Post by "The Unholy" Horrorcore on Jul 5, 2009 21:58:27 GMT -5
"We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end.
We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air,
and we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be.
We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds,
we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills;
we shall never surrender"
- Winston Churchill, Speech to the House of Commons, June 4, 1940-
Darkness.
Fade into a sprawling field, seemingly miles upon miles of unharvested grain and wildflowers. The chirping of birds somewhere in existence is heard. The sun is burning strongly overhead, though there is no feeling of heat. It is a perfect setting, for something that is completely opposite the truth of life. It is a complete and silent harmony.
Horrorcore {V/O}>Creation.
A gentle wind picks up, blowing across the field. Specs of clouds slowly become visible in the clear blue sky.
Horrorcore {V/O}>This world feeds us. Nurtures us. Let's us grow.
Horrorcore is suddenly in the picture, his long coat flows openly behind him. He slowly makes his way through the field, away from our view. He is free from reality.
But wait.
Darkness seems to follow him. A long shadow sprawls out from behind him, touching everything with its taint. The grain and flowers fall flat to the earth from where they had originally burst to life. Clouds appear more dominating in the sky above him, colored with threatening hues of grays and blacks. Trees that sparsely dot the landscape shrivel and gray.
Horrorcore>I am not evil. I am merely human.
He slowly makes his way through the field; his hand gently glides over the top of the plants. They shrivel and die at his touch, crumpling to the ground.
Horrorcore>I am not special. I am born with sin branded in me. I am tainted; impure. I am like pollution to the harmless.
His image becomes smaller as he makes his way out of view. Behind him is evidence of his presence. The field is dead, trees now rotted, thunder rumbles out from the clouds in the sky.
Horrorcore>For God created man in his image, the divine image that is himself. A perfect being that is not a being. And he created it within us now. But we are not even close to him. No matter how hard we try. Deny your maker, and you will fail. Who, therefore, is our maker? Or is that why we always fail?
"Jabez prayed to the God of Israel;
'Oh, that you may truly bless me and
extend my boundaries!
Help me and make me free of misfortune,
without pain!'
And God granted his prayer."
-The Prayer of Jabez, Chronicles 4:10-
Wicked bolts of thunder crackle in the sky, and a strong wind blows destructively through the air.
Horrorcore {V/O}>So where did we go wrong? Was it our own fault?
The meadow shakes and the pictures blur. It slowly fades to darkness, as if it is attempting to show mercy.
Horrorcore {V/O}>So was it our own fault? Everything is. The problems of the world today all rest upon our shoulders. The problems of my world today, though, are not of my concern. I am merely the pathogen.
A sudden darkness engulfs us, in a curt manner. It is forever.
Horrorcore {V/O}>The CWR. It is in pain. It is desperate. Its façade is cracking, crumbling to the ground as we speak. But why?
A crackling sound like that of burning is heard, and we fade back to the field, where a tree is ablaze. Its blackened branches snap and fall to the ground, flames licking higher and higher with fuel from the dry leaves. Lightning continues to dance around, narrowly missing the other trees.
Horrorcore {V/O}>Drew Carrig is weak. He is desperately searching for an answer. Counter attacks. Surprise interferences. They're only temporary solutions to an inevitable problem. The CWR needs a leader who will not falter during setbacks. They need a man who will break through in the dire situations. That man is no longer Drew Carrig. He is not a true legend. He is a false, hollowed out icon. He has proven that to succeed, he must have other men fight for him. That man is not Matt Thornhill, for he is lacking in leadership qualities. He is feeble and obsolete next to the competition. And that man is not Trent Michaels. Despite the fact that I helped him he is still useless, for he is too busy chasing things and emotions that run rampant in his mind. So who?
The fire begins to lessen, and the tree is now merely smoldering. It has been charred black, the branches twisted and bare of leaves.
Fire to represent our lives and passion.
Blackness to represent our death.
The tree is completely black.
Horrorcore {V/O}>And so the fate of every living thing has taken its advantage. The tree has died. And now, like it was destined to, the CWR has died.
Pray for yourselves.
Darkness.
Horrorcore>I will not be beholden. But so it has come to this. The black is slowly intruded in upon by the sound of steady breathing.
Horrorcore is shown sitting in a metal folding chair, hunched over and staring quizzically into his hands. His title belt hangs on a bar in his locker, catching the light as it swings and reflects lustrously into his eyes. The crowd outside his room can be heard exploding in cheers and boos.
Horrorcore>And so it has come to this. The unthinkable that was always destined to be. Anarchy has sprung up on the CWR. Insurrection will be their downfall.
He pauses, and looks around the room. It all seems to center around the golden strap of leather. He stares at it, as a sneer crosses his lips. He didn't want it. He had no need for it. If anything, it was holding him back. But he did not want to concern himself with such non-trivial matters.
Horrorcore>Where now is your sting? Where now is that special force, that special bond that you say is present, to elevate you beyond us?
He finally stands up and throws the belt in his duffel bag, and proceeds out of the building. He did not even appear to the crowd. He did not want to be praised as an icon. There were more important matters to be attended to.
Fade to black.
We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air,
and we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be.
We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds,
we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills;
we shall never surrender"
- Winston Churchill, Speech to the House of Commons, June 4, 1940-
Darkness.
Fade into a sprawling field, seemingly miles upon miles of unharvested grain and wildflowers. The chirping of birds somewhere in existence is heard. The sun is burning strongly overhead, though there is no feeling of heat. It is a perfect setting, for something that is completely opposite the truth of life. It is a complete and silent harmony.
Horrorcore {V/O}>Creation.
A gentle wind picks up, blowing across the field. Specs of clouds slowly become visible in the clear blue sky.
Horrorcore {V/O}>This world feeds us. Nurtures us. Let's us grow.
Horrorcore is suddenly in the picture, his long coat flows openly behind him. He slowly makes his way through the field, away from our view. He is free from reality.
But wait.
Darkness seems to follow him. A long shadow sprawls out from behind him, touching everything with its taint. The grain and flowers fall flat to the earth from where they had originally burst to life. Clouds appear more dominating in the sky above him, colored with threatening hues of grays and blacks. Trees that sparsely dot the landscape shrivel and gray.
Horrorcore>I am not evil. I am merely human.
He slowly makes his way through the field; his hand gently glides over the top of the plants. They shrivel and die at his touch, crumpling to the ground.
Horrorcore>I am not special. I am born with sin branded in me. I am tainted; impure. I am like pollution to the harmless.
His image becomes smaller as he makes his way out of view. Behind him is evidence of his presence. The field is dead, trees now rotted, thunder rumbles out from the clouds in the sky.
Horrorcore>For God created man in his image, the divine image that is himself. A perfect being that is not a being. And he created it within us now. But we are not even close to him. No matter how hard we try. Deny your maker, and you will fail. Who, therefore, is our maker? Or is that why we always fail?
"Jabez prayed to the God of Israel;
'Oh, that you may truly bless me and
extend my boundaries!
Help me and make me free of misfortune,
without pain!'
And God granted his prayer."
-The Prayer of Jabez, Chronicles 4:10-
Wicked bolts of thunder crackle in the sky, and a strong wind blows destructively through the air.
Horrorcore {V/O}>So where did we go wrong? Was it our own fault?
The meadow shakes and the pictures blur. It slowly fades to darkness, as if it is attempting to show mercy.
Horrorcore {V/O}>So was it our own fault? Everything is. The problems of the world today all rest upon our shoulders. The problems of my world today, though, are not of my concern. I am merely the pathogen.
A sudden darkness engulfs us, in a curt manner. It is forever.
Horrorcore {V/O}>The CWR. It is in pain. It is desperate. Its façade is cracking, crumbling to the ground as we speak. But why?
A crackling sound like that of burning is heard, and we fade back to the field, where a tree is ablaze. Its blackened branches snap and fall to the ground, flames licking higher and higher with fuel from the dry leaves. Lightning continues to dance around, narrowly missing the other trees.
Horrorcore {V/O}>Drew Carrig is weak. He is desperately searching for an answer. Counter attacks. Surprise interferences. They're only temporary solutions to an inevitable problem. The CWR needs a leader who will not falter during setbacks. They need a man who will break through in the dire situations. That man is no longer Drew Carrig. He is not a true legend. He is a false, hollowed out icon. He has proven that to succeed, he must have other men fight for him. That man is not Matt Thornhill, for he is lacking in leadership qualities. He is feeble and obsolete next to the competition. And that man is not Trent Michaels. Despite the fact that I helped him he is still useless, for he is too busy chasing things and emotions that run rampant in his mind. So who?
The fire begins to lessen, and the tree is now merely smoldering. It has been charred black, the branches twisted and bare of leaves.
Fire to represent our lives and passion.
Blackness to represent our death.
The tree is completely black.
Horrorcore {V/O}>And so the fate of every living thing has taken its advantage. The tree has died. And now, like it was destined to, the CWR has died.
Pray for yourselves.
Darkness.
Horrorcore>I will not be beholden. But so it has come to this. The black is slowly intruded in upon by the sound of steady breathing.
Horrorcore is shown sitting in a metal folding chair, hunched over and staring quizzically into his hands. His title belt hangs on a bar in his locker, catching the light as it swings and reflects lustrously into his eyes. The crowd outside his room can be heard exploding in cheers and boos.
Horrorcore>And so it has come to this. The unthinkable that was always destined to be. Anarchy has sprung up on the CWR. Insurrection will be their downfall.
He pauses, and looks around the room. It all seems to center around the golden strap of leather. He stares at it, as a sneer crosses his lips. He didn't want it. He had no need for it. If anything, it was holding him back. But he did not want to concern himself with such non-trivial matters.
Horrorcore>Where now is your sting? Where now is that special force, that special bond that you say is present, to elevate you beyond us?
He finally stands up and throws the belt in his duffel bag, and proceeds out of the building. He did not even appear to the crowd. He did not want to be praised as an icon. There were more important matters to be attended to.
Fade to black.