees and can easily hold all sixty people in their Clan. There is even a dugout cellar where food is stored.
A couple children approach him, their faces already marked with their families own facial tattoo, and he places his hand upon their heads. Each one in turn feels his hand on their head, feels the pressure and strength in his bear paw sized hands, and then giggle when he releases them and ruffles their hair. Looking to his right, the mother of these two children stands in the doorway of her hut; she looks robust and ready to fight, clad in leather trousers, a top made of leather, brown rabbit fur, and a couple of turtle shells adhered as armor. Within arms reach in her hut, as well as every other dwelling in this clan, are several weapons in which the inhabitants will use to defend themselves.
Only the old, sick, young, and the new mothers ever fall back to the meeting hall. All others will fight to the death for their King. He may not be mighty in height but he is built like a Grizzly as far as strength. He is a Berserker, a warrior who has his fighting abilities enhanced by drugs and/or alcohol.
As he approaches the Hall, the smell of roasted meat, fresh baked bread, and roasted vegetables greet him and, when he steps through the door, a young man of about thirteen quickly approaches him. He carries a mug made of clay with a dark, steaming liquid within. The King sips from it as the boy scampers back over to where several men and women are cooking.
The King takes his seat in a Throne at the head of a long table. Men, women, and children enter the Hall with the elderly being led to their seats before anyone else. After several minutes the Hall is filled with people and their meal is brought over in bowls and on platters. A plank of wood is set on the table with a roast freshly carved and steaming on it. A pot full of porridge is also placed on the table and is dispensed to mostly the elderly.
A plate is filled with a little bit of everything and given to the King who waits for everyone else to have something in front of them. Everyone digs in and the room is filled with the sounds of a room enjoying a meal. Numerous conversations taking place at once and overlapping each other, utensils scraping against plates or bowls, and the odd chair squealing as someone pushes themselves away from the table.
Once the meal has pretty much finished, the King stands up at the head of the table with a stein of ale in hand. He takes a swallow from the stein while looking upon his Clan. They happily chat with one another, confident in their King to lead them to prosperity. He knows that, after the morning meal, a majority of the camp will begin to train for battle while a small handful of Clan members will clean up the camp and prepare lunch.
His people quiet down and turn their attention to their King. He drains the stein and wipes the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. They watch him, waiting to hear what he has to say, devoted to him. He knows each and every one of them would sacrifice themselves to ensure He remains King.
”A False Prophet has risen is the East. He has weak minded fools joining his Church of Misery and they are turning their eyes on Us! We must be prepared! When they come, and they will, they will come whispering ever so quietly, to draw you in. And when you lean in to hear better, they will draw their dagger out from its sheath and slice your throat!” his voice responds well to the acoustics of the Hall.
”When they come we will be ready. We are going to double-down on our training and we already have scouts watching to signal the Prophets approach. His words may be empty but his strength is real! I shall slay this Prophet and will hang his head over the Hall door!” he bellows and his Clan erupts in an approving uproar.
He can’t help but smile watching his Clan filter out of the Hall, eager to go to War if needed and ready to fall for their King. And, if the time should come when the Prophet indeed does arrive, he is ready to face him in battle Himself. Each and every one of his people will imbibe the slurry of mushrooms and mead and whip themselves into a frenzy.
And their King will drink the same slurry only he will also smoke a mixture of different plants and herbs. They will bring on a feeling of invincibility and fearlessness will numbing any sense of pain.
He is the last one to exit the Hall, aside from those who are staying behind to clean and prepare for the next meal. He steps outside; the sun has risen and his people are going about their daily business. He reaches up and takes the medallion in his hand and rubs it with his thumb. He uses his thumb to trace the outline of the demons face on the medallion while day dreaming of crows picking out the eyes of the Prophet’s bloated corpse.
He knows the inevitable war will cost many lives. Many of his own people will be cut down like wheat being felled by the scythe but nothing can prevent it. A False Prophet and his chattle against this Berserker and his Clan of like-minded warriors. Hell will soon have many new residents. But King BRADDOCK won’t be among them…
Monday evening. Upstart House in Los Angeles
When the camera opens on the Outcast World Champion, it is sometime after dark and he is kicked back in a lounge chair. The belt is set up next to him in an empty chair and on a table to his left are several cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He takes a swig from one of those cans and sets it back on the table. He is wearing a pair of baggy Grey Dickies, a black t-shirt with the “O.C.W.” logo across the chest and a pair of black waffle stompers.
He lets out a belch before starting. ”Anarchy’s big man, Konstantine, and I have been scheduled to show the World what brutality truly looks like. A ‘No Holds Barred’ match between two men who are prone to violence and eager to prove that we are the most violent man on the Roster. I am the Blood Fighter, the Anti-Icon, and the World Champion for a reason.”
He drains the rest of the can before crushing it against his skull and tossing it aside. ”You mentioned the Asylum, insinuating that they were out there in support of you. Go back and watch the tape, Father Flanigan, you came out after they did. Speaking of the Asylum, I have already let them know how I feel about them directly disobeying me when I told them to stay out of the match. Their ‘aid' didn’t help me and, potentially, could have cost me the match.
You, however, came out and nullified Synn and her helper. I then went on to nearly decapitate Donnie Harris and do what nobody thought I could do. Now I am the Champ and I'd have to be a fool to not know that I have a bull’s-eye branded on my back. Rather than cower like most would I embrace it. I love a good fight and the target will hopefully attract some worthy opponents.”
He leans forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, his eyes hard as the gold on His Outcast World Championship. ” I’m no King, Konstantine. Far from it. I’d be more closer to a Warlord who seized control using the persuasion of Power. I won this belt by bein the Best and I’m gonna keep it bein the most Ruthless.
Massachusetts is gonna play host to our War. Neither of us will walk out the same man we were when the match started. You will leave with you Congregation still be there and my Outcast World Championship will still be with me. I’ma expose you as the False Prophet you truly are…” he says before leaning back in the chair. He pops the top on another Pabst and, as the scene fades out, he trips his head back and begins draining the can of brew.
He is clad in merely a loin cloth and moccasins that have been stained black. Around his neck hangs a golden medallion; the face of a snarling demon has been etched into both sides of the medallion. His body is a tapestry of ink; his legs, torso, arms, neck and face….everything has something tattooed on it.
He begins walking towards the sky high Redwood which shelters the villages main hall. It is where they convene for meals, meetings, celebrations, and where the women, children and the weak retreat to. It is a large building built from logs of many trees and can easily hold all sixty people in their Clan. There is even a dugout cellar where food is stored.
A couple children approach him, their faces already marked with their families own facial tattoo, and he places his hand upon their heads. Each one in turn feels his hand on their head, feels the pressure and strength in his bear paw sized hands, and then giggle when he releases them and ruffles their hair. Looking to his right, the mother of these two children stands in the doorway of her hut; she looks robust and ready to fight, clad in leather trousers, a top made of leather, brown rabbit fur, and a couple of turtle shells adhered as armor. Within arms reach in her hut, as well as every other dwelling in this clan, are several weapons in which the inhabitants will use to defend themselves.
Only the old, sick, young, and the new mothers ever fall back to the meeting hall. All others will fight to the death for their King. He may not be mighty in height but he is built like a Grizzly as far as strength. He is a Berserker, a warrior who has his fighting abilities enhanced by drugs and/or alcohol.
As he approaches the Hall, the smell of roasted meat, fresh baked bread, and roasted vegetables greet him and, when he steps through the door, a young man of about thirteen quickly approaches him. He carries a mug made of clay with a dark, steaming liquid within. The King sips from it as the boy scampers back over to where several men and women are cooking.
The King takes his seat in a Throne at the head of a long table. Men, women, and children enter the Hall with the elderly being led to their seats before anyone else. After several minutes the Hall is filled with people and their meal is brought over in bowls and on platters. A plank of wood is set on the table with a roast freshly carved and steaming on it. A pot full of porridge is also placed on the table and is dispensed to mostly the elderly.
A plate is filled with a little bit of everything and given to the King who waits for everyone else to have something in front of them. Everyone digs in and the room is filled with the sounds of a room enjoying a meal. Numerous conversations taking place at once and overlapping each other, utensils scraping against plates or bowls, and the odd chair squealing as someone pushes themselves away from the table.
Once the meal has pretty much finished, the King stands up at the head of the table with a stein of ale in hand. He takes a swallow from the stein while looking upon his Clan. They happily chat with one another, confident in their King to lead them to prosperity. He knows that, after the morning meal, a majority of the camp will begin to train for battle while a small handful of Clan members will clean up the camp and prepare lunch.
His people quiet down and turn their attention to their King. He drains the stein and wipes the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. They watch him, waiting to hear what he has to say, devoted to him. He knows each and every one of them would sacrifice themselves to ensure He remains King.
”A False Prophet has risen is the East. He has weak minded fools joining his Church of Misery and they are turning their eyes on Us! We must be prepared! When they come, and they will, they will come whispering ever so quietly, to draw you in. And when you lean in to hear better, they will draw their dagger out from its sheath and slice your throat!” his voice responds well to the acoustics of the Hall.
”When they come we will be ready. We are going to double-down on our training and we already have scouts watching to signal the Prophets approach. His words may be empty but his strength is real! I shall slay this Prophet and will hang his head over the Hall door!” he bellows and his Clan erupts in an approving uproar.
He can’t help but smile watching his Clan filter out of the Hall, eager to go to War if needed and ready to fall for their King. And, if the time should come when the Prophet indeed does arrive, he is ready to face him in battle Himself. Each and every one of his people will imbibe the slurry of mushrooms and mead and whip themselves into a frenzy.
And their King will drink the same slurry only he will also smoke a mixture of different plants and herbs. They will bring on a feeling of invincibility and fearlessness will numbing any sense of pain.
He is the last one to exit the Hall, aside from those who are staying behind to clean and prepare for the next meal. He steps outside; the sun has risen and his people are going about their daily business. He reaches up and takes the medallion in his hand and rubs it with his thumb. He uses his thumb to trace the outline of the demons face on the medallion while day dreaming of crows picking out the eyes of the Prophet’s bloated corpse.
He knows the inevitable war will cost many lives. Many of his own people will be cut down like wheat being felled by the scythe but nothing can prevent it. A False Prophet and his chattle against this Berserker and his Clan of like-minded warriors. Hell will soon have many new residents. But King BRADDOCK won’t be among them…
Monday evening. Upstart House in Los Angeles
When the camera opens on the Outcast World Champion, it is sometime after dark and he is kicked back in a lounge chair. The belt is set up next to him in an empty chair and on a table to his left are several cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He takes a swig from one of those cans and sets it back on the table. He is wearing a pair of baggy Grey Dickies, a black t-shirt with the “O.C.W.” logo across the chest and a pair of black waffle stompers.
He lets out a belch before starting. ”Anarchy’s big man, Konstantine, and I have been scheduled to show the World what brutality truly looks like. A ‘No Holds Barred’ match between two men who are prone to violence and eager to prove that we are the most violent man on the Roster. I am the Blood Fighter, the Anti-Icon, and the World Champion for a reason.”
He drains the rest of the can before crushing it against his skull and tossing it aside. ”You mentioned the Asylum, insinuating that they were out there in support of you. Go back and watch the tape, Father Flanigan, you came out after they did. Speaking of the Asylum, I have already let them know how I feel about them directly disobeying me when I told them to stay out of the match. Their ‘aid' didn’t help me and, potentially, could have cost me the match.
You, however, came out and nullified Synn and her helper. I then went on to nearly decapitate Donnie Harris and do what nobody thought I could do. Now I am the Champ and I'd have to be a fool to not know that I have a bull’s-eye branded on my back. Rather than cower like most would I embrace it. I love a good fight and the target will hopefully attract some worthy opponents.”
He leans forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, his eyes hard as the gold on His Outcast World Championship. ” I’m no King, Konstantine. Far from it. I’d be more closer to a Warlord who seized control using the persuasion of Power. I won this belt by bein the Best and I’m gonna keep it bein the most Ruthless.
Massachusetts is gonna play host to our War. Neither of us will walk out the same man we were when the match started. You will leave with you Congregation still be there and my Outcast World Championship will still be with me. I’ma expose you as the False Prophet you truly are…” he says before leaning back in the chair. He pops the top on another Pabst and, as the scene fades out, he trips his head back and begins draining the can of brew.