Post by Shawn Styles on May 4, 2010 14:36:38 GMT -6
There was once a wolf; proud and strong in stature, with white fur that glistened by the light of the sun and moon alike. His black eyes as deep and penetrating as the universal abyss that contains them. His life was one of envy, for he was the dominant King of his pack. Every female in the pack bore his pups, and every male, no matter how brazen or unwieldy, turned his head and averted his gaze each time the Alpha neared. There wasn’t a stronger leader or a more efficient killer in all the woods, and he ruled his pack for many moons.
The uprisings within the pack and battles for dominance had long since ended after his arrival. He took what he wanted by force, crippling the previous dominant male and leaving him for dead at the edge of the pack’s new territory. The females became his, and the males soon learned their places within the hierarchy. For a time, all was well.
When the first juvenile foolishly attempted to claim dominance, the King killed him. From then on, none would challenge his command. But the winds began to shift in a different direction. Even the most submissive wolves now glared at him from a safe distance before breaking their gaze to pursue small game, and the hunts he once led began to fail due to lacking communication between the pack members. Three went missing in a single chase, responding to neither scent nor sound, forever lost to the wilderness. Hunts became more and more rare with each passing week, and the younger wolves soon began to starve.
Even the most fearful and submissive creature will not stay that way forever. The final time he led his pack on a hunt, the pack's King learned that lesson the hard way. Now hungry and desperate, they waited for their leader to make the first move towards an injured deer, then seized the opportunity to end their struggle. One of them picked his legs from the side, while another came at him from behind, driving the King hard to the ground. He fought to his feet, only to fall again at the hands of another attack, this one from a lone wolf, as the others watched from a broken circle nearly fifteen feet around them.
They fought him one at a time so the chain of command would not be tarnished, but each fight weakened him more than the last. He fought valiantly, killing and wounding former members of his pack that would now see him dead, but his battle was in vain. In the end, their onslaught was too much, and they left him in a puddle of blood. His body was torn apart, his lungs filling more with sanguine liquid than life-giving oxygen, slowly each draw of a breath brought him closer to his death. His heartbeat slowed, and his eyes fell shut. The animals he once preyed upon now nudging his lifeless body as the first winter snowflakes fell to the ground.
Several times his eyes opened and then seemingly closed as soon as he regained consciousness, plunging him back into the unforgiving darkness. But, there finally came a time when they opened and stayed open. How long he had been unconscious, he did not know, but a layer of snow now blanketed all that he could see. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him, and a high-pitched yelp sent the last of the straggling birds down south as he fell back to the ground. His mind nearly slipped from him once more, but he withstood the pain to stay awake. To stay alive.
Blood seeping from the backs of his legs, tendons and muscles torn from the bone, the former King of the woods forced himself to crawl across the barren whiteness. Leaving a trail of deep red leading any hungry predators his way. For what seemed like an eternity, he tried to escape all the elements of nature that now preyed upon him, but his pain-wracked body wouldn’t carry him out of sight of the crimson snow that betrayed his condition. As night began to fall, he found something of a shelter: A ridge of soil frozen by the dropping temperature hung over the ground below, creating a pseudo-cove that would have to do, given the circumstances. Without a second thought to what may come for him during the night, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
His sleep was far from a peaceful one. Had he been a domesticated animal, humans would have marveled and cooed at how his legs kicked and a deep-throated growl intimidated unseen creatures in a make-believe world. In reality, those movements and sounds may have saved his life, turning away the advances of curious scavengers looking for a meal, but not a fight. Even until morning, his growls and barks could be heard in the distance, a warning beacon to all within range that, at least in his subconscious, he was no easy prey.
For several nights, he dreamed the exact same dream. Even down to the actions and vocalizations, it was the same every time. He was alone, hunting. His eyesight blurred, creating a tunnel vision that pinpointed one thing in front of him. Everything around him was nothing, all that mattered was all he saw. Chasing his prey, he felt the strength of his ancestors flowing through his veins, making him faster and stronger than he had ever been before. He howled once, then again, the wind cutting through his thick coat and slapping the skin beneath, the cold air burning his lungs with each breath. He hit his prey with the full power of a Mack truck, crushing its ribs with a single blow. Staring down at the wounded animal, which now begged for mercy, he looked deep into its eyes. He seen nothing inside the eyes of his enemy except fear. He then ripped out its throat.
Days turned to weeks, and his wounds slowly healed. But his body still hurt. He hadn’t eaten since the attack, and the only water he found was in the snow around him. The healing process took a lot out of him, leaving his body weakened and mind disoriented, while the hunger became an incessant need that haunted him with each passing second, refusing to allow him sleep. Then finally, through all the illusions, he saw it. Blurry at first, but he could smell it better than anything, a smell that seemed like a distant memory from another life. Prey.
Painfully, he rose to his feet. His knees shook, and his legs threatened to collapse under his weight, but he held firm. In front of him, the rabbit’s nose twitched, and it hopped to one side. The wolf’s eyes instinctively caught the movement and locked onto it, his nose rapidly pulsating as the scent of warm flesh filled his nostrils. His actions were no longer his own. It was as if he were dreaming again, but the pain in his body told him otherwise. Twice his legs gave out on him, but instinct refused to release its death grip on his throat, pulling him nearer and nearer to the prey that seemed to stop and taunt him each time he fell. And, finally, when his body felt as if it could take no more, he drove his fangs into the rabbit’s hide and broke its back with a single snap of his head. Exhausted from the chase, he lay where his kill fell, gorging himself on innards that still pulsed with blood, before drifting off to sleep once more.
He maintained a low profile throughout the winter months, subsisting off what little there was left to hunt, reserving his strength for the spring. Not many lone wolves survive long in the wild, and even fewer escape the harshness of winter with their lives. But he endured the cold and the hunger and the pain, for he knew his vengeance would be felt a thousandfold.
With the melting of the snow also came a renewal of life. Various birds returned from their lengthy migration, and the abundance of game meant pack animals would be on the loose. His wounds healed, and he was filled again with new life, and a new urge. The urge to find a new pack to call his own, and claim dominance once more. ENTER NEW CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING. He had an urge to take his seat once again, upon his throne. It took several days to finally find them, using only what god had given him, his primitive instinct. He sniffed, tracked and lurked until he finally caught sight of a new pack of wolves, his soon to be, new followers. He patiently crawled alongside them, never letting them even catch wind of him until it was too late. A young group of wolves out on a halfhearted hunt were no match for the experienced killer, and the cries of pain that echoed throughout the woods warned the rest of the pack that a new king was abroad.
When night fell, the pair watching over the sleeping pack were snuffed from existence without effort. He quickly began to make short work of what the new pack threw at him, tearing their throats out as they slept helplessly, oblivious to their own death standing right above them. He mercifully let some live, knowing they’d spread out to neighboring packs and warn them of what was coming, but nothing could stop him now. His own brothers had turned their backs on him, and he would ensure that this new pack would pay for injustice thrown upon him just one season ago.
Death covered all around him. It was in the air he breathed, drifting high into the cloud. It was on the ground he walked, soaking deep within the earth. And it was in his soul, darkening it until there was light no more. Death was everywhere, and it was everything. Death was everything but he.
An entire pack lay brutalized, some still gasping their dying breaths, others trying to crawl away in vain. But most of them had long since died, their hollow eyes staring holes into nothing. Then, he heard it. Low at first, but growing steadily, a growl. Not unlike his own, but more desperate, more unpredictable. He turned his head, and his eyes beheld a sight he had waited to see since he first regained consciousness after being left for dead. The leader, the one he was set to dethrone. The lone defender left of the once proud, now brutalized new pack now stood before him, teeth bared, ready to defend his crippled pack to the death. His own teeth bared, and the two dove for each other.
Claws cut skin, teeth gnashed through bone, and blood spilled with to the moist ground. Instinct had long since taken over, leaving both animals feral, locked in a state of kill-or-be-killed. Hatred flooded them, and they delighted in the pain they inflicted upon each other, and the sound of flesh tearing away from the muscle, and muscle from the bone. However, when the final blow came, it came not from the reigning king, but from the new Alpha Male, the one about to commit regicide. He stood over a once proud and dominate king, the victor, as the rest of "his" pack stood back and watched. He plunged in with one final blow, sinking his sharp teeth into his opponent's throat. And he watched as the former leader stared up at him until all life left his eyes and they fell into emptiness.
The King was dead. All hail the new ruler of New Championship Wrestling. Long live the King.
The uprisings within the pack and battles for dominance had long since ended after his arrival. He took what he wanted by force, crippling the previous dominant male and leaving him for dead at the edge of the pack’s new territory. The females became his, and the males soon learned their places within the hierarchy. For a time, all was well.
When the first juvenile foolishly attempted to claim dominance, the King killed him. From then on, none would challenge his command. But the winds began to shift in a different direction. Even the most submissive wolves now glared at him from a safe distance before breaking their gaze to pursue small game, and the hunts he once led began to fail due to lacking communication between the pack members. Three went missing in a single chase, responding to neither scent nor sound, forever lost to the wilderness. Hunts became more and more rare with each passing week, and the younger wolves soon began to starve.
Even the most fearful and submissive creature will not stay that way forever. The final time he led his pack on a hunt, the pack's King learned that lesson the hard way. Now hungry and desperate, they waited for their leader to make the first move towards an injured deer, then seized the opportunity to end their struggle. One of them picked his legs from the side, while another came at him from behind, driving the King hard to the ground. He fought to his feet, only to fall again at the hands of another attack, this one from a lone wolf, as the others watched from a broken circle nearly fifteen feet around them.
They fought him one at a time so the chain of command would not be tarnished, but each fight weakened him more than the last. He fought valiantly, killing and wounding former members of his pack that would now see him dead, but his battle was in vain. In the end, their onslaught was too much, and they left him in a puddle of blood. His body was torn apart, his lungs filling more with sanguine liquid than life-giving oxygen, slowly each draw of a breath brought him closer to his death. His heartbeat slowed, and his eyes fell shut. The animals he once preyed upon now nudging his lifeless body as the first winter snowflakes fell to the ground.
Several times his eyes opened and then seemingly closed as soon as he regained consciousness, plunging him back into the unforgiving darkness. But, there finally came a time when they opened and stayed open. How long he had been unconscious, he did not know, but a layer of snow now blanketed all that he could see. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him, and a high-pitched yelp sent the last of the straggling birds down south as he fell back to the ground. His mind nearly slipped from him once more, but he withstood the pain to stay awake. To stay alive.
Blood seeping from the backs of his legs, tendons and muscles torn from the bone, the former King of the woods forced himself to crawl across the barren whiteness. Leaving a trail of deep red leading any hungry predators his way. For what seemed like an eternity, he tried to escape all the elements of nature that now preyed upon him, but his pain-wracked body wouldn’t carry him out of sight of the crimson snow that betrayed his condition. As night began to fall, he found something of a shelter: A ridge of soil frozen by the dropping temperature hung over the ground below, creating a pseudo-cove that would have to do, given the circumstances. Without a second thought to what may come for him during the night, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
His sleep was far from a peaceful one. Had he been a domesticated animal, humans would have marveled and cooed at how his legs kicked and a deep-throated growl intimidated unseen creatures in a make-believe world. In reality, those movements and sounds may have saved his life, turning away the advances of curious scavengers looking for a meal, but not a fight. Even until morning, his growls and barks could be heard in the distance, a warning beacon to all within range that, at least in his subconscious, he was no easy prey.
For several nights, he dreamed the exact same dream. Even down to the actions and vocalizations, it was the same every time. He was alone, hunting. His eyesight blurred, creating a tunnel vision that pinpointed one thing in front of him. Everything around him was nothing, all that mattered was all he saw. Chasing his prey, he felt the strength of his ancestors flowing through his veins, making him faster and stronger than he had ever been before. He howled once, then again, the wind cutting through his thick coat and slapping the skin beneath, the cold air burning his lungs with each breath. He hit his prey with the full power of a Mack truck, crushing its ribs with a single blow. Staring down at the wounded animal, which now begged for mercy, he looked deep into its eyes. He seen nothing inside the eyes of his enemy except fear. He then ripped out its throat.
Days turned to weeks, and his wounds slowly healed. But his body still hurt. He hadn’t eaten since the attack, and the only water he found was in the snow around him. The healing process took a lot out of him, leaving his body weakened and mind disoriented, while the hunger became an incessant need that haunted him with each passing second, refusing to allow him sleep. Then finally, through all the illusions, he saw it. Blurry at first, but he could smell it better than anything, a smell that seemed like a distant memory from another life. Prey.
Painfully, he rose to his feet. His knees shook, and his legs threatened to collapse under his weight, but he held firm. In front of him, the rabbit’s nose twitched, and it hopped to one side. The wolf’s eyes instinctively caught the movement and locked onto it, his nose rapidly pulsating as the scent of warm flesh filled his nostrils. His actions were no longer his own. It was as if he were dreaming again, but the pain in his body told him otherwise. Twice his legs gave out on him, but instinct refused to release its death grip on his throat, pulling him nearer and nearer to the prey that seemed to stop and taunt him each time he fell. And, finally, when his body felt as if it could take no more, he drove his fangs into the rabbit’s hide and broke its back with a single snap of his head. Exhausted from the chase, he lay where his kill fell, gorging himself on innards that still pulsed with blood, before drifting off to sleep once more.
He maintained a low profile throughout the winter months, subsisting off what little there was left to hunt, reserving his strength for the spring. Not many lone wolves survive long in the wild, and even fewer escape the harshness of winter with their lives. But he endured the cold and the hunger and the pain, for he knew his vengeance would be felt a thousandfold.
With the melting of the snow also came a renewal of life. Various birds returned from their lengthy migration, and the abundance of game meant pack animals would be on the loose. His wounds healed, and he was filled again with new life, and a new urge. The urge to find a new pack to call his own, and claim dominance once more. ENTER NEW CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING. He had an urge to take his seat once again, upon his throne. It took several days to finally find them, using only what god had given him, his primitive instinct. He sniffed, tracked and lurked until he finally caught sight of a new pack of wolves, his soon to be, new followers. He patiently crawled alongside them, never letting them even catch wind of him until it was too late. A young group of wolves out on a halfhearted hunt were no match for the experienced killer, and the cries of pain that echoed throughout the woods warned the rest of the pack that a new king was abroad.
When night fell, the pair watching over the sleeping pack were snuffed from existence without effort. He quickly began to make short work of what the new pack threw at him, tearing their throats out as they slept helplessly, oblivious to their own death standing right above them. He mercifully let some live, knowing they’d spread out to neighboring packs and warn them of what was coming, but nothing could stop him now. His own brothers had turned their backs on him, and he would ensure that this new pack would pay for injustice thrown upon him just one season ago.
Death covered all around him. It was in the air he breathed, drifting high into the cloud. It was on the ground he walked, soaking deep within the earth. And it was in his soul, darkening it until there was light no more. Death was everywhere, and it was everything. Death was everything but he.
An entire pack lay brutalized, some still gasping their dying breaths, others trying to crawl away in vain. But most of them had long since died, their hollow eyes staring holes into nothing. Then, he heard it. Low at first, but growing steadily, a growl. Not unlike his own, but more desperate, more unpredictable. He turned his head, and his eyes beheld a sight he had waited to see since he first regained consciousness after being left for dead. The leader, the one he was set to dethrone. The lone defender left of the once proud, now brutalized new pack now stood before him, teeth bared, ready to defend his crippled pack to the death. His own teeth bared, and the two dove for each other.
Claws cut skin, teeth gnashed through bone, and blood spilled with to the moist ground. Instinct had long since taken over, leaving both animals feral, locked in a state of kill-or-be-killed. Hatred flooded them, and they delighted in the pain they inflicted upon each other, and the sound of flesh tearing away from the muscle, and muscle from the bone. However, when the final blow came, it came not from the reigning king, but from the new Alpha Male, the one about to commit regicide. He stood over a once proud and dominate king, the victor, as the rest of "his" pack stood back and watched. He plunged in with one final blow, sinking his sharp teeth into his opponent's throat. And he watched as the former leader stared up at him until all life left his eyes and they fell into emptiness.
The King was dead. All hail the new ruler of New Championship Wrestling. Long live the King.