Post by Sylver Morrigan on May 22, 2008 21:04:37 GMT -6
OOC: Since Dan debuted the idea of ICW sending out some kind of letter inviting us to join up, I'm totally stealing it, or keeping in line with other RPs, whichever you prefer.
Fade in to a shot of a home. A green house with a parched lawn, single story with a two car garage. Generic, cookie cutter, similar to the other homes surrounding it. Palm trees and hibiscus swaying in the breeze, a scorching sun shining down.
Welcome to Florida. More specifically, Davenport, Florida. Even more specifically, the home of one Sylver Morrigan.
A car door slams. Morrigan walks up the path to the front door, inserts her key and pushes the door open. Three cats come running up to greet her, mewing loudly.
Morrigan: Okay, okay, I know you're hungry, just let me put my bag down...
She dumps her bag in the kitchen and feeds the cats from a container in the pantry. All three crouch in front of their bowls, crunching away. Morrigan grabs the mail out of her bag and starts rifling through it: catalogue, catalogue, bill, junk... Finally one white envelope remains in her hand. She stares blankly at the envelope, then tosses it on the bar. Going to the cabinet, she takes out a wineglass and pours herself some pinot grigio, walks out of the kitchen, grabs the letter off the bar, and opens the patio door. One of her cats come tearing out after her, and promptly stalks around the pool enclosure, as if checking his territory.
Morrigan slides off her sandals and sits down at the patio table, sips her wine, and grabs a smoke from the pack that was waiting for her. She inhales deeply, seeming troubled, and looks at the envelope again. The return sender: ICW.
Closing her eyes, she takes another drag off the cigarette, thinking about what those letters mean to her....
Morrigan grinds out the cigarette and downs half her wine. She picks up the envelope, toying with it, thinking about who sent it. She knows it's from ICW, but who at ICW? All the old scenes play before her mind's eye: the drinking, the wrestling, the drugging, the sex, and finally one specific match: when The Hardcore Icon, Dave Dudley himself, was with her and then against her within a single moment. The feeling of his lips on hers, followed quickly by the feeling of a steel chair connecting rather sharply with her head.
The grey cat, done stalking it's territory, jumps up on the chair next to Morrigan and yowls, throaty and deep. She absentmindedly begins scratching him, still lost in her own memories and thoughts.
Morrigan reaches for the letter and slides a finger under the flap, smiling.
fade to black
Fade in to a shot of a home. A green house with a parched lawn, single story with a two car garage. Generic, cookie cutter, similar to the other homes surrounding it. Palm trees and hibiscus swaying in the breeze, a scorching sun shining down.
Welcome to Florida. More specifically, Davenport, Florida. Even more specifically, the home of one Sylver Morrigan.
A car door slams. Morrigan walks up the path to the front door, inserts her key and pushes the door open. Three cats come running up to greet her, mewing loudly.
Morrigan: Okay, okay, I know you're hungry, just let me put my bag down...
She dumps her bag in the kitchen and feeds the cats from a container in the pantry. All three crouch in front of their bowls, crunching away. Morrigan grabs the mail out of her bag and starts rifling through it: catalogue, catalogue, bill, junk... Finally one white envelope remains in her hand. She stares blankly at the envelope, then tosses it on the bar. Going to the cabinet, she takes out a wineglass and pours herself some pinot grigio, walks out of the kitchen, grabs the letter off the bar, and opens the patio door. One of her cats come tearing out after her, and promptly stalks around the pool enclosure, as if checking his territory.
Morrigan slides off her sandals and sits down at the patio table, sips her wine, and grabs a smoke from the pack that was waiting for her. She inhales deeply, seeming troubled, and looks at the envelope again. The return sender: ICW.
Closing her eyes, she takes another drag off the cigarette, thinking about what those letters mean to her....
A lifetime ago... it was a lifetime ago. What would I have to offer ICW now? 29 years old, still in the best shape of my life, but worthless. Husband left me, living off a piteous salary, thank Gods I got the house in the divorce.... What Sylver would they want? A lifetime ago I was younger, more beautiful, able to coax and coerce with sex and a smile... now I'm broken, my self esteem shattered...
Morrigan grinds out the cigarette and downs half her wine. She picks up the envelope, toying with it, thinking about who sent it. She knows it's from ICW, but who at ICW? All the old scenes play before her mind's eye: the drinking, the wrestling, the drugging, the sex, and finally one specific match: when The Hardcore Icon, Dave Dudley himself, was with her and then against her within a single moment. The feeling of his lips on hers, followed quickly by the feeling of a steel chair connecting rather sharply with her head.
Who sent this? Who's running things over there now? Could I stand to work with Dudley again, after all that happened? Or does it even matter anymore? Business is business... I'm still in great shape physically, I know I could take on these guys again. But can I handle the mental side of it? Working with Dudley again? Can I trust him?
The grey cat, done stalking it's territory, jumps up on the chair next to Morrigan and yowls, throaty and deep. She absentmindedly begins scratching him, still lost in her own memories and thoughts.
Can I trust him? Stupid. Can I trust anyone? Besides myself? How much does that matter? How many people did I dick over, lie to, turn on without provocation? Isn't that the best part of the business? The uncertainty, the roar of the crowd, the feeling when you get when you land on the mat?
Morrigan reaches for the letter and slides a finger under the flap, smiling.
fade to black