Post by moonchild on Apr 24, 2024 19:55:33 GMT -5
In the heart of Portland, Oregon, nestled within a grandiose dining room adorned with antique chandeliers and walls lined with rich, dark mahogany, a culinary spectacle unfolds. The table, an elongated masterpiece of polished oak, is laden with the night's fare, illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of candlelight that casts dancing shadows upon the ornate silverware and fine porcelain.
At the head of this regal assembly sits Marquis de Harlequin and Katya Karnavalka, their attire as flamboyant and meticulously curated as their surroundings. Across from them, Armand von Krauss, a figure of enigmatic prestige within the wrestling world, sips from a crystal goblet filled with an aged Burgundy, its deep red hue mirroring the opulence of the setting.
The first course makes a grand entrance, carried forth by servers who move with the precision and grace of ballet dancers. Plates bearing perfectly roasted duck, its skin crisply golden, and the meat succulently tender, are set before the guests. Alongside the duck, thick prime beef cuts, seared to a flawless medium-rare and drizzled with a rich bordelaise sauce, promise a robust feast. Accompaniments include roasted root vegetables glazed in a honey and thyme reduction and a side of creamy, truffle-infused mashed potatoes, each element of the dish speaking to the lavishness of the meal.
As the flavors meld and mingle on their palates, the trio engage in conversation, their dialogue a mix of sharp wit and darker undertones, much like the room's ambiance. Each sip of wine and bite of food not only satiates their hunger but also fuels the strategic interplay of words and intentions, setting the stage for the evening's true purpose. The air, thick with the scent of gourmet cuisine and the undercurrent of impending schemes, wraps around them, an invisible cloak that binds their fates together in this dance of allies and adversaries.
Marquis: Ah, Armand, mon ami, it seems you are at odds with the so-called cancers of wrestling. The Bastards—such a poetic injustice in their name, don't you think?
Katya: Da, they are like... how you say, stubborn stains on the fabric of wrestling. You plan to scrub them out, yes?
Armand: Precisely, my dear Katya. Wrestling is an art form, and like any masterpiece, it occasionally requires... correction. The Bastards have overstepped, believing they can challenge the very foundation of this federation. It's a cancerous growth that threatens the body, necessitating surgical removal.
Marquis: Ah, but surgery is so messy, Armand. In the circus, we prefer the spectacle—fiery and loud. Perhaps their ambition to acquire CWF is their final act, their swan song, if you will, no?
Katya: Is dangerous, no? To let them think they could own the stage. Rob Riot, he is like a ghost in a machine, and Valora, she has the fire of ten men. Quite the woman if you ask me, da?
Armand: Indeed, while their machinations are concerning, and Valora is a juggernaut of rage, they are ultimately predictable. We control the narrative here, not them. The stage is set, and I intend to direct the final act of this little drama.
Marquis: Oh, Armand, let us not mince words—les Bastards, they are like the foie gras of wrestling. Overstuffed, overrated, and quite indigestible. Wouldn't you agree, ma chérie Katya?
Katya: Absolutely, Marquis. Rob Riot, he is what we call in Russia Potselui Moi Zadnitsa—kiss my ass, no? He struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is no longer heard. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Armand: Ha! Well said, Katya. And what of Eddie Williams? They call him 'The Forgotten One,' correct? Seems aptly named, for I can scarcely recall a memorable moment he has provided.
Marquis: Ah, the poor garçon, forgotten like last season's fashion, and Frank Windsor—mon Dieu—he fancies himself a king yet acts the jester. They swagger about with such pomp and circumstance. Yet, behind their masks, they are fragile porcelain ready to shatter under the slightest pressure.
Katya: Da, and they paint themselves as strashny—terrifying—like children in a dark forest. But we know, Armand, the forest is not to be feared. It is to be commanded. We, my dear, are the masters of that dark forest.
Armand: Indeed, and this talk of them attempting to buy CWF. Risible, utterly laughable. It is as if one could purchase spirit and legacy with mere coins. They are not visionaries but vagrants dreaming of a throne that will never bear their weight.
Marquis: Let us drink to that, amis! To the inevitable downfall of les miserables who dare to challenge the artistry of our ring. Their fall will be as spectacular as a circus finale, marked by the roar of the crowds and the echo of their own follies!
Katya: And we shall be the architects of their demise, spinning webs of deceit and intrigue as easily as a spider spins her silk. Na zdorovie, to their health, for they will surely need it.
Laughter fills the room, rich and warm, as glasses clink in agreement. The trio's derision for The Bastards is clear, their amusement at their foes' overreaching ambitions unbridled. As the night deepens, so too does their plotting, a dance of shadows and schemes beneath the flickering candlelight.
Marquis: And what of us, the Kharnival of Shadows? We dance at the edges, pulling strings in the background. We are not so unlike you, Armand. We seek to control but through chaos and delight.
Katya: We will show them at the championship match. How real champions move. We will demonstrate how we paint our canvas with broader strokes. The Reinhardts will be our canvas, da?
Armand: Indeed. The ring is your stage, and through your victory, the message will be clear: not even the vaunted Reinhardts can stand against my chosen champions. The Bastards will see the futility in their resistance.
Marquis: Ah, mon cœur, my tétons sucrés, we shall be a whirlwind of éclat and finesse. The Reinhardts, robust as they are, shall find themselves outmaneuvered at every turn. Their German efficiency is no match for our French flair and Russian cunning, n'est-ce pas?
Katya: "Exactly, Marquis. Kronin with his stoic grimace and Kara, always the enforcer, they are formidable, but predictable. We, on the other hand, are the unpredictable storm. They prepare for a drizzle, and we shall give them a deluge!"
Armand: Their straightforward approach will be their undoing. They expect a wrestling match, but you will give them a performance, a spectacle they are ill-equipped to counter. It's not just a match; it's psychological warfare.
Marquis: Indeed, mon ami. We shall dazzle them with more than just our physical prowess. It's the mind games where we truly excel. A twist here, a feint there, and before they know it, their world is upside down. They'll be too busy looking for the ground to defend their titles.
Katya: And we will strike swiftly, like the serp in the night. One moment they are champions, and the next, merely spectators to their own defeat. It will be delicious, da?
Marquis: Oh, how the crowd will gasp and cheer as we weave our tale in the ring! Like master puppeteers, we'll control every movement, every emotion. The Reinhardts will be but characters in the story we write with our bodies and our wits.
Katya: We will paint a masterpiece on the canvas of the ring. Every throw, every lock, a brushstroke in our grand design. And when the final bell rings, it will not merely signal our victory but the ascension of true artistry over mere brute force.
Armand: To victory, then. To the inevitable rise of chaos over order, of art over mere competition. À votre santé, Marquis, Katya. May your shadows grow ever longer over this federation.
The trio raises their glasses, the crystal chiming softly in the quiet before the storm, each sips a silent vow to turn the ring into a crucible of their making. As the night unfolds, their laughter is the soundtrack to a deeper, darker intent as they prepare to dance their macabre waltz across the grand stage of Conquest Wrestling.
In the shadowy embrace of the opulent dining room, with the remnants of their lavish feast fading into the background, Marquis de Harlequin and Katya Karnavalka lean closer, their voices a conspiratorial whisper under the soft clinking of crystal and subdued hum of distant melodies.
Marquis: Ah, Katya, ma douce guerrière, as we ready ourselves for this ballet of brutality, we must dance with precision, oui? The Reinhardts, they are like well-oiled gears in a watch—predictable, always ticking in unison.
Katya: Da, Marquis. We will bring a storm, a chaos they cannot predict. Like the Siberian winter, we sweep over them unexpectedly, freezing their strategies in tracks of confusion and awe.
Marquis: Precisely, mon amour! We shall employ "Le Chat et la Souris"—the cat and mouse game. I will taunt them, draw them out, while you, my fierce tigress, you will strike where it hurts most. Our movements will be poetry, their responses mere child’s scribbles.
Katya: I plan to use "Zmeya i Zayats"—the serpent and the rabbit technique. When one of the Reinhardts charges, I will slip away like the serpent, making them miss, and then—wham!—strike back when least expected. It is the dance of mother Russia, deceptive and deadly.
Marquis: Ah, l'éclat de la surprise! We shall indeed turn their ring into a stage for our grand performance. And, ma chérie, when the moment is ripe, we unleash "Le Coup de Grâce." I envision a grand finale, a spectacle that will have the audience gasping for breath!
Katya: We will paint our canvas with broad strokes, Marquis. For the final act, I see us executing a "Double Desolation"—a tandem maneuver that showcases both our strengths. Imagine, as you soar with your signature "Vol du Harlequin," I will ground our foes with the "Siberian Slam."
Marquis: Exquisite! Together, we orchestrate a symphony of chaos, blending the finesse of French circus with the harsh unpredictability of the Siberian tundra. Our foes, they expect a wrestling match, but we shall give them a masterpiece worthy of the Bolshoi!
Katya: They prepare for a duel, but we will bring an all-out war. In this ballet of the shadows, we are the puppet masters, and they, merely puppets. Their defeat will be a testament to our superior artistry and cunning.
Armand: (Raising his glass with a knowing smile) To the Kharnival of Shadows, masters of the grand art of deception and dominion. May your shadows grow ever longer over this federation.
Marquis: and Aux le Bastards, sucez-vous jusqu'à la dernière goutte.
Katya: Da, I couldn't have said better myself.
Their laughter melds with the ambient symphony of the dining hall, a dark melody foretelling the fall of titans. With each sip of wine and shift of shadows, Marquis and Katya’s plans weave a tapestry of impending victory, painted not just with physical prowess but with the intricate threads of their cultural heritage and cunning minds. As the candlelight flickers its last, their plot for the championship lays perfectly poised, a deadly dance set to the tune of destruction and the roar of the inevitable.