Victory by Pinfall or Submission
The clock had struck chaos and the guitar riff played to the tune of Ember Days. Fresh, zealous and eager, the young American spitfire burst onto the scene, greeted by the rows of attendance. She took towards the rampway, where she stopped to hop on one foot, the lifted leg kicking her back heel. She pointed towards the ring, eyes narrowed and her grin. Both feet stomped three times, echoed a song of boots against steel before she blitzed the rampway full speed. Just one foot from the apron, her legs coiled, muscles tensed and exploded into a leap. Her fingers coiled around the middle rope and pulled, the balls of her feet nestled sound against the apron’s lip. The top was tucked underneath her armpit, then she strode the edge and beckoned the crowd’s roar with her arm.
“Come onnnn!” An upward swipe was replied with a brief torrent of cheer, subsided when Ember settled both hands upon the top, leaned back and vaulted over the ropes. She landed clean and bounced on the canvas, brushed a hand through her scarlet hair and hastily occupied her corner, where she lounged her arms across the top, crossed one leg over the other and nestled into the turnbuckle.
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