A Name To Make - Or Redeem...
Jul 11, 2013 1:41:34 GMT -5
Post by Mandrew on Jul 11, 2013 1:41:34 GMT -5
As The Crow Flies – Off Camera (or Character Development. Whatever you want to call it).
It was still the twilight hours of an unusually dreary morning in Pennsylvania when – after a small commuter aircraft carrying no more than a dozen passengers had touched down on the tarmac, FRONTIER Grappling Arts’ latest signing stood patiently outside the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International Airport awaiting his cab.
One by one the passengers filtered from the desolate airport, scurrying like bugs as they attempted to shelter themselves from the drizzling rain and make their way towards their loved ones or waiting transport. All bar one that is, for this is Crowe.
Unlike the other passengers, Crowe stands motionless – a cigarette clings to his lips, barely able to stay lit through the rain, a thick duffel bag slung over his shoulder, unaffected and almost oblivious to the adverse weather conditions and the rain pattering onto his uncovered head of thick, unkempt black hair.
Crowe is illuminated briefly as the cab pulls up; he narrows his eyes to protect them from the glare of the cabs headlights, obviously the near eight hour flight has taken its toll. Crowe takes one last drag on the cigarette before discarding it onto the floor before opening the rear passenger door and tossing his bag onto the back seat. He swings the door shut, walking around the car, opening the opposite rear passenger door and gets in. Inside, Crowe directs the driver to the small town known as Honesdale, only a short drive from Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International and so they set off – with deeds of the old Lackawaxen River Fishing Supply Store that had sat vacant for a close to a decade in his name, Crowe had himself a new home; now aptly named the “Crow’s Nest.”
Honesdale itself was only a small community no more than a couple of hours drive from FGA Headquarters in Bloomfield, NJ yet far enough out for Crowe to not be consumed by the hustle and bustle of everyday life – just the kind of surroundings Crowe has coveted after leaving the hustle and bustle of city life in London, England behind to start a new saga…
A Name To Make – Or Redeem… - On Camera (Main RP)
A grainy shot opens up to reveal FRONTIER Grappling Arts’ latest signing, Crowe. He sits on the bare wooden floor of his newly acquired “Crow’s Nest” wearing a simple black vest and three-quarter length shorts combination. Crowe lounges back, half reclined against the wall, which – like the wooden panelled flooring, is also bare and looks in desperate need of some TLC. His right leg is outstretched, his left tucked upright allowing his arm to rest on top where a lit roll-up cigarette dangles loosely from his fingertips, leaving a thin trail of smoke to snake its way up off camera.
With his free hand, Crowe bats his unkempt black hair from his face and we catch the first glimpse of his eerily, almost luminescent eyes through the mire of static and badly focused feed. He takes a drag from his cigarette; the lit end glows orange and yellow; just enough to illuminate Crowe’s face briefly before he stops inhaling and the colours dim once again. Now looking at the camera, Crowe opens his arms in a welcoming manner with an almost contemptuous smirk fixed to his face as he exhales a plume of smoke up into the air above him.
“Welcome one, welcome all to my humble abode – a quaint dwelling, I’m sure you’ll agree; or to give it it’s official title, the Crow’s Nest.”
The focus changes. The gritty image betters slightly helping us to see as Crowe lowers his arms; slouching his left arm back over his knee, allowing his wrist to limply slump as the lit cigarette just barely clings to his fingertips.
“I must admit I can't say much about its present condition, but worry not, I’ll have this place looking like the picture of domestic bliss in no time; littered with your oh so wonderful Americana.” Crowe scoffs.
“I’m lying, of course…” Crowe pauses; taking a second to take another drag from his cigarette.
“Personally I couldn’t think of anything more hideous. No…” Crowe’s eyes drift from the camera, inspecting his surroundings.
“I must admit I’m quite fond of this place. The isolation and simplicity of it all; it’s got a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ about it, don’t you think?” Finally Crowe’s gaze directs back to the camera, his expression giving the impression he’s expecting an answer. A moment later the corner of his mouth lifts, again that cynical smirk adorns the Englishman’s face.
“You see, sitting here now; I kind of feel like part of myself has ‘seeped’ into my surroundings. Like this place has taken on a character of its own. For nigh-on a decade this place has sat deserted, until now. You probably can’t see it, but here, now, I can feel it. It’s like, we can feel your eyes staring at us. Judging us. What a bleak image this must be for you – this…” Crowe’s free hand gestures as though searching for the correct word.
“...depressive man – a degenerate even, embellishing a life so unfamiliar yet, this is me… Crowe…” With his right hand, Crowe extends a finger, pointing it towards his chest.
“…I am a loner, a reclusive soul; the kind of person you tell your children to stay away from. I’m the man that lurks in the background, allowing you to take for granted what you don’t yet know. Plotting my move, finding your weakness, then – when the time is right, I can strike from the shadows; carving down the people that sully the name ‘Crowe’.” Crowe’s British accent sharpens, emphasising his words.
“I don’t expect you to understand, but worry not; you will soon enough. Until then I’ll bide my time, keeping myself to myself, only – like right now – occasionally letting you people into my world.”
Crowe takes another drag of his cigarette, savouring it before exhaling another cloud of smoke into the air.
“So, anyway…” A surely artificial eagerness to Crowe’s tone booms out.
“The newest signing to FRONTIER Grappling Arts wants to know who’s tune we play to, who’s beat we dance to. The chairman’s? The Heavyweight Champion’s? The fans’?” Crowe slowly shakes his head.
“Not I… When I make my way to the ring I play to my tune and I make people dance to MY beat. I’m not about to – nor will I ever want to become the new poster boy for FRONTIER Grapping Arts, screw that. I’ll leave that to the show girls and pretty boys of this promotion. I’ll be the chap that’s tucked away in the broom closet when visitors come round, to save infecting them with my huge charisma.” Crowe gives the camera a wry smile before leaning his head back against the bare wall. His eyes once more drift from our attention, staring straight on past the camera and at the presumably equally blank wall behind us.
“Enough about me, though. I could sit here all day and tell you my life – the story so far, so to speak, but what good will come of that? The way I see it all that matters is thee the here and now, and in particularly the four other names looking to make somewhat of an impression at the upcoming DVD taping.” Crowe takes another drag from the cigarette.
“It should be quite the occasion; five debutants… sorry, four. The exception being Miss Serena Raine who competed at the last taping and, well, we know how that ended, didn’t we?” Crowe’s eyebrows raise, a hint of a smirk creeping onto his lips.
“I’m sorry Miss Raine, a cheap shot I know, but much like your recent efforts, I too must also toss a spanner into the works of your so far less-than-impressive FGA career. I know it must of hurt being knocked out of the Frontier Lions Cup so soon, especially when pitted against the likes of Johnny Karma, a – what did you say, ‘full of themselves hype machine’? Ouch, Serena. Those claws were out, weren’t they? Such a pity the best your claws can do next week in Providence is attempt to claw back some of your dignity after such a disappointing loss.”
“But let us not forget the other three competitors in this opening matchup. Christopher Jenkins; the Casanova, the womaniser, the man who’s attention will no doubt be drawn by the very presence of the delectable Miss Raine standing opposite him next week. Thaddeus Clay, the… well we seem to have a man tarnished with the same brush here , don’t we?” With a slight shake of the head, Crowe’s expression is stricken with doubt.
“One can only hope that these men have the brains to back up their brawn or else I’m afraid that these ‘alpha males’ will be leaving Providence with their tales tucked firmly between their legs. A sight you adoring FGA fans will enjoy, I’m sure.”
Crowe pauses, collecting his thoughts.
“Then finally we have Daniel ‘The Angel’ Christopher; interesting one, here. Here’s a chap with quite the back story but tell me, Daniel, where will all your previous titles and accomplishments be next weekend when you’re standing face to face with four hungry competitors, all with a name to make – or redeem, I might add?”
Crowe scuffles forward, leaning towards the camera in a much more poised and animated fashion – a point to prove, no doubt.
“See this is what makes most people different to myself. I haven’t sat here waffling on about my past victories or accomplishments. Do I have them? Of course, we all have something to be proud of but right here, right now does any of that matter…?” Crowe’s eyes narrow, as though begging you to challenge his words.
“Not for shit. You know what past glories mean to me? That you were great, that you were on top of your game, but right here in Frontier Grappling Arts you’re just like the other four names in that ring. New blood – a clean slate. A lump of clay desperate to find out what form it can be moulded into.” Crowe extends his empty hand, picturing a lump of clay in his grasp.
“This is what makes me different. I know what can be created from this lump of clay, and next weekend in Providence I’ll show each and every one of you because this lump of clay right here…” Again Crowe extends a finger, pointing to himself.
“Will be crossing through each and every one of your names, Jenkins, Clay, Christopher and Raine.”
Reclining back against the wall and crossing his legs, suddenly the animated Crowe sinks back into his shell; behind the gritty shot and unkempt hair which he brushes back over his head, albeit simply to fall back into – or out of, more fittingly, place.
“They say that people are afraid of what they don’t understand, but like I said before; you will understand me. Soon…”
On that Crowe takes a final, deep drag of his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the camera as the shot fades out.
It was still the twilight hours of an unusually dreary morning in Pennsylvania when – after a small commuter aircraft carrying no more than a dozen passengers had touched down on the tarmac, FRONTIER Grappling Arts’ latest signing stood patiently outside the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International Airport awaiting his cab.
One by one the passengers filtered from the desolate airport, scurrying like bugs as they attempted to shelter themselves from the drizzling rain and make their way towards their loved ones or waiting transport. All bar one that is, for this is Crowe.
Unlike the other passengers, Crowe stands motionless – a cigarette clings to his lips, barely able to stay lit through the rain, a thick duffel bag slung over his shoulder, unaffected and almost oblivious to the adverse weather conditions and the rain pattering onto his uncovered head of thick, unkempt black hair.
Crowe is illuminated briefly as the cab pulls up; he narrows his eyes to protect them from the glare of the cabs headlights, obviously the near eight hour flight has taken its toll. Crowe takes one last drag on the cigarette before discarding it onto the floor before opening the rear passenger door and tossing his bag onto the back seat. He swings the door shut, walking around the car, opening the opposite rear passenger door and gets in. Inside, Crowe directs the driver to the small town known as Honesdale, only a short drive from Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International and so they set off – with deeds of the old Lackawaxen River Fishing Supply Store that had sat vacant for a close to a decade in his name, Crowe had himself a new home; now aptly named the “Crow’s Nest.”
Honesdale itself was only a small community no more than a couple of hours drive from FGA Headquarters in Bloomfield, NJ yet far enough out for Crowe to not be consumed by the hustle and bustle of everyday life – just the kind of surroundings Crowe has coveted after leaving the hustle and bustle of city life in London, England behind to start a new saga…
A Name To Make – Or Redeem… - On Camera (Main RP)
A grainy shot opens up to reveal FRONTIER Grappling Arts’ latest signing, Crowe. He sits on the bare wooden floor of his newly acquired “Crow’s Nest” wearing a simple black vest and three-quarter length shorts combination. Crowe lounges back, half reclined against the wall, which – like the wooden panelled flooring, is also bare and looks in desperate need of some TLC. His right leg is outstretched, his left tucked upright allowing his arm to rest on top where a lit roll-up cigarette dangles loosely from his fingertips, leaving a thin trail of smoke to snake its way up off camera.
With his free hand, Crowe bats his unkempt black hair from his face and we catch the first glimpse of his eerily, almost luminescent eyes through the mire of static and badly focused feed. He takes a drag from his cigarette; the lit end glows orange and yellow; just enough to illuminate Crowe’s face briefly before he stops inhaling and the colours dim once again. Now looking at the camera, Crowe opens his arms in a welcoming manner with an almost contemptuous smirk fixed to his face as he exhales a plume of smoke up into the air above him.
“Welcome one, welcome all to my humble abode – a quaint dwelling, I’m sure you’ll agree; or to give it it’s official title, the Crow’s Nest.”
The focus changes. The gritty image betters slightly helping us to see as Crowe lowers his arms; slouching his left arm back over his knee, allowing his wrist to limply slump as the lit cigarette just barely clings to his fingertips.
“I must admit I can't say much about its present condition, but worry not, I’ll have this place looking like the picture of domestic bliss in no time; littered with your oh so wonderful Americana.” Crowe scoffs.
“I’m lying, of course…” Crowe pauses; taking a second to take another drag from his cigarette.
“Personally I couldn’t think of anything more hideous. No…” Crowe’s eyes drift from the camera, inspecting his surroundings.
“I must admit I’m quite fond of this place. The isolation and simplicity of it all; it’s got a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ about it, don’t you think?” Finally Crowe’s gaze directs back to the camera, his expression giving the impression he’s expecting an answer. A moment later the corner of his mouth lifts, again that cynical smirk adorns the Englishman’s face.
“You see, sitting here now; I kind of feel like part of myself has ‘seeped’ into my surroundings. Like this place has taken on a character of its own. For nigh-on a decade this place has sat deserted, until now. You probably can’t see it, but here, now, I can feel it. It’s like, we can feel your eyes staring at us. Judging us. What a bleak image this must be for you – this…” Crowe’s free hand gestures as though searching for the correct word.
“...depressive man – a degenerate even, embellishing a life so unfamiliar yet, this is me… Crowe…” With his right hand, Crowe extends a finger, pointing it towards his chest.
“…I am a loner, a reclusive soul; the kind of person you tell your children to stay away from. I’m the man that lurks in the background, allowing you to take for granted what you don’t yet know. Plotting my move, finding your weakness, then – when the time is right, I can strike from the shadows; carving down the people that sully the name ‘Crowe’.” Crowe’s British accent sharpens, emphasising his words.
“I don’t expect you to understand, but worry not; you will soon enough. Until then I’ll bide my time, keeping myself to myself, only – like right now – occasionally letting you people into my world.”
Crowe takes another drag of his cigarette, savouring it before exhaling another cloud of smoke into the air.
“So, anyway…” A surely artificial eagerness to Crowe’s tone booms out.
“The newest signing to FRONTIER Grappling Arts wants to know who’s tune we play to, who’s beat we dance to. The chairman’s? The Heavyweight Champion’s? The fans’?” Crowe slowly shakes his head.
“Not I… When I make my way to the ring I play to my tune and I make people dance to MY beat. I’m not about to – nor will I ever want to become the new poster boy for FRONTIER Grapping Arts, screw that. I’ll leave that to the show girls and pretty boys of this promotion. I’ll be the chap that’s tucked away in the broom closet when visitors come round, to save infecting them with my huge charisma.” Crowe gives the camera a wry smile before leaning his head back against the bare wall. His eyes once more drift from our attention, staring straight on past the camera and at the presumably equally blank wall behind us.
“Enough about me, though. I could sit here all day and tell you my life – the story so far, so to speak, but what good will come of that? The way I see it all that matters is thee the here and now, and in particularly the four other names looking to make somewhat of an impression at the upcoming DVD taping.” Crowe takes another drag from the cigarette.
“It should be quite the occasion; five debutants… sorry, four. The exception being Miss Serena Raine who competed at the last taping and, well, we know how that ended, didn’t we?” Crowe’s eyebrows raise, a hint of a smirk creeping onto his lips.
“I’m sorry Miss Raine, a cheap shot I know, but much like your recent efforts, I too must also toss a spanner into the works of your so far less-than-impressive FGA career. I know it must of hurt being knocked out of the Frontier Lions Cup so soon, especially when pitted against the likes of Johnny Karma, a – what did you say, ‘full of themselves hype machine’? Ouch, Serena. Those claws were out, weren’t they? Such a pity the best your claws can do next week in Providence is attempt to claw back some of your dignity after such a disappointing loss.”
“But let us not forget the other three competitors in this opening matchup. Christopher Jenkins; the Casanova, the womaniser, the man who’s attention will no doubt be drawn by the very presence of the delectable Miss Raine standing opposite him next week. Thaddeus Clay, the… well we seem to have a man tarnished with the same brush here , don’t we?” With a slight shake of the head, Crowe’s expression is stricken with doubt.
“One can only hope that these men have the brains to back up their brawn or else I’m afraid that these ‘alpha males’ will be leaving Providence with their tales tucked firmly between their legs. A sight you adoring FGA fans will enjoy, I’m sure.”
Crowe pauses, collecting his thoughts.
“Then finally we have Daniel ‘The Angel’ Christopher; interesting one, here. Here’s a chap with quite the back story but tell me, Daniel, where will all your previous titles and accomplishments be next weekend when you’re standing face to face with four hungry competitors, all with a name to make – or redeem, I might add?”
Crowe scuffles forward, leaning towards the camera in a much more poised and animated fashion – a point to prove, no doubt.
“See this is what makes most people different to myself. I haven’t sat here waffling on about my past victories or accomplishments. Do I have them? Of course, we all have something to be proud of but right here, right now does any of that matter…?” Crowe’s eyes narrow, as though begging you to challenge his words.
“Not for shit. You know what past glories mean to me? That you were great, that you were on top of your game, but right here in Frontier Grappling Arts you’re just like the other four names in that ring. New blood – a clean slate. A lump of clay desperate to find out what form it can be moulded into.” Crowe extends his empty hand, picturing a lump of clay in his grasp.
“This is what makes me different. I know what can be created from this lump of clay, and next weekend in Providence I’ll show each and every one of you because this lump of clay right here…” Again Crowe extends a finger, pointing to himself.
“Will be crossing through each and every one of your names, Jenkins, Clay, Christopher and Raine.”
Reclining back against the wall and crossing his legs, suddenly the animated Crowe sinks back into his shell; behind the gritty shot and unkempt hair which he brushes back over his head, albeit simply to fall back into – or out of, more fittingly, place.
“They say that people are afraid of what they don’t understand, but like I said before; you will understand me. Soon…”
On that Crowe takes a final, deep drag of his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the camera as the shot fades out.