Post by macros on May 25, 2007 7:01:50 GMT -6
Heavy waves of yellow dry sand are cast throughout the air as the whirling wind predicting a storm brews amongst the desert. Lonely and scattered amongst the floor of the desert is a collection of dull rectangular tents set-up by the Roman armies invading Egypt, the tents themselves are not built for such conditions as the Egyptian weather and terrain so much as one could predict their natural destruction with-in the week. Problems such as the tents were only fragments of the worries and questions in which circulated in the head of the only man to brave the conditions of the Egyptian deserts.
The man huddled his bulky form deep with-in a hooded cloak, saving himself from the every increasing ferocity of the weather though falling victim to the cursed heat, which seem to only rise to new heights every second.
If it would not get me thrown in jail or slain I would curse the man who sent us to this desolated place with a slow and humane death, though of course such a statement towards the Caesar would only end in one of the two options of death. Though as it so happens our current situation endeavors to offer us no other outcome, we were not built to isolate this sandy climate, from the way we are living to our situation on the battlefield neither looks to have a bright outcome.
The man tightens his grip on his cloak, blocking the sudden surge in the wind surrounding him; Roman attire seemed to be completely inappropriate in such conditions as this.
Though the Egyptians are now our enemies I can not help but look on in awe at the way in which they have lived in this climate, everything from the construction of their cities, though not as close to the level of construction you would find in Rome, as well as the way they have used the food and animal resources around them for battle.
It seems that every time we ride into battle we loose a quarter of our cavalry, not from human death, instead it seems our animals are not equip to travel in these barren lands they just simply fall to their deaths before we even reach the field of battle let alone come in contact with an Egyptian.
Such a thought only brings one single solution; these Egyptian people have what look like deformed horses, camels I think they are called. From study it seems that they show no form of pace higher nor equal than what you would expect from our breed of horses, though they seem to be able to thrive in the conditions of the desert, even on occasions going without food or drink for days on end…at least this is what the Egyptian captives and slaves have spoken. How such a creature could survive in such a climate of sand storms and blistering heat I shall never know.
The man shakes his head slightly before turning his attention back to the confines of his basic tent quarters. He lifts the extra heavy entrance flap of the tent apart so as to squeeze gently through to the barely comfortable confines awaiting him inside. He roughly closes the entrance of the tent before taking a seat on a stool situated before a bowl of water as he slowly lets his cloak fall to the floor revealing him to still be wearing the attire you would usually of seen him where in battle, the bronze lorica is stained with the reminence of dry blood. Sitting now uncovered hovering over the water the identity of the man is let known, Macros looks on at his ageing reflection from the bowl of water.
It is not just my eye deceiving me but it seems as if I have aged years in appearance over the last few months, no longer do I have the lush hair in which once covered my head, obvious are the patches in which are missing. This climate seems to be the only true thing to blame, the longer we have to stay in this Heatwave the more likely the chance would be of me loosing all my hair completely.
The surface of the water brakes into ripples as Macros plunges his hands under the surface; the red color of blood starts to wash from his hand to mix slowly with the clear colour of the water. Macros sighs as the thought of the days battle flow back into his mind…suddenly the camp of tents is broken into the mixture of sounds of men screaming and dieing and the blasts of war horns as the Egyptians attack the unaware Roman armies.
Voice: Your awareness and concentration is starting to fail Macros, time to connect to the true presence of who you are once again.
Macros awoke to a repetitive ear piercing sound braking the silence of the early hours of the morning, the red LED interface of his digital alarm clock flashed in the gloom of the bedroom as Macros waited for his eyes to focus in of the bright color. The red led numbers signal the time being 7: 10 AM, Macros groans slightly as he places his feather pillow over his head, all determined to block the piercing alarm from his mind and return to his rest and his dreams.
The creaking of rusty hinges echoed through the room as the door was opened from the lounge room beyond, soft yet distinctive footfalls could be heard moving across the wooden floorboards towards the bed Macros filled. The end of the quilt covering both Macros and the bed lifts up into the air and is quickly pulled off and to the floor letting the cold morning air attack the topless for of Macros who groans in exaggerated pain. The owner of the footsteps is identified as Macros takes his head from under the cover of his single pillow.
Riley: Ay man get your lazy behind out of bed. An exact ten minutes ya have already slept in, delaying my tight schedule as always. Ya keep this up for another second and ya may find ya self with a quick bucket of cold water thrown over ya head.
Macros: Ten minutes is but little time in the scheme of things, we can make it u if we drive a little quicker to the show tonight.
By show Macros was pointing out the Road to Over in Dover wrestling event held by POW New England which happened to take place in a short time.
Riley: Ya must be joking, ya of course ya got to be joking. Any man that has driven in my vehicle knows that it has never had the word “fast” escape a mans lips when describing it. Yeah fast that’s a good one.
Macros had to even hide his humor at the jest, of course the manager was all but true. The blue and heavily rusted mini in which the manager had insisted to continue to drive was nothing but fast, in fact it rarely went over the speed of 70 km/ph, occasionally Macros was surprised as it hit the 90 mark aided by the slope of a steady hill in Kansas City. Macros looks at his manager to find his face covered with a look of concern and what seemed a hint of anger.
Riley: No Macros we are behind schedule, whether ya may think it or ya may not. Today marks the 24 hour countdown to your match with this Phillip Owen Weiss, plus I should state that it would be only your third match within the confines of the New England branch. So far a single win and a draw is not sufficient to my likings, of course I understand that the interference of Mick Cormac could not be helped, but if such a thing happens again and ya find yourself acting without a hint of offensive…ya will be punished. Winning is the key of my business Macros. Producing the victories for my client is the way that my name spreads, when they here the name Riley placed nest to a wrestler they know he is a force to be reckoned with. I will not be contempt with losses Macros.
Ya know I must admit Macros that I was impressed in the way that ya were able to sweep away that pathetic man that was once your role model and mentor of this trade, Josh Eagles. It was foolish of him and others of this Power On Wrestling to deny my knowledge and believe that he was a match to your advancing talents. But like an ant he prove to be a pest, and like a pest we eradicated him from our path. But of course other matters that ya are yet to know of trouble my mind Macros. I find that it is pathetic in the way that the fool owner of Power On Wrestling, Tito Capaci, believes that putting this Josh Eagles and Reck Maverick together to fight for an opportunity to wrestle for the POW Championship is a very unwise decision. Putting two men in the line for a championship before yourself, foolish, not to mention the additional fact that both these men have found themselves with losses at the hands of the legion soldier. That is something which troubles me greatly Macros, the thought that such men could be held within a higher status than yourself displeases me extremely. Such is why we have such a tight training schedule.
There are moves and techniques in which ya current skills are lacking, I feel that to proceed to new levels of performance we must once more hone your skills. For I shall not see the losses that ya suffered within the Midwest territory duplicated within your new found territory home.
Macros saw the complete look of honesty across the face of his manager, for a split second Macros though he saw the look of fear but as soon as it had appeared it past.
Riley: This Phillip Owen Weiss is nothing so I will be expecting a very simple win Macros, perhaps this will prepare ya for future matches. Ya will treat this match as a warm-up to get ya out of this slump of losses and draws, from now on my client, I expect to see only the tallies of victories upon your record.
Riley nods his head towards the built in wardrobe.
Riley: Now get dressed Macros, we are now very far behind our schedule. Ya have a long day of training ahead of ya today.
The manager walked from the room without a second glance at his client, though Macros doubted many of his words he had no doubt that his day of relaxation was over. True to the managers words Macros Vitruvious would soon find himself sweating in the confines of yet another dreary gym.
The man huddled his bulky form deep with-in a hooded cloak, saving himself from the every increasing ferocity of the weather though falling victim to the cursed heat, which seem to only rise to new heights every second.
If it would not get me thrown in jail or slain I would curse the man who sent us to this desolated place with a slow and humane death, though of course such a statement towards the Caesar would only end in one of the two options of death. Though as it so happens our current situation endeavors to offer us no other outcome, we were not built to isolate this sandy climate, from the way we are living to our situation on the battlefield neither looks to have a bright outcome.
The man tightens his grip on his cloak, blocking the sudden surge in the wind surrounding him; Roman attire seemed to be completely inappropriate in such conditions as this.
Though the Egyptians are now our enemies I can not help but look on in awe at the way in which they have lived in this climate, everything from the construction of their cities, though not as close to the level of construction you would find in Rome, as well as the way they have used the food and animal resources around them for battle.
It seems that every time we ride into battle we loose a quarter of our cavalry, not from human death, instead it seems our animals are not equip to travel in these barren lands they just simply fall to their deaths before we even reach the field of battle let alone come in contact with an Egyptian.
Such a thought only brings one single solution; these Egyptian people have what look like deformed horses, camels I think they are called. From study it seems that they show no form of pace higher nor equal than what you would expect from our breed of horses, though they seem to be able to thrive in the conditions of the desert, even on occasions going without food or drink for days on end…at least this is what the Egyptian captives and slaves have spoken. How such a creature could survive in such a climate of sand storms and blistering heat I shall never know.
The man shakes his head slightly before turning his attention back to the confines of his basic tent quarters. He lifts the extra heavy entrance flap of the tent apart so as to squeeze gently through to the barely comfortable confines awaiting him inside. He roughly closes the entrance of the tent before taking a seat on a stool situated before a bowl of water as he slowly lets his cloak fall to the floor revealing him to still be wearing the attire you would usually of seen him where in battle, the bronze lorica is stained with the reminence of dry blood. Sitting now uncovered hovering over the water the identity of the man is let known, Macros looks on at his ageing reflection from the bowl of water.
It is not just my eye deceiving me but it seems as if I have aged years in appearance over the last few months, no longer do I have the lush hair in which once covered my head, obvious are the patches in which are missing. This climate seems to be the only true thing to blame, the longer we have to stay in this Heatwave the more likely the chance would be of me loosing all my hair completely.
The surface of the water brakes into ripples as Macros plunges his hands under the surface; the red color of blood starts to wash from his hand to mix slowly with the clear colour of the water. Macros sighs as the thought of the days battle flow back into his mind…suddenly the camp of tents is broken into the mixture of sounds of men screaming and dieing and the blasts of war horns as the Egyptians attack the unaware Roman armies.
Voice: Your awareness and concentration is starting to fail Macros, time to connect to the true presence of who you are once again.
Macros awoke to a repetitive ear piercing sound braking the silence of the early hours of the morning, the red LED interface of his digital alarm clock flashed in the gloom of the bedroom as Macros waited for his eyes to focus in of the bright color. The red led numbers signal the time being 7: 10 AM, Macros groans slightly as he places his feather pillow over his head, all determined to block the piercing alarm from his mind and return to his rest and his dreams.
The creaking of rusty hinges echoed through the room as the door was opened from the lounge room beyond, soft yet distinctive footfalls could be heard moving across the wooden floorboards towards the bed Macros filled. The end of the quilt covering both Macros and the bed lifts up into the air and is quickly pulled off and to the floor letting the cold morning air attack the topless for of Macros who groans in exaggerated pain. The owner of the footsteps is identified as Macros takes his head from under the cover of his single pillow.
Riley: Ay man get your lazy behind out of bed. An exact ten minutes ya have already slept in, delaying my tight schedule as always. Ya keep this up for another second and ya may find ya self with a quick bucket of cold water thrown over ya head.
Macros: Ten minutes is but little time in the scheme of things, we can make it u if we drive a little quicker to the show tonight.
By show Macros was pointing out the Road to Over in Dover wrestling event held by POW New England which happened to take place in a short time.
Riley: Ya must be joking, ya of course ya got to be joking. Any man that has driven in my vehicle knows that it has never had the word “fast” escape a mans lips when describing it. Yeah fast that’s a good one.
Macros had to even hide his humor at the jest, of course the manager was all but true. The blue and heavily rusted mini in which the manager had insisted to continue to drive was nothing but fast, in fact it rarely went over the speed of 70 km/ph, occasionally Macros was surprised as it hit the 90 mark aided by the slope of a steady hill in Kansas City. Macros looks at his manager to find his face covered with a look of concern and what seemed a hint of anger.
Riley: No Macros we are behind schedule, whether ya may think it or ya may not. Today marks the 24 hour countdown to your match with this Phillip Owen Weiss, plus I should state that it would be only your third match within the confines of the New England branch. So far a single win and a draw is not sufficient to my likings, of course I understand that the interference of Mick Cormac could not be helped, but if such a thing happens again and ya find yourself acting without a hint of offensive…ya will be punished. Winning is the key of my business Macros. Producing the victories for my client is the way that my name spreads, when they here the name Riley placed nest to a wrestler they know he is a force to be reckoned with. I will not be contempt with losses Macros.
Ya know I must admit Macros that I was impressed in the way that ya were able to sweep away that pathetic man that was once your role model and mentor of this trade, Josh Eagles. It was foolish of him and others of this Power On Wrestling to deny my knowledge and believe that he was a match to your advancing talents. But like an ant he prove to be a pest, and like a pest we eradicated him from our path. But of course other matters that ya are yet to know of trouble my mind Macros. I find that it is pathetic in the way that the fool owner of Power On Wrestling, Tito Capaci, believes that putting this Josh Eagles and Reck Maverick together to fight for an opportunity to wrestle for the POW Championship is a very unwise decision. Putting two men in the line for a championship before yourself, foolish, not to mention the additional fact that both these men have found themselves with losses at the hands of the legion soldier. That is something which troubles me greatly Macros, the thought that such men could be held within a higher status than yourself displeases me extremely. Such is why we have such a tight training schedule.
There are moves and techniques in which ya current skills are lacking, I feel that to proceed to new levels of performance we must once more hone your skills. For I shall not see the losses that ya suffered within the Midwest territory duplicated within your new found territory home.
Macros saw the complete look of honesty across the face of his manager, for a split second Macros though he saw the look of fear but as soon as it had appeared it past.
Riley: This Phillip Owen Weiss is nothing so I will be expecting a very simple win Macros, perhaps this will prepare ya for future matches. Ya will treat this match as a warm-up to get ya out of this slump of losses and draws, from now on my client, I expect to see only the tallies of victories upon your record.
Riley nods his head towards the built in wardrobe.
Riley: Now get dressed Macros, we are now very far behind our schedule. Ya have a long day of training ahead of ya today.
The manager walked from the room without a second glance at his client, though Macros doubted many of his words he had no doubt that his day of relaxation was over. True to the managers words Macros Vitruvious would soon find himself sweating in the confines of yet another dreary gym.