Post by Sheamus on May 30, 2010 3:00:43 GMT -5
"This burning passion, it fills me with desire
And drives me and it drives my cause
I'm filled with reasons my reasons drive me further
Disdain for disbelief will stay the course
Oh, let the fire consume me
Let the fire burn
Let the courage flow through me
Let the fire burn"
The scene opens once again, in Ireland. However, this time it is not in Dublin, but in a green forest, the ground soft and moist in many areas. The ground is covered in a bed of leaves, and the sounds of a nearby brook can be heard, the water tricking through it. The scene is very peaceful and serene, birds chirping beautifully. It looks very natural, as if untouched by humans. A deer can be seen prancing around in the background. A moderate number of trees are randomly spaced around the area, bright green moss coating the sides, climbing partway up the trees, as if unable to reach the top. The sun shines through the tops of the trees, brighter in some areas than others, places a bit more bare, with no trees, light the floor of the forest with a golden sunlight.
The camera pans around, and Sheamus can be viewed, stretching out his muscles and limbs. He works his arms around in circular motions, working out any kinks or tenseness, to limber himself up as to avoid cramps. He is wearing his usual ring attire, his green and black tights, and one has to wonder if all wrestlers dress like this when they are not performing. Do they really walk around the supermarket in a speedo or tights? Who knows, its a rather absurd, silly notion, but one has to wonder, don't they?
Sheamus appears to be at peace with his surroundings, losing himself in the moment and beauty of the place, his love for his homeland apparent, his passion for his country matched only by his intensity. He begins to pace, to walk around a bit, working himself up, smacking himself in the head a few times, changing his state of mind from relaxation, to aggression, trying to get his blood pumping, and his adreanaline going. He hops up and down a few times, growls, then walks over to a large, fallen log. He brushes it clean of leaves and dirt, and bends down to pick it up. He squats, grabs it, then lifts, lifting with his legs as opposed to his back to avoid any complications or injury, as damage to the spine would cause him problems later in his career. Later or immediate, he would not take the risk. He flips the log up onto his shoulders, and performs a few squat thrusts, the thick, corded muscles in his legs straining under the weight of the tremendous log, but nothing he cannot handle.
A lovely song composed by the artist David Arkenstone begins to play, heard by all watching, but not by Sheamus, as it is just an affect, to add to the moment on screen. For dramatic effect, of course, as a video package would be quite dull without the drama of music to add a bit of flavor, most definately! Those video packages for feuds, and Wrestlemania matches, wouldn't be the same without music, and so whomever is putting together this for the WWE thought it would be appropriate here, who wants to see or hear a grunting large pale white half naked man running around in a forest, save some of the female audience and viewers? Yes, it must be added, for the sake of the male audience.
Sheamus continues his squat thrusts, then begins to stride forward with lunges, great powerful strides, with those long thickly muscled creamy legs, appearing move impressive as the muscles flex. He works his way thru the forest, then stands straight, takes a deep breath, and starts off on a jog, the large piece of timber still on his broad shoulders. He begins to pick up the pace, running quickly, especially for a man of his size, and with such grace! Who would suspect such a giant, such a large man could move with such grace, and fluid motion? But, the Celtic Warrior is always a suprise, and is at peak physical shape, conditioned for this type of exercise, conditioned for battle, conditioned to do war, never letting up. Sheamus believes a Warrior should not only be strong, but quick, athletic, graceful, possess a measure of finesse, and intelligence, cunning, ruthlessness. The Warrior must always be at the top of his game, and be striving towards perfection.
Sheamus comes to a sloping hill in the forest, but continues to run, picking up speed, unable to control it, for slowing down would cause him to stumble. Or perhaps that gnarled root from a nearby tree would do the job for him instead, and indeed it did, sending the man tumbling down the slope. Oh dear, such talk of grace, only to have the point proven wrong by a silly piece of wood. Ah well, it is no matter, for the Warrior can recover from such a thing, must be able to react to any obstacle or situation, something that comes up that was not planned. Improvisation, also a very important factor, at the end of his tumble, he goes into a forward roll, tucking his shoulders in, though still hefting that log on his shoulders, and in a fluid, catlike motion, he comes to his feet, not missing a beat, and continues to run with his burden.
He comes to the end of the forest, and into a large valley, surrounded by large hills and mountains, the floor of the valley marked by many rivers and tribuataries, and...suprise...more bright, emerald green grass, as gorgeous a landscape as always in Ireland. He sprints towards a nearby, rushing river, stepping into it, the water coming up almost to waist level height, which is quite impressing considering the Celtic Warrior's 6'6" frame. He strains and pushes against the current, the waters of the river flowing fast against him, as he pushes against the current, gritting his teeth and growling in defiance of the strain, his leg muscles aching and tiring. The body tired, but the spirit willing, his heart overcoming any obstacle, and pushes forward, making progress, slowly but surely.
As Sheamus reached a certain point, a fork in the river, he turned inland, stepping up onto the grassy field, taking a moment to catch his breath. The way he has been moving, his sense of directed, would either indicate he knew these lands very well, like the back or his palm, or it would mean it was a planned, predetermined route. Or it could be both, in that case, but nothing that the viewers could guess at. He looks around, body soaking wet, a mixture of water, mud, and sweat, glistening off his rock hard muscled body in the sun. His gaze scans the landscape, before stopping, transfixed on a particular spot, a great sloping hill. The warrior cleared his mind, reaching a level of focus.
He performs a few, slow, steady breathing exercises, to clear his mind, to bolster his resolve, to not just give up and call it good for today. No, that is not what a Warrior would do. The Warrior never submits, never gives up, never quits, he pushes ahead, fights, scratches, claws, until his goal or desination is reached. This prime example of his ancestory would not be deterred by some hill. No, he was stronger than that. When the body fatigues, and tells you to quit, you have one of two options. You can, obviously quit, or you can push forward. Its all mental, its all in the head. This is where determination, and heart come into play, something Sheamus does not lack in the slightest, or atleast he believes, and tries to live his life by such principles, a few of many he holds dear to his heart. He growls in defiance, staring at the slope, as if trying to stare it down, to prepare, for some furious encounter, as if he were to battle the hill itself. Having gained his second wind, having found his desire to continue, no matter what is thrown in his way, Sheamus strides towards the bottom of the hill. He starts at a jog, and then kicks it up a notch, his powerful legs pumping furiously, climbing the slope with the log on his shoulders, veins and blood rushing to his skin as his muscles strain, but the Warrior, will not quit, and will not give up. The music heard changes to something a bit more...agressive, to match the mood and tone of the scene, as he battles himself, a battle with his mind, the battle of submission or perseverence, to push one beyond normal limits. Such mental battles play a key role in the developement and character of the Warrior, and this is one he was determined not to lose, and pushes up the hill. His burning passion, the fire that consumes him, will not accept defeat, will carry him to victory. Be it a hill or another combatant, to him it is all the same in theory.
Sheamus grunts, lets out a few primal, very manly screams, such as what one would hear in a serious bodybuilder's gym, to keep his determination, to keep the adreanaline flowing. He slows down greatly, due to the weight of his burden, the degree of steepness from the hill, and the muscle fatigue. He pushes forward, legs beginning to shake, but he shrugs it off, letting his mental state of mind take over, ignoring the burning pain running through his body. His foot catches a slippery patch of grass, and almost slips, but he regains his footing quickly, and presses on further, his goal, his destination coming into sight, giving him a glimmer of hope. He screams again, pushing himself into one final burst of energy, as he ascends and reaches the top. He raises the log above his head, then tosses it down, and he slumps down, taking a breather, breathing heavily, wiping beads of sweat from his thick bushy red eyebrows, as to avoid their contact into his eyes.
He lays down on his back for a few moments, his thick, powerful chest heaving up and down. He begins to breathe, inhaling and exhaling slowly. He sits back up a few moments later, shakes his head, and rises to his feet. He shakes out any cramping or sore muscles and strides forward. At the top of the hill, there is a man in the distance, behind a row of combat dummies, all equipped in some sort of chainmail armor. Sheamus approaches the area, and picks up a sturdy battleaxe, one of the traditional weapons of his ancestors. The handle is made of wood, a sort of oak, very sturdy, and polished. The head is made out of a fine steel, and it appears to be a well balanced weapon, as he takes a few test swings with it, with some measure of skill.
He goes through a few simple, basic routines, before approaching the combat dummies. He narrows his eyes, envisioning the enemy before him, outnumbered, and he spins into motion. He swings the act forward, splitting the skull of the first dummy, and continues to run about like a crazed madman, however with purpose, delivering devastating, but precise swings and chops with his battleaxe. Wood splinders, and fake heads are severed from fake wooden necks, as he proceeds to furiously turn the "battleground" into a big messy pile of timber. He drops the axe, as he approaches a man, wielding a traditional Celtic sword. The man bows his head in respect to Sheamus. He is dressed in chain mail aswell, one sword, but no shield. He gestures towards a sword stuck into the ground, point first. Sheamus returns the sign of respect with a bow of his own head, and retrives the fallen weapon, taking a few test swings with it aswell. Apparently pleased with its made, condition, quality, and balance, he holds it up, then points it right at the man. A man of large stature, almost as tall as Sheamus, and just as powerfully built. The man points the sword back at Sheamus, as if some sort of signal.
The two begin to circle eachother, swords raised in defensive positions, their feet moving in harmony with their bodies, but keeping them firmly planted every now and then when anticipating a strike. The Man thrusts forward towards the midsection of the Celtic Warrior, and it is easily blocked with a downward swing. Sheamus returns the exchange with an overhead slice, which is easily parried by the Man raising his blade parallel to his head, and perpendicular to the sword of Sheamus. It seems as if they are just feeling eachother out for the moment, in an attempt to gain a measure of their respective opponent. A few feigns and fakes are thrown, and a few thrusts and chops thrown, but nothing too aggressive, yet. Patience is a virtue, and an important one for a warrior to have. One must have patience, and then seek the opening, and seize the opportunity.
Sheamus then moves left, then jukes to his right, and lunges forward in a bit of a jump, thrusting high and hard towards the Man's face. It appears as if the sword will drive right thru his skull, but at the last moment, the Man agiley dodges to his right, then smacks Sheamus on the opening of his ribs, with the flat of the sword, leaving a stinging, red welt. Sheamus whips around quickly, grinning, realizing he made the first mistake in his excitement. He regains his composure and goes into a flurry of stabs and slashes. The Man, obviously no novice to this, perhaps a sort of trainer, mentor, weapon's master for him, parries the blows with lightning quick speed, and the sound of metal crashing and ringing on metal can be heard for miles around the top of the large hill. Taking the offensive, with Sheamus resuming a defensive posture, it is time for the Weapons Master to begin his attack routine, sending skillful strokes of the blade full force, full speed at Sheamus, which he struggles to parry, receiving a nick on his forearm, a small trickle of blood running down his arm. He remains on the offensive, in an attempt to overwhelm Sheamus, and he furiously works to keep the skilled master at bay, working his blade in a fury, both of them caught in furious battle, a whirl of blades, moving so quickly that to some it would appear a blur. Sheamus begins to lose ground, moving towards the end of the hill, but suddenly rolls to his right, performing a spinning kick to the Man's knees as he comes up, but the attack is simply diverted by a mere hop. He gets to his feet, and presses the attack, driving the Man back, though he pushes back against him, and they lock blades. Sheamus growls and pushes thru the lock, smashing the master in the face with the hilt and crossguard of the sword. The Man stumbles back, but comes right back up in a roll, a deft twist of his sword as Sheamus parries a thrust, the twist sending Sheamus's sword flying. Sheamus kicks a small pile up dirt up into the air, using the distraction, he lands a bicycle kick to the Man's jaw, and it connects, thudding sickeningly, and the man drops his sword, and falls to the ground. Sheamus retrieves the sword, and places it at the Man's neck, staring down at him full of intensity, then simple smiles, offers a hand up. The Man accepts it, and is hoisted back to his feet, Sheamus returning the sword respectfully with a nod of his head.
"Well done laddie, its not often that you best me. You have fought well today. I think you are ready."
"You'll get me next time, I be sure. You are a great instructor, father."
"Indeed, though you still have much to learn. Now, remind me, why do we do this? Surely this cannot have anything to do with wrestling inside of a ring?"
Already knowing the answer, and knowing his father was questioning him, he grinned and answered as best he could.
"True enough, this may not be wrestling. This is combat, training for war. Every time I enter that ring, I go to war, I do battle. A warrior must learn all aspects of combat, to acheive perfection. The use of swords or any weapon, any sort of combat, can be translated to success in the ring. It sharpens the mind, my reflexes, my decision making."
"Correct. Also, me boy, it is very similar to wrestling. You must be on the defensive, but also maintain a measure of aggression. Its a matter o' learnin' how to do it, when to do or use it. A cunning fighter, one trained in tactics, always overcomes a Warrior who relies only on strength, or only on speed, or a single attribute. Its the one who thinks clearly, who comes out on top. You have done well me boy, lets head home, your mother has prepared us a fine meal, before you head back to the states. McKinney and O'Reilly are coming over aswell, to share a few drinks and some laughter, to enjoy your company before you leave. We don't get to see our boy tha' much, and we miss you. We do suppose your cause though, an' yeh have our full support. Now, come, we have a bit of a trek before we get there. Now tell me what you plan to do about this...Orton fellow, eh?"
The screen fades slowly as father and son traverse back down the hill, through the valley and woods, to their home out in the country, discussing strategy, and the matchup with Randy Orton.
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The next scene opens in Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath, the Dublin Airport. Sheamus is seen hugging his family, embracing his brothers, kissing his mother on the cheek, and saying their farewells. They wish him luck, and remind him to make them, and their ancestors proud. A man wearing a Randy Orton t-shirt tries to make himself hidden and inconspicuous, the wrong shirt to be wearing in Ireland right now, though he is only passing through, he goes off into a corner out of sight, avoiding the large Irishman. He carries his back towards the gate, and with a wave and a smile, turns around and enters the tunnel, taking his seat, First Class, of course. He leans back, closes his eyes, and puts in some earphones, and starts up his mp3 player, full of Celtic music, of course, and drifts off to sleep, its a long flight back to the states. The flight gets underway, and the plane takes off, Sheamus easily drifting off to sleep....
Scene fades....
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The flight eventually reaches its destination, Columbus, Ohio. The site of the coming Monday Night Raw. It was a flight of about 8 hours, covering 3580 miles. Sheamus grabs his luggage from the overhead rack, and walks off the plane, going thru the tunnel and into the Port Columbus International Airport. He stops, and looks around, the place is crowded and packed, and he sighs softly, taking in a deep breath to calm his nerves, calming his anxiety, as he feels he has just stepped into enemy territory. He receives many stares and looks, people pointing at him. Mixed reactions, of recognition, of intimidation or fear, an occaisional fan giddy with excitement, but too nervous to approach him. Mothers protectively keep their children to their sides as she walks by, great powerful strides, confidently strolling thru the airport. A fan wearing a John Cena t-shirt and other miscellaneous gear comes approaching him with camera in hand, and Sheamus merely gives him a cold look, as if telling him to f*ck off, and the fan turns the other way and walks off, a bit disappointed, but why should Sheamus care? These are not his people, these fans mean nothing to him. They just want the attention, to someone bask in the aura of his great glory and presence. He would not let them feed off that, they don't deserve it.
He manages to go and retrieve the rest of his backs, and waits outside for a taxi. He looks up at the shining sun, its heat burning down upon him. It is a very hot, humid, muggy day, and Sheamus wrinkles his nose in disgust. Another typical American city, he thinks to himself, already missing his homeland. Ah well, he thought to himself, I will just bear it, this city of piss and shite. Not as if they deserve to see me perform, but nontheless they will respect me after I defeat Orton. They have to. They will hate me even more, but I care not. I know it all stems from jealousy. I will feed off their reactions, their constant booing, and voicing displeasure only pushes me further, to spit in their faces, destroying their idols, their heros...Something I take great pride in..he mused to himself.
He finally manages to flag down a taxi, who promply pops the trunk, and Sheamus heaves his luggage inside, slamming it shut, with a pat for good measure, then steps into the cab, and they drive off.
Where are we headed to, boss?
First, the nearest hotel, somethin' rather noice, mind you. Not some pile of garbage whore den, which I assume they have in abundance here. After tha', Ohio State University.
You got it chief.
The man gives no arguments, and does not speak much further, not wanting to anger or annoy the big man. Honestly all he wanted to do was get his fare, and get him out of his cab. Sheamus isn't exactly the most pleasnt person to drive for. The taxi cab cruises thru the streets of Columbus, Ohio. They pull into a hotel off of Broad Street, and Sheamus walks inside, with his luggage, giving the bell boy a dirty look as if saying "touch my things and I'll eat your soul". He checks in, takes his things to his room, and gets all settled to go. He takes a smaller bag out of the hotel with him, presumably holding his ring gear, and things he would need at the arena. The cab driver takes him to his destination, Ohio State University, after crossing the Lake Avenue Bridge, where the show will be held. He is dropped off, and overpays the cab driver considerably, then shrugs off an attempt to get his change back, but no arguments come forth from the greedy driver.
Sheamus enters the arena, where the ring is currently being setup, the diligent ring crew hard at work, setting up the ring and the PA systems, cords, wires, the large titantron, everything needed to get the show going, with an attention to detail and quality to ensure the show goes over well on camera. Sheamus nods to the workers, having SOME measure of respect for the men who capture him and his exploits in all their glory. He knows they do not get much respect or recognition for their efforts, when, without them and their professional skills, there would be no show. But a simple nod will do, he will not waste his breath giving them praise for their hard work. Its what they are paid to do, after all.
Sheamus takes his bag, and walks down the hallways in the backstage area, finally finding his dressing room. He sets his things down, and removes a few things that he might possibly need. He gets himself comfortable, and all settled in, and dozes off for a bit, and awakens a few hours later, heading back to his hotel room for some much needed rest and relaxation, so he can prepare himself mentally for the battle at hand.
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The next day, Sheamus arrives at the arena, fans surrounding the spot where the Wrestlers arrive. He walks through between the barricades, fans screaming, booing, and begging for autographs or pictures, but he blows them all off, ignoring them, his mind focused on the task and goal at hand. He walks straight past everyone, and backstage, back to his dressing room, where some of the staff members in charge of cosmetics, touch Sheamus up a bit, to look more photogenic. After it is done, he gets up, paces around the room, and wanders the hallways, as fans begin to start filling the seats, and the chatter and noise of a live event apparent and in full force. Even if they hated him, he loved the atmosphere. The excitement, the noise, the hussle and bussle striking a fine chord within him. He waits a few moments longer, then starts making his way towards the curtains, and pauses there for a moment, clearing his throat to get the attention of the workers. They see him, and scramble into action, setting up the lights perfectly, and passing on the message via walkie talkie to the trailor crew that Sheamus is about to enter the arena. A split second later....the PA blasts his entrance theme, the titantron working to perfection, displaying the sequence of clips and images that make up his personal video.
As soon as the music hits, the crowd begins to scream and boo, a thunderous display of disapproval, and once again, a handful of crazy fans are restrained, or escorted from the building for trying to jump the barrier to just get one shot at this most hated man.
J.R.: And here comes Sheamus...
Jerry Lawler: Oh boy, you know whenever he comes out, something is going down
J.R.: Right you are King. Especially that sickening display, of what he did to Finlay last week
Jerry Lawler: Oh J.R. you know Finlay had it coming
Sheamus bursts thru the curtrains, with his usual walk, a mix between a confident, determined walk, and a strut. He raises his arms at the top of the ramp, screaming once again, it seems to be his thing. He lowers them and continues his strutting gait down the ramp, shaking his head a bit as he does, his powerful arms swinging with each step.
"Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, the Celtic Warrior.....Sheamus!"
J.R.: No, he did not King! He was trying to help him get on the right course, he thought would be best for him. To guide him along his career. Not many get the opportunity to learn from such a veteran like Finlay, who has much to offer to the younger generation of wresters, King
Jerry Lawler: Well, say what you want, but it was quite impressive. This is a very, very dangerous man here. I'm looking forward to his match with Randy Orton here tonight!
J.R.: As do I King, it should be a good ol' slobberknocker! A barnburner! A-
Jerry Lawler: Yes we get the picture J.R. Its going to be one hell of a match
This draws even more screams of disapproval and resentment from the fans, and all those in attendance, and Sheamus gives that cocky, arrogant smirk, which would only further enrage them. He begins to climb the steel steps, and steps out onto the apron, walking its length about halfway, left hand on the top rope, scanning the audience, soaking in the attention. Sheamus then leans down, holding his large Celtic Cross on a chain close to his chest, tucking it in, as he steps between the ropes, between the top and middle. He bounces in, thumps his chest a few times with those big, meaty fists, then raising them high into the air. He walks over to the announcer and swipes the microphone from him aggressively, and he wisely takes his exit from the ring. He brings the microphone up to his mouth, but is drowned out by the booing. He waits a few moments for them to calm down, for the noise to die down, and he begins speaking.
And here we are...Columbus, Ohio. I couldn't think of a more wretched, putrid, disgusting town.
"Boooo!!!!"
Foirst off, somethin' that has been buggin me...Orton...
The Crowd cheers wildly at the mention of The Viper
Do you not pay attention? Do you not listen when I speak? You speak of my inexperience? I've foughten more men than you will EVER battle with. It goes to show how short sighted you are, underestimating the WRONG man. You know nothing about me, and I don't think you ever will. Not that I care, it makes me victory a sure thing. As a Warrior, I hold true to the belief, that one must know their enemy. If one does not know their enemy, then they are destined for failure. You are so arrogant, you just spout off random, uninformed shite that makes no sense at all. While you may be a wrestler, a former world champion, I am the Celtic Warrior, the greatest of my kind. You'll soon see what exactly that means, and how it pertains to you, and the relevance of my boot in your face.
You are roight about one thing though, I am here to make a name for myself, and you are just the first obstacle in my way, one that shall be smashed out of my way. You go on to say you are a legend, but you are also the legend killer....a bit contradictory, dontcha think? By locking shields with me, you are killing your own legend, or perhaps you could just speed up the process and jump off a bridge. Either way....I will take great satisfaction in showing you, and all these bums here, who the hell I am, and what I am all about, what I am capable of. I am a force to be reckoned with. You will be swept away like the wind carries the leaves.
Do not think me to be easy prey. This Warrior you see before you...you think a nobody? I will delight in proving that to be wrong. Perhaps I shall forgive your ignorance as you have never foughten one of my kind. The end result will be the same, with me, standin' over you, my arms raised over your battered body. I will bruise and crush your body and your spirit, and you will never be the same again. So after I defeat you, I suggest you take some medication, and reconsider your career whilst removing my boot our from yer arse.
I hope you are ready, Orton. The hour approaches where I shall be called the victor, and you will be kickin' yerself for taking me too lightly. Courtesy, of the Celtic Warrior....Sheamus!
He drops the microphone, screaming like a madman as the camera fades to black, going to a commercial break, and Sheamus heading to his locker room to prepare for his matchup.
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