Post by capello on Aug 20, 2024 23:29:56 GMT -5
“What do you mean clown?”
Nymeria scowls at her close (yet irritating) friend Kharos. His manic smirk was only made more apparent by his always applied battle paint. The sprawling chaos of colors both showed nothing and everything.
The command tent was illuminated by several torches with a detail yet heavily marked map dominating the middle table showing several cities and fortifications.
“You heard me Nymeria! Mordain is talking about you all around the camp, saying you have no chance if you two were to draw blades. I think he ev-“
“Think? Or know? You know I hate gossip—it’s for children and washerwomen.”
“KnOw you oversized Medusa! I know he does not respect you as a fellow champion of the Empress’s Army. But someone dashing and handsome MAY have reminded him being only slightly does not make a true champion.”
Kharos leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. “You know what’s really driving Mordain, don’t you? His little friend Vulpes and that sister of his, Viktoria. They’re the talk of the camp—true champions, everyone says.”
Nymeria’s expression darkened, her gaze fixed on the map as if she could burn through it with sheer disdain. “True champions?” she scoffed. “They’re nothing but self-serving mercenaries. The only thing they’re champions of is their own damn pockets.”
Kharos smirked. “And now Mordain, the poor idiot, thinks he can bask in their reflected glory. It’s pathetic, really. As if their success could somehow rub off on him.”
Nymeria’s lips curled into a cold smile. “He’s a fool if he thinks he can ride their coattails and challenge me. Vulpes and Viktoria may have fooled the others, but I see them for what they are. And Mordain? He’s just another tool in their little game.”
Kharos chuckled, shaking his head. “A tool with delusions of grandeur.”
Nymeria straightened, her voice taking on a commanding edge. “When we face him, we’ll remind him of his place—beneath us. If he thinks he can measure up, he’s more deluded than I thought.”
Kharos nodded, his tone serious now. “We’ll cut him down to size. Just say the word.”
Nymeria’s gaze flickered with determination. “He’ll learn soon enough that being a lackey to those two doesn’t make him a champion. It makes him a pawn. And I don’t lose to pawns.”
Kharos stared at the map, but his mind clearly wasn’t on strategy. He suddenly erupted into a fit of laughter, loud and jarring in the confined space of the tent. “Did you see their faces? The royal guards, all puffed up with pride, thinking they could take us. And then—bam! Down they went, like puppets with their strings cut!”
Nymeria’s expression remained stern, but a flicker of amusement crossed her eyes. “They were weak, Kharos. It was necessary to remind the Empress what real strength looks like.”
Kharos, still chuckling, began to pace around the tent, his energy almost manic. “Weakness? Oh, it was more than that! It was… delightful! Watching them scramble, trying to keep up—like rats in a maze, with no cheese at the end!” He spun on his heel to face Nymeria, a wild grin on his face. “We didn’t just defeat them, we humiliated them! And the Empress? She had a front-row seat to the spectacle!”
Nymeria allowed herself a smirk, feeding off Kharos’s erratic energy. “The Empress values strength, but she despises failure. Those guards were nothing but failures.”
Kharos leaned in, his eyes wide with excitement. “And Dontanos? The Empress’s golden boy? Imagine the chaos when you take him down! His perfect little world will crumble, and the Empress—oh, she’ll love the chaos, Nymeria! She might even thank you for it!”
Nymeria’s smile was sharp as a blade. “Dontanos is the pinnacle of strength, but I’ll show him—and the Empress—that even the strongest can fall. When I defeat him, there won’t be any doubt about who the true champion is.”
Kharos clapped his hands together, almost giddy with anticipation. “And I’ll be right there, watching it all unfold! The glorious chaos, the shock, the disbelief! Oh, Nymeria, it’s going to be beautiful—like a symphony of destruction!”
Nymeria’s voice was steady, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “And when it’s over, the Empress will see who she can truly rely on.”
Kharos twirled away, arms outstretched as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “Yes! Let the games begin, Nymeria! Let’s bring down the golden boy and watch the world burn around him!”
Nymeria’s expression shifted, a cold, dark resolve settling in her eyes. “As for Mordain… he’s a loose end. A weak link that needs to be severed. His arrogance, his foolishness—it’s a stain on the Empress’s army. He doesn’t deserve to draw another breath, let alone carry a blade.”
Kharos’s grin widened, his eyes glittering with dark excitement. “Oh, I like where this is going. It’s about time someone put him out of his misery. Think of the chaos it would cause—the whispers, the fear. It would be glorious, Nymeria.”
Nymeria’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “I want to end him, Kharos. Not just defeat him—destroy him. Leave nothing behind but a memory of his failure. Let him be a warning to the others.”
Kharos nodded, his expression wild with anticipation. “A bloody, beautiful warning. I can see it now… his lifeless body, a symbol of what happens when you cross the true champions.”
But before Nymeria could respond, the flap of the tent was pulled back, and a runner burst in, his face pale with fear. “My l-lady Nymeria, Lord Kharos—the Empress demands your presence. Immediately.”
Nymeria and Kharos exchanged a glance, the atmosphere in the tent growing even more tense. The Empress’s sudden summons was ominous, especially after their recent actions.
Nymeria stood tall, her voice steady. “Very well. Lead the way.”
As they followed the runner out of the tent, Kharos’s earlier excitement dimmed slightly, replaced with a wary curiosity. “You think she knows?”
Nymeria’s eyes narrowed as they walked. “Perhaps. But whatever the reason, we face it head-on. And if this is about what we’ve done, then so be it. We’ll remind her why she needs us.”
Kharos’s smirk returned, though more subdued. “I hope it’s something fun. I’m itching for more chaos.”
Nymeria didn’t reply, but her silence spoke volumes. Whatever awaited them, she was ready.
As Nymeria and Kharos approached the grand throne room, they were greeted by the sight of tall, imposing pillars draped in rich tapestries, each bearing the emblem of Empress Britalia’s rule. The air was thick with the weight of authority, and as they entered, the sound of a herald’s voice echoed through the hall.
“Bow before Her Radiance, the Empress Britalia, Mistress of the Iron Throne, Sovereign of the Seven Realms, Guardian of the Sacred Flame, and Unyielding Blade of the Empire!” The herald’s voice was clear and commanding, a reminder of the immense power wielded by the woman seated on the throne.
Nymeria and Kharos knelt before Empress Britalia, heads bowed in deference. The Empress herself was a vision of regal power, her gaze sharp and unyielding as she looked down at the pair. Her presence filled the room, exuding a calm authority that left no doubt as to who was in control.
“Rise,” she commanded, her voice smooth yet laced with an undercurrent of steel.
Nymeria and Kharos rose to their feet, meeting her gaze with a mix of respect and caution.
The Empress studied them for a long moment before she spoke again. “I’ve heard troubling reports of your recent… actions. Disrespect toward the royal guards, undermining the very foundations of my army. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
There was no fear in Britalia’s voice—only a calculated coldness that sent a chill through the room. She was not one to be trifled with, and her words were a reminder of the delicate line Nymeria and Kharos walked.
Nymeria, ever composed, spoke first. “Your Majesty, we meant no disrespect. Our actions were in service to the Empire, to ensure that only the strongest remain at your side.”
Kharos, though typically chaotic, knew better than to let his usual demeanor slip in the presence of the Empress. “We wanted to show that weakness has no place in your army, Your Radiance. We serve only to strengthen your rule.”
Britalia’s gaze didn’t waver. “Strength, yes. But what you fail to understand is that strength is more than just brute force. It’s discipline, honor, loyalty. The glory and honor you both hold so dear were allowed by me. They were gifts—gifts that can be taken away just as easily.”
Nymeria felt the weight of those words but did not flinch. “We are grateful for the honor you have bestowed upon us, Your Majesty. And we will continue to prove our loyalty, through whatever means necessary.”
The Empress’s expression softened, just slightly, though her voice remained firm. “See that you do. I do not tolerate insubordination, no matter how skilled the offender may be. Remember, it was I who elevated you, and it is I who can cast you down.”
There was a silence, heavy with the unspoken warning. Kharos, usually quick with a quip, remained silent, his chaotic energy subdued in the face of Britalia’s undeniable authority.
Finally, the Empress nodded. “Go now. And remember the privilege of the glory and honor you carry. Do not make me remind you again.”
As Nymeria and Kharos were about to leave, Empress Britalia’s voice cut through the silence, stopping them in their tracks. “One more thing… Mordain.”
Nymeria’s eyes flickered with barely contained disdain, and before she could stop herself, the words slipped out. “He’s nothing, Your Majesty. A coward hiding behind the success of others.”
The room fell into a tense silence as Nymeria realized she had spoken out of turn. Kharos shot her a sideways glance, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips, but he quickly masked it.
Britalia’s gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing as she regarded Nymeria. For a moment, the tension in the air was palpable, but then the Empress’s lips curved into a cold smile. “You’re bold, Nymeria, to speak so freely in my presence. But perhaps this boldness is exactly what’s needed to settle this matter.”
Nymeria, sensing an opportunity, met Britalia’s gaze with unwavering determination. “Mordain is a stain on your army, Your Majesty. He hides behind the glory of others, but he has none of his own.”
The Empress considered her words carefully before responding. “Very well. Let us see if your confidence is well-placed.” She rose from her throne, her voice carrying the weight of her authority. “I sanction a one-on-one duel between you and Mordain. A true test of strength and skill, with no room for excuses.”
Nymeria’s heart surged with dark satisfaction, but Britalia wasn’t finished. “However, there will be conditions. Vulpes and Kharos are forbidden from interfering, on pain of exile. This is between you and Mordain alone. The outcome will determine your standing in my army.”
Kharos’s usual chaotic energy seemed to waver for a moment, his expression tightening at the mention of exile. Nymeria, however, remained resolute. “As you command, Your Majesty. I will show him—and the entire army—what true strength is.”
Britalia nodded, her expression inscrutable. “Then it is settled. Prepare yourselves. The duel will take place in a fortnight. May the strongest prevail.”
“Listen up, you sorry excuse for a wrestler—Scotty Thorne! Or should I say J. Mont’s glorified ball gobbler? You think you’re something special, don’t you? Strutting around, trying to ride on the coattails of your master. Let me make one thing perfectly clear: you’re nothing more than a fucking joke!
Thorne I need you to accept YOU are a pathetic little pawn in J. Mont’s game, a feeble reflection of his arrogance. You don’t have an ounce of true identity. You’re a nothing, a nobody, and your whole existence is a fucking embarrassment. You’re here to play the part of a fighter, but you’re just a weak imitation of someone who’s actually worth a damn.
AT LEAST HIS LITTLE FUCKING SISTER HAS
A.
REAL.
FUCKING.
BELT.
That Revival championship you have made sure to let everyone know about?
Let’s be real. That belt’s only purpose is to make people like you feel a little less irrelevant. It’s not about real skill or true competition. It’s about padding the ego of someone who couldn’t cut it anywhere else. And you? You’re a prime example of why it’s a joke.
Thorne, let’s get real for a fucking second. Why in the hell did you ever think you were on my level? What kind of delusional, pathetic fool convinced you that you belong in the same ring as me? It’s laughable, and honestly, it’s downright insulting.
You’re nothing but a pretentious little shit, playing dress-up with that Revival Championship like it actually means something. You’re a second-rate wannabe with delusions of grandeur, thinking you’re on par with someone who actually fucking matters. News flash, you—you’re a goddamn joke.
I’m going to expose you for the fraud you are. I’m going to dismantle you so thoroughly that you’ll be left with nothing but the bitter taste of your own failure….and maybe a little Mont cock.
I’ll make sure everyone sees you for what you truly are: a worthless, delusional piece of trash who doesn’t even come close to being real fucking competition.
Now why don’t you go fuck off and whine till you get another shot you don’t deserve.”
Nymeria scowls at her close (yet irritating) friend Kharos. His manic smirk was only made more apparent by his always applied battle paint. The sprawling chaos of colors both showed nothing and everything.
The command tent was illuminated by several torches with a detail yet heavily marked map dominating the middle table showing several cities and fortifications.
“You heard me Nymeria! Mordain is talking about you all around the camp, saying you have no chance if you two were to draw blades. I think he ev-“
“Think? Or know? You know I hate gossip—it’s for children and washerwomen.”
“KnOw you oversized Medusa! I know he does not respect you as a fellow champion of the Empress’s Army. But someone dashing and handsome MAY have reminded him being only slightly does not make a true champion.”
Kharos leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. “You know what’s really driving Mordain, don’t you? His little friend Vulpes and that sister of his, Viktoria. They’re the talk of the camp—true champions, everyone says.”
Nymeria’s expression darkened, her gaze fixed on the map as if she could burn through it with sheer disdain. “True champions?” she scoffed. “They’re nothing but self-serving mercenaries. The only thing they’re champions of is their own damn pockets.”
Kharos smirked. “And now Mordain, the poor idiot, thinks he can bask in their reflected glory. It’s pathetic, really. As if their success could somehow rub off on him.”
Nymeria’s lips curled into a cold smile. “He’s a fool if he thinks he can ride their coattails and challenge me. Vulpes and Viktoria may have fooled the others, but I see them for what they are. And Mordain? He’s just another tool in their little game.”
Kharos chuckled, shaking his head. “A tool with delusions of grandeur.”
Nymeria straightened, her voice taking on a commanding edge. “When we face him, we’ll remind him of his place—beneath us. If he thinks he can measure up, he’s more deluded than I thought.”
Kharos nodded, his tone serious now. “We’ll cut him down to size. Just say the word.”
Nymeria’s gaze flickered with determination. “He’ll learn soon enough that being a lackey to those two doesn’t make him a champion. It makes him a pawn. And I don’t lose to pawns.”
Kharos stared at the map, but his mind clearly wasn’t on strategy. He suddenly erupted into a fit of laughter, loud and jarring in the confined space of the tent. “Did you see their faces? The royal guards, all puffed up with pride, thinking they could take us. And then—bam! Down they went, like puppets with their strings cut!”
Nymeria’s expression remained stern, but a flicker of amusement crossed her eyes. “They were weak, Kharos. It was necessary to remind the Empress what real strength looks like.”
Kharos, still chuckling, began to pace around the tent, his energy almost manic. “Weakness? Oh, it was more than that! It was… delightful! Watching them scramble, trying to keep up—like rats in a maze, with no cheese at the end!” He spun on his heel to face Nymeria, a wild grin on his face. “We didn’t just defeat them, we humiliated them! And the Empress? She had a front-row seat to the spectacle!”
Nymeria allowed herself a smirk, feeding off Kharos’s erratic energy. “The Empress values strength, but she despises failure. Those guards were nothing but failures.”
Kharos leaned in, his eyes wide with excitement. “And Dontanos? The Empress’s golden boy? Imagine the chaos when you take him down! His perfect little world will crumble, and the Empress—oh, she’ll love the chaos, Nymeria! She might even thank you for it!”
Nymeria’s smile was sharp as a blade. “Dontanos is the pinnacle of strength, but I’ll show him—and the Empress—that even the strongest can fall. When I defeat him, there won’t be any doubt about who the true champion is.”
Kharos clapped his hands together, almost giddy with anticipation. “And I’ll be right there, watching it all unfold! The glorious chaos, the shock, the disbelief! Oh, Nymeria, it’s going to be beautiful—like a symphony of destruction!”
Nymeria’s voice was steady, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “And when it’s over, the Empress will see who she can truly rely on.”
Kharos twirled away, arms outstretched as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “Yes! Let the games begin, Nymeria! Let’s bring down the golden boy and watch the world burn around him!”
Nymeria’s expression shifted, a cold, dark resolve settling in her eyes. “As for Mordain… he’s a loose end. A weak link that needs to be severed. His arrogance, his foolishness—it’s a stain on the Empress’s army. He doesn’t deserve to draw another breath, let alone carry a blade.”
Kharos’s grin widened, his eyes glittering with dark excitement. “Oh, I like where this is going. It’s about time someone put him out of his misery. Think of the chaos it would cause—the whispers, the fear. It would be glorious, Nymeria.”
Nymeria’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “I want to end him, Kharos. Not just defeat him—destroy him. Leave nothing behind but a memory of his failure. Let him be a warning to the others.”
Kharos nodded, his expression wild with anticipation. “A bloody, beautiful warning. I can see it now… his lifeless body, a symbol of what happens when you cross the true champions.”
But before Nymeria could respond, the flap of the tent was pulled back, and a runner burst in, his face pale with fear. “My l-lady Nymeria, Lord Kharos—the Empress demands your presence. Immediately.”
Nymeria and Kharos exchanged a glance, the atmosphere in the tent growing even more tense. The Empress’s sudden summons was ominous, especially after their recent actions.
Nymeria stood tall, her voice steady. “Very well. Lead the way.”
As they followed the runner out of the tent, Kharos’s earlier excitement dimmed slightly, replaced with a wary curiosity. “You think she knows?”
Nymeria’s eyes narrowed as they walked. “Perhaps. But whatever the reason, we face it head-on. And if this is about what we’ve done, then so be it. We’ll remind her why she needs us.”
Kharos’s smirk returned, though more subdued. “I hope it’s something fun. I’m itching for more chaos.”
Nymeria didn’t reply, but her silence spoke volumes. Whatever awaited them, she was ready.
As Nymeria and Kharos approached the grand throne room, they were greeted by the sight of tall, imposing pillars draped in rich tapestries, each bearing the emblem of Empress Britalia’s rule. The air was thick with the weight of authority, and as they entered, the sound of a herald’s voice echoed through the hall.
“Bow before Her Radiance, the Empress Britalia, Mistress of the Iron Throne, Sovereign of the Seven Realms, Guardian of the Sacred Flame, and Unyielding Blade of the Empire!” The herald’s voice was clear and commanding, a reminder of the immense power wielded by the woman seated on the throne.
Nymeria and Kharos knelt before Empress Britalia, heads bowed in deference. The Empress herself was a vision of regal power, her gaze sharp and unyielding as she looked down at the pair. Her presence filled the room, exuding a calm authority that left no doubt as to who was in control.
“Rise,” she commanded, her voice smooth yet laced with an undercurrent of steel.
Nymeria and Kharos rose to their feet, meeting her gaze with a mix of respect and caution.
The Empress studied them for a long moment before she spoke again. “I’ve heard troubling reports of your recent… actions. Disrespect toward the royal guards, undermining the very foundations of my army. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
There was no fear in Britalia’s voice—only a calculated coldness that sent a chill through the room. She was not one to be trifled with, and her words were a reminder of the delicate line Nymeria and Kharos walked.
Nymeria, ever composed, spoke first. “Your Majesty, we meant no disrespect. Our actions were in service to the Empire, to ensure that only the strongest remain at your side.”
Kharos, though typically chaotic, knew better than to let his usual demeanor slip in the presence of the Empress. “We wanted to show that weakness has no place in your army, Your Radiance. We serve only to strengthen your rule.”
Britalia’s gaze didn’t waver. “Strength, yes. But what you fail to understand is that strength is more than just brute force. It’s discipline, honor, loyalty. The glory and honor you both hold so dear were allowed by me. They were gifts—gifts that can be taken away just as easily.”
Nymeria felt the weight of those words but did not flinch. “We are grateful for the honor you have bestowed upon us, Your Majesty. And we will continue to prove our loyalty, through whatever means necessary.”
The Empress’s expression softened, just slightly, though her voice remained firm. “See that you do. I do not tolerate insubordination, no matter how skilled the offender may be. Remember, it was I who elevated you, and it is I who can cast you down.”
There was a silence, heavy with the unspoken warning. Kharos, usually quick with a quip, remained silent, his chaotic energy subdued in the face of Britalia’s undeniable authority.
Finally, the Empress nodded. “Go now. And remember the privilege of the glory and honor you carry. Do not make me remind you again.”
As Nymeria and Kharos were about to leave, Empress Britalia’s voice cut through the silence, stopping them in their tracks. “One more thing… Mordain.”
Nymeria’s eyes flickered with barely contained disdain, and before she could stop herself, the words slipped out. “He’s nothing, Your Majesty. A coward hiding behind the success of others.”
The room fell into a tense silence as Nymeria realized she had spoken out of turn. Kharos shot her a sideways glance, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips, but he quickly masked it.
Britalia’s gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing as she regarded Nymeria. For a moment, the tension in the air was palpable, but then the Empress’s lips curved into a cold smile. “You’re bold, Nymeria, to speak so freely in my presence. But perhaps this boldness is exactly what’s needed to settle this matter.”
Nymeria, sensing an opportunity, met Britalia’s gaze with unwavering determination. “Mordain is a stain on your army, Your Majesty. He hides behind the glory of others, but he has none of his own.”
The Empress considered her words carefully before responding. “Very well. Let us see if your confidence is well-placed.” She rose from her throne, her voice carrying the weight of her authority. “I sanction a one-on-one duel between you and Mordain. A true test of strength and skill, with no room for excuses.”
Nymeria’s heart surged with dark satisfaction, but Britalia wasn’t finished. “However, there will be conditions. Vulpes and Kharos are forbidden from interfering, on pain of exile. This is between you and Mordain alone. The outcome will determine your standing in my army.”
Kharos’s usual chaotic energy seemed to waver for a moment, his expression tightening at the mention of exile. Nymeria, however, remained resolute. “As you command, Your Majesty. I will show him—and the entire army—what true strength is.”
Britalia nodded, her expression inscrutable. “Then it is settled. Prepare yourselves. The duel will take place in a fortnight. May the strongest prevail.”
“Listen up, you sorry excuse for a wrestler—Scotty Thorne! Or should I say J. Mont’s glorified ball gobbler? You think you’re something special, don’t you? Strutting around, trying to ride on the coattails of your master. Let me make one thing perfectly clear: you’re nothing more than a fucking joke!
Thorne I need you to accept YOU are a pathetic little pawn in J. Mont’s game, a feeble reflection of his arrogance. You don’t have an ounce of true identity. You’re a nothing, a nobody, and your whole existence is a fucking embarrassment. You’re here to play the part of a fighter, but you’re just a weak imitation of someone who’s actually worth a damn.
AT LEAST HIS LITTLE FUCKING SISTER HAS
A.
REAL.
FUCKING.
BELT.
That Revival championship you have made sure to let everyone know about?
Let’s be real. That belt’s only purpose is to make people like you feel a little less irrelevant. It’s not about real skill or true competition. It’s about padding the ego of someone who couldn’t cut it anywhere else. And you? You’re a prime example of why it’s a joke.
Thorne, let’s get real for a fucking second. Why in the hell did you ever think you were on my level? What kind of delusional, pathetic fool convinced you that you belong in the same ring as me? It’s laughable, and honestly, it’s downright insulting.
You’re nothing but a pretentious little shit, playing dress-up with that Revival Championship like it actually means something. You’re a second-rate wannabe with delusions of grandeur, thinking you’re on par with someone who actually fucking matters. News flash, you—you’re a goddamn joke.
I’m going to expose you for the fraud you are. I’m going to dismantle you so thoroughly that you’ll be left with nothing but the bitter taste of your own failure….and maybe a little Mont cock.
I’ll make sure everyone sees you for what you truly are: a worthless, delusional piece of trash who doesn’t even come close to being real fucking competition.
Now why don’t you go fuck off and whine till you get another shot you don’t deserve.”