Post by buckteethso on Nov 21, 2024 4:45:00 GMT
The scene opens in a dojo, the faint sound of wind chimes and the rhythmic swish of a blade cutting through the air. Buckteeth, clad in a flowing black robe emblazoned with the insignia of the Black Flag Army, stands at the center of the room. His steely gaze is focused on a wooden training dummy, its surface scarred from countless strikes. In the flickering light of lanterns, Buckteeth addresses the camera, his voice calm, yet carrying an air of menace.
Buckteeth: Bert Eagle... George Thompson... Names that resonate across continents. Men whose reputations have been forged in the fires of combat. But reputations mean nothing to the Black Flag Army. When I step into that ring, I do not seek glory, nor fame. I seek only conquest.
He runs a hand along the hilt of his katana, its polished steel glinting as he pulls it partially from its scabbard.
Buckteeth: Bert Eagle, the high-flyer, the golden son of Bolton. You are agile, resourceful, cunning. Against many, that is enough. But against me, your wings will be clipped, and you will fall from the skies like the broken bird you are destined to become. I am not here to match your speed. I am here to extinguish it.
He sheathes the blade and takes a slow, deliberate step forward.
Buckteeth: And George Thompson, the Gentleman of the Ring. You are a man of honor, of rules. Admirable, but misplaced. When we met in combat, your pride became your undoing. You see, a warrior adapts. A warrior uses everything at his disposal, no matter how unorthodox, to secure victory. That is why you fell. That is why Bert Eagle will fall. And that is why, in time, all who stand before me will fall.
Buckteeth reaches into the folds of his robe, pulling out a small black flag embroidered with intricate silver dragons.
Buckteeth: This is my symbol. A promise of chaos. A herald of destruction. Bert Eagle, when you feel the impact of my strikes, remember this flag. When your body gives out and your spirit falters, remember that you stood against a force greater than yourself. And George Thompson? Take heed of what I did to you, for your name will not be the last I cross off my ledger.
The camera zooms in on Buckteeth’s face, his expression unreadable, his tone chillingly calm.
Buckteeth: The Black Flag Army marches forward. And nothing—no one—can stop its advance.
The screen fades to black, leaving behind the echo of Buckteeth’s ominous words.
Buckteeth: Bert Eagle... George Thompson... Names that resonate across continents. Men whose reputations have been forged in the fires of combat. But reputations mean nothing to the Black Flag Army. When I step into that ring, I do not seek glory, nor fame. I seek only conquest.
He runs a hand along the hilt of his katana, its polished steel glinting as he pulls it partially from its scabbard.
Buckteeth: Bert Eagle, the high-flyer, the golden son of Bolton. You are agile, resourceful, cunning. Against many, that is enough. But against me, your wings will be clipped, and you will fall from the skies like the broken bird you are destined to become. I am not here to match your speed. I am here to extinguish it.
He sheathes the blade and takes a slow, deliberate step forward.
Buckteeth: And George Thompson, the Gentleman of the Ring. You are a man of honor, of rules. Admirable, but misplaced. When we met in combat, your pride became your undoing. You see, a warrior adapts. A warrior uses everything at his disposal, no matter how unorthodox, to secure victory. That is why you fell. That is why Bert Eagle will fall. And that is why, in time, all who stand before me will fall.
Buckteeth reaches into the folds of his robe, pulling out a small black flag embroidered with intricate silver dragons.
Buckteeth: This is my symbol. A promise of chaos. A herald of destruction. Bert Eagle, when you feel the impact of my strikes, remember this flag. When your body gives out and your spirit falters, remember that you stood against a force greater than yourself. And George Thompson? Take heed of what I did to you, for your name will not be the last I cross off my ledger.
The camera zooms in on Buckteeth’s face, his expression unreadable, his tone chillingly calm.
Buckteeth: The Black Flag Army marches forward. And nothing—no one—can stop its advance.
The screen fades to black, leaving behind the echo of Buckteeth’s ominous words.