Post by Death Bear on Jun 29, 2006 0:01:43 GMT -5
Cold. Too cold for comfort, even for a being of warm blood, pumping still through his veins, although some would say that they are not. Some would say that this being's blood has run just as cold as the temperatures he endures on this dark July night, which the freshly fallen rain and cool breeze have turned into something a little more wintry than it should be. These things have also turned the bright green grass, seen only through the permission of a nearby street light, damp and also cold, as they freeze ad wet the kneeling knee of our warm blooded being in question. They soak right through his tattered jeans, soak into his knees and shins as they dig into the hollow earth below him, as he kneels in the shadow of a small, humble gravestone. The rest of him, from his medium length blonde hair to his long length black leather jacket to his black shirt, portraying th image of rock legend Kurt Cobain, all the way down and through to his fingerless gloves clenching freshly picked flowers, were also soaked. It is quite apparent that his blood has not run cold yet, and he is still very much full of life, albeit not much energy, and it's very apparent that he's been walking through this downpour for quite a while now. His cheeks match the rest of his body, wet and tired looking, both from the rain that drips from his matted hair and from fresh tears that run down from his eyes, as he looks solemnly at and seemingly through the stone marker that stands before him. His facial expressions show not grief, but more a humbled astonishment, which can only be perceived in this setting as that of someone who has been left to ponder the meaning of existence and the worth of human life, which has proven to be all too short and all too fragile. Looks alone tell an entire story than any words could, yet still he speaks out loud, softly as if almost frightened himself of the tale that will follow.
Trent Draven: Sometimes... I think of myself as a psychopath. Sometimes I think that I'm not fit for society, and that I should not be allowed to roam the planet with some of the thoughts that pass through my head on a constant, day to day basis. But recently, it has dawned on me that my thoughts are not the ravings of a madman, or the drawn out thoughts of a lunatic. I am the normal one. I see things for what they truly are, life for what it truly is. Life is not always beautiful and perfect and pure. Life has never and never will claim to be fair. There is no God up in the sky tonight. All of the things that happen to us are one of two things. They're either pre meditated man made creations, or complete happenstance. Things do happen for a reason, but it is not a divine reason. We, as a population are left alone to try to figure out for ourselves just why we're supposed to be here, what our purpose is. As humans, we're the only animals smart enough to be aware of our own death, and the fact that life is short. This is why we create religion and God, as sort of a cushion to make it easier to swallow the fact that our life here is basically pointless. These are all things that I make myself truly aware of, and for that reason I have been shunned as a maniac. Because I see through all of the lies, I am the freak, the outsider. But now I truly realize that this doesn't make me an inferior being. The inferior beings are those with the potential to grasp this knowledge, those smart and clever enough to know these things, yet to hide in fear of the truth instead of facing it eye to eye. Hell, they don't even accept the belief of God. These are the ones that shield themselves with power, they try to become their own omnipotent force and control everything in a desperate attempt at becoming immortal. When I was approached with the idea of standing alongside The Man Of The Hour Josh at the highest peak of WFWF, I did not see immortality. I did not see a potential at becoming a God on Earth. What I saw was Enlightenment - a chance to spread my message and tell the masses the bitter truth that they try to hide from. Not to be a creator, but to be a savior. So many ideas flowed through my head as to how to improve the state of the world with a message of hope to those to accept it, and a word of warning to those who don't. But then... death happened. Something no one could ever predict. Life is a fragile setting, and I had forgotten in my amazement and excitement that tomorrow is never a guarantee. Quite obviously I could not spread my message in the state I was in, so i held off and waited in the shadows until I was ready to deliver, and the world was ready to receive. But before this moment had it's chance to arrive, something horrible happened that completely 180ed and ruined any ideas I had-
Almost as if on cue, a loud clap of thunder and then a large shock of lightning illuminated the air around the damp cemetery. Trent now takes a moment to recover from a temporary state of shock, and as if this disruption had ripped him from his awareness, he sets down the flowers he had been gripping in his gloved hands, propped up against the marker. His now empty hands now press into the soil, as he crawls on hands and knees up to the stone, where he repositions himself to a sitting position, resting his back against the gravestone. He stares down between his legs at the earth beneath him, and then runs his cold, wet, dirty hands through his cold, wet, dirty hair, pulling it all away from his face, but only for a moment, as it all falls back into lace the moment he removes his hands and clasps them together firmly, resting his forearms on his knees. He slightly raises his head, and the sad tale continues to pour from his mouth like the rain from the sky.
Trent Draven: But perhaps that's a story best saved for another time. Perhaps I should say something about an upcoming match with a former ally. That is, after all, the reason all eyes are upon me, is it not? Obo... I used to see him as such a brilliant mind. Someone else who shared my desire and thirst for destruction and ruin, but at the same time also shared an enlightened sense of being and state of mind - once just a joke to his peers, but then grew and decided to stand against the disgusting image he had backed himself into being portrayed as. Yes, I used to think that Obo had potential to understand the message I had to present, but it has become quite obvious that I was very wrong about him, and he is not all he makes himself out to be. He is no better than anyone else, a mere sheep wearing the costume of a wolf. Proudly, he walks tall in his own eyes as he allows the potheads that stand so high above him to title him the Ham Shank champion. What possible honor can anyone obtain from that title? How can you look yourself in the mirror and boastfully tell yourself "I am the Ham Shank champion."? Obo has proven himself to be nothing more than a microcosm for the state that WFWF has been left in ever since the coup d'etat of Drakz and Kyzer. He represents everything that I have grown to loathe the power hungry misinformed who want only to be able to say that they own more or have more than you. Obo will continue to rub his head against the pathetic hand that feeds him because in return he will get his little treat. Yes, in theory, I could snatch it away from him, like candy from a baby, but I don't have much of a sweet tooth for Ham Shank. No, Obo, you can continue to hold your trash title, hug it warmly and hold it as you caress and love the title of Ham Shank champion. Go ahead and continue to call yourself a hardcore entity and an anti establishment badass, while in the meantime you're being moved around a board like a pawn, having your legacy joked about and basically torn to shreds as two giggling imbeciles muse at the fact that they've reduced a once very outspoken person to silently, without complaint, toting around a title with a silly name. I will try my best to scrape whatever is left of your dignity out of you at Odium, but what I do with it can be left to you to decide. Either you take the remains of your pride and take these words, stand up and bite the hand that feeds you and refuse to have a mockery made of your name.... Or I can leave it in a puddle alongside your mangled and trembling carcass to seep and be absorbed by the mat underneath you, because you have no use for it anymore.
Another large shock of lightning illuminates the sky, and Trent's eyes follow the bolt almost in sheer amazement, almost in a trance-like state as he watches it hit the earth what seems like miles away in the cold, moist distance. At this point, the rain begins to pour more heavily, and the drenched New Breed champion is soaked to the bone in water, as is the ground below him, which is evident by the ease in which his fingers slip into the dirt - not to dig, but to sift through the freshly replanted grass and the soil sustaining it. His eyes flutter closed, as if the soil is bringing back memories not held dear by the former Grunge Messiah, and he slips slightly to the left on the marker on which he had been keeping his balance. We can clearly see now, that the last name on it is "REVELIN", and below it a year... the current, year, as a matter of fact, in 2006. Trent's eyes shoot open, and he stares up into the sky, facing the rain head on as it splashes into his eyes and every other inch of his face, washing away the saltier liquid tears that had occupied this area before. His head now leans completely and perfectly back, as the back of his neck rests against the wet stone marker, still smooth and fresh, a compliment to the aforementioned current year engraved into it. He continues to stare upward as his tale draws to a close, the finish softly falling out of his lips opposite the rain falling harshly between them.
Trent Draven: One by one, the sands in the hourglass fall. Each of them bring us a second closer to the fate that has been sealed for us since our births. A big question that everyone always wants to know is why are we here? What's our purpose in life? Just to die? Sometimes it may seem this way, like we are only here to perish in the end. But one must also consider the time we spend in between birth and death, what we do to impact the lives of others. The messages we spread before we lie down for the last time and leave eternity in a puff of smoke. Every single life is precious, and any life ended before it's designated point of termination is a potential unfilled. What information can be lost in the grains of time if the carrier, the one meant to deliver to message, is struck down before given the opportunity to deliver it? So many things will go left unknown, so many stories untold. I am making it my personal business to tell these untold stories. To shout from the mountaintops the message that some don't want to be shouted. To make you hear the things you weren't meant to hear. I will unveil corruption and spread a message of peace through annihilation. An overthrow that none could ever see coming. And I will be damned if I allow myself to die before the masses are informed of these noble truths. I am not dead yet, and no one who says any different will be allowed to continue telling these lies. A time for change is upon us, and it is time for a new breed of Trent Draven to be unveiled.
With that, Trent leaps to his feet, and takes off running through the rain in this dark, cemetery setting, and gripping two bars in his hands, swings over a black metal gate, sprinting through the night until he is no longer visible. But one stone is still left unturned now that he is gone, and quickly we turn to see a small epitaph, short, but enough to tell an entire story by itself and to tie up any loose ends that may have been untied...
Feoras Revelin
1976-2006
Trent Draven: Sometimes... I think of myself as a psychopath. Sometimes I think that I'm not fit for society, and that I should not be allowed to roam the planet with some of the thoughts that pass through my head on a constant, day to day basis. But recently, it has dawned on me that my thoughts are not the ravings of a madman, or the drawn out thoughts of a lunatic. I am the normal one. I see things for what they truly are, life for what it truly is. Life is not always beautiful and perfect and pure. Life has never and never will claim to be fair. There is no God up in the sky tonight. All of the things that happen to us are one of two things. They're either pre meditated man made creations, or complete happenstance. Things do happen for a reason, but it is not a divine reason. We, as a population are left alone to try to figure out for ourselves just why we're supposed to be here, what our purpose is. As humans, we're the only animals smart enough to be aware of our own death, and the fact that life is short. This is why we create religion and God, as sort of a cushion to make it easier to swallow the fact that our life here is basically pointless. These are all things that I make myself truly aware of, and for that reason I have been shunned as a maniac. Because I see through all of the lies, I am the freak, the outsider. But now I truly realize that this doesn't make me an inferior being. The inferior beings are those with the potential to grasp this knowledge, those smart and clever enough to know these things, yet to hide in fear of the truth instead of facing it eye to eye. Hell, they don't even accept the belief of God. These are the ones that shield themselves with power, they try to become their own omnipotent force and control everything in a desperate attempt at becoming immortal. When I was approached with the idea of standing alongside The Man Of The Hour Josh at the highest peak of WFWF, I did not see immortality. I did not see a potential at becoming a God on Earth. What I saw was Enlightenment - a chance to spread my message and tell the masses the bitter truth that they try to hide from. Not to be a creator, but to be a savior. So many ideas flowed through my head as to how to improve the state of the world with a message of hope to those to accept it, and a word of warning to those who don't. But then... death happened. Something no one could ever predict. Life is a fragile setting, and I had forgotten in my amazement and excitement that tomorrow is never a guarantee. Quite obviously I could not spread my message in the state I was in, so i held off and waited in the shadows until I was ready to deliver, and the world was ready to receive. But before this moment had it's chance to arrive, something horrible happened that completely 180ed and ruined any ideas I had-
Almost as if on cue, a loud clap of thunder and then a large shock of lightning illuminated the air around the damp cemetery. Trent now takes a moment to recover from a temporary state of shock, and as if this disruption had ripped him from his awareness, he sets down the flowers he had been gripping in his gloved hands, propped up against the marker. His now empty hands now press into the soil, as he crawls on hands and knees up to the stone, where he repositions himself to a sitting position, resting his back against the gravestone. He stares down between his legs at the earth beneath him, and then runs his cold, wet, dirty hands through his cold, wet, dirty hair, pulling it all away from his face, but only for a moment, as it all falls back into lace the moment he removes his hands and clasps them together firmly, resting his forearms on his knees. He slightly raises his head, and the sad tale continues to pour from his mouth like the rain from the sky.
Trent Draven: But perhaps that's a story best saved for another time. Perhaps I should say something about an upcoming match with a former ally. That is, after all, the reason all eyes are upon me, is it not? Obo... I used to see him as such a brilliant mind. Someone else who shared my desire and thirst for destruction and ruin, but at the same time also shared an enlightened sense of being and state of mind - once just a joke to his peers, but then grew and decided to stand against the disgusting image he had backed himself into being portrayed as. Yes, I used to think that Obo had potential to understand the message I had to present, but it has become quite obvious that I was very wrong about him, and he is not all he makes himself out to be. He is no better than anyone else, a mere sheep wearing the costume of a wolf. Proudly, he walks tall in his own eyes as he allows the potheads that stand so high above him to title him the Ham Shank champion. What possible honor can anyone obtain from that title? How can you look yourself in the mirror and boastfully tell yourself "I am the Ham Shank champion."? Obo has proven himself to be nothing more than a microcosm for the state that WFWF has been left in ever since the coup d'etat of Drakz and Kyzer. He represents everything that I have grown to loathe the power hungry misinformed who want only to be able to say that they own more or have more than you. Obo will continue to rub his head against the pathetic hand that feeds him because in return he will get his little treat. Yes, in theory, I could snatch it away from him, like candy from a baby, but I don't have much of a sweet tooth for Ham Shank. No, Obo, you can continue to hold your trash title, hug it warmly and hold it as you caress and love the title of Ham Shank champion. Go ahead and continue to call yourself a hardcore entity and an anti establishment badass, while in the meantime you're being moved around a board like a pawn, having your legacy joked about and basically torn to shreds as two giggling imbeciles muse at the fact that they've reduced a once very outspoken person to silently, without complaint, toting around a title with a silly name. I will try my best to scrape whatever is left of your dignity out of you at Odium, but what I do with it can be left to you to decide. Either you take the remains of your pride and take these words, stand up and bite the hand that feeds you and refuse to have a mockery made of your name.... Or I can leave it in a puddle alongside your mangled and trembling carcass to seep and be absorbed by the mat underneath you, because you have no use for it anymore.
Another large shock of lightning illuminates the sky, and Trent's eyes follow the bolt almost in sheer amazement, almost in a trance-like state as he watches it hit the earth what seems like miles away in the cold, moist distance. At this point, the rain begins to pour more heavily, and the drenched New Breed champion is soaked to the bone in water, as is the ground below him, which is evident by the ease in which his fingers slip into the dirt - not to dig, but to sift through the freshly replanted grass and the soil sustaining it. His eyes flutter closed, as if the soil is bringing back memories not held dear by the former Grunge Messiah, and he slips slightly to the left on the marker on which he had been keeping his balance. We can clearly see now, that the last name on it is "REVELIN", and below it a year... the current, year, as a matter of fact, in 2006. Trent's eyes shoot open, and he stares up into the sky, facing the rain head on as it splashes into his eyes and every other inch of his face, washing away the saltier liquid tears that had occupied this area before. His head now leans completely and perfectly back, as the back of his neck rests against the wet stone marker, still smooth and fresh, a compliment to the aforementioned current year engraved into it. He continues to stare upward as his tale draws to a close, the finish softly falling out of his lips opposite the rain falling harshly between them.
Trent Draven: One by one, the sands in the hourglass fall. Each of them bring us a second closer to the fate that has been sealed for us since our births. A big question that everyone always wants to know is why are we here? What's our purpose in life? Just to die? Sometimes it may seem this way, like we are only here to perish in the end. But one must also consider the time we spend in between birth and death, what we do to impact the lives of others. The messages we spread before we lie down for the last time and leave eternity in a puff of smoke. Every single life is precious, and any life ended before it's designated point of termination is a potential unfilled. What information can be lost in the grains of time if the carrier, the one meant to deliver to message, is struck down before given the opportunity to deliver it? So many things will go left unknown, so many stories untold. I am making it my personal business to tell these untold stories. To shout from the mountaintops the message that some don't want to be shouted. To make you hear the things you weren't meant to hear. I will unveil corruption and spread a message of peace through annihilation. An overthrow that none could ever see coming. And I will be damned if I allow myself to die before the masses are informed of these noble truths. I am not dead yet, and no one who says any different will be allowed to continue telling these lies. A time for change is upon us, and it is time for a new breed of Trent Draven to be unveiled.
With that, Trent leaps to his feet, and takes off running through the rain in this dark, cemetery setting, and gripping two bars in his hands, swings over a black metal gate, sprinting through the night until he is no longer visible. But one stone is still left unturned now that he is gone, and quickly we turn to see a small epitaph, short, but enough to tell an entire story by itself and to tie up any loose ends that may have been untied...
Feoras Revelin
1976-2006
