Red on Black: Wyvern vs. Karla "Ray" Reinhardt

[Hills]

Wyvern feels a wave of grim satisfaction as the familiar sensation of cartilage giving way to bone passes through her forehead. Playing possum wasn't one of her preferred tactics. Given the choice, she'd much rather just take an opponent head-on in a straight fight. This was hardly a sense of honor or fair play, however. It was just how she most enjoyed herself in combat. When push came to shove, and an opponent proved herself to be as devious and ruthless as Karla had, the Irish wrestler wasn't above returning the favor, and she was perfectly capable of her own deceptions and dirty tactics. You didn't get to be a deathmatch specialist without knowing that much.

Furthermore, when it came to bloodlust, she wouldn't be outdone by anyone.

Wyvern makes no attempt to stop Karla from pushing away, taking a moment to enjoy the agonized vocalizations coming from her opponent. While not sadistic, per se, there was always a certain satisfaction to be derived from turning the tables on a smug enemy like this. Slowly, wary of the possibility of another sneak attack, Wyvern rises to her feet behind Karla. Wiping away the spilled blood left behind on her forehead, the Irish wrestler licks the offending liquid off the back of her hand with deliberate slowness. Cracking her neck, the Irishwoman explodes into action, aiming for Karla's exposed back. If she's able to do so, she locks her arms around her opponent's waist, before lifting her opponent into the air in a perfectly arced German Suplex.

If Karla isn't able to counter or escape in time, the suplex will bring her down onto the canvas like a meteor, executed with both precision and extreme force. That won't be the end, either, as Wyvern begins to roll through and prepare another such attack.

[Monsy]

No one can make Karla Ray Reinhardt hate her own face.
But Wyvern surely made a grand effort. Karla was digging at her skin. The feeling of swelling. Tenderness. It pulsed like its own heart. It made her feel sick. Her feet danced around, uneasy and just guessing its placement. The more it hurt, the more the incandescence boiled, which made it hurt all the more as she growled, yelled and her actions hardly became her own. And despite all this want and fever, pain and malice, she was more vulnerable than a puppy. It was a tantrum to the spectator. How she hated running into walls. Hundchens must. Know. Their. Place.

“Egh?!” Karla stiffened at the first grab. She looked down, saw arms and knew to throw back her elbows. Scratch. Bite. Anything would do. But when thoughts turned to action, the Main Event flew -- planted with a thunderclap. It got a loud, girlish squeal. Her legs flew, reaching the highest point, then folding so her boots landed by her head. A curl was in her spine, having collapsed in a C-shape. Her arms flew over her head, folded into the sea of hair. Her face was up in knots, biting her lip to stop whining like a pathetic bitch. The crowd cheered such a perfect move. The action they craved, against the woman they loathed.

Soon, Karla was to fall on her side, holding her head, turning onto her stomach and trying to shimmy herself onto standing on her knees. A picture perfect open target.

[Hills]

Wyvern is almost exclusively a striker. That is how she has trained, it is what she feels comfortable with, and it is where her experience and talent lies. The suplex is the primary exception to this. It's the only piece of her kit that can truly be considered unique to wrestling itself, but it's a potent tool indeed in the right hands. For Wyvern, who has always developed her skills based on what felt right, it is a natural extension of her high-impact, brutal style of fighting. Karla doesn't need to let out more than her initial shriek; the Irish wrestler knows just how painful the move is when properly delivered, and it was rare for her to do anything less. Reinhardt could do whatever she wanted to preserve her dignity. Wyvern didn't need to humiliate her opponent, only to hurt them.

Rolling through and onto her feet while Karla attempts to recover from the devastating drop, Wyvern needs only a moment to gauge her opponent's position and adjust her feet before following through with another blow. Karla, reduced to being on her knees, has her head at a perfect height for any number of nasty attacks. Wyvern, however, feels no need to get creative. Sometimes, the simplest options are the best. Winding up, the irishwoman launches her leg forward, aiming to deliver a roundhouse kick with her instep head on into Karla's face!

[Monsy]

Karla was left picking up her pieces after the suplex. They had this nasty bite on the back. Anything unprepared just got smothered in this clap. There isn’t much control on how you tumble after, just the momentum. Karla was a slave to how she landed and turned, but bit-by-bit, she climbed up towards reclaiming her feet!

Then -- she took a boot right to her teeth. It sounded like a bellyflop. Her head was knocked to the side, with spittle escaping in a flick, an eye closed and this grunt as she arched back to sit on her knees, back and back further until she splatted the canvas with her shoulders. Her arms threw up after a couple windmills, into the mess of her hair and jaw turned to ribbons, which felt swollen and locked in place. Both legs stayed folded, putting this arch into her spine as she peered distant into the glaring lights above.

[Hills]

"Tch."

Of all the possible responses one could have in response to delivering such a nasty beating to Karla Reinhardt, grating annoyance might seem strange at first glance to most onlookers, if they could even read Wyvern in the first place. The Irish wrestler maintains her usual stoic demeanor following the kick, but a frustrated hiss is just barely audible to the ref...and possibly Karla herself, if the woman is in any position to be paying attention to her surroundings and not the pain wracking her body after Wyvern's assault. Stalking forward, the Irish wrestler comes up alongside Karla before lifting one leg into the air. If not stopped, she slams her foot down on the center of Karla's chest, putting her full weight behind it and trying to force her opponent further down against the canvas at an unnatural bend. Within moments, the referee drops to the ground and begins counting.

"One!"

The action technically fulfills the requirements for a pinfall, but it's hardly a good one; overall, this feels more like a taunt than a serious effort to win the match.

[Monsy]

The sickness of numbness was a mean mistress.
It ate her from the chin which was destroyed, to her heaving stomach that tightened with each inhale. She breathed, raggedly, that one can mistake it for exhaustion. Her eyes already left and were edging into her skull. Hell, even god herself drooled like a dog at both ends. As the finger on her conscious would say -- almost cold. Alas, her angle was fluid and her trained body flexible, put into an arch of her own unluckiness, she was eventually flattened until her legs spread more, a shin slipping out as her head, nape, shoulder blades, and mid-back all became a pancake underneath Wyvern’s boot. She whimpered, coughing, a shortened breath and a reddened beam swiped across her chest as she couldn’t quite manifest the amber. But cheers were another thing. A little stab to her empire.

“TWO!”

And that wound wasn’t to be opened anymore -- for Karla thrust her arm and all but tucked to herself on her side. She propped up on one elbow, held her squashed chest, huffed and puffed as her hairs created a cloak over her still half-lost eyes and the small mark now on her perfect chin and a certain perfect face.

[Hills]

Wyvern is not one to gloat. A lead in a match means nothing, the only result that truly matters is determined when the bell is rung. Victory is a validation, defeat a lesson. There's no reason to take much satisfaction in either. Accept and move on. Emotions like anger or shame have little place in Wyvern's philosophy, even if her reality is more complicated than such a sterile evaluation of worth. Her crushing pin is a rare exception to this general rule. The boot is not something that will keep a determined opponent down. It's a shock to the system for someone who can still fight back, and a death knell to one who can't. Practical and multi-purposed. THe Irish wrestler has seen that Karla could be a good opponent, and wants more.

As Karla forces her shoulder off the canvas, Wyvern's foot slips to the side and she quickly hops away from her fallen opponent, not eager to expose an opening against the opportunistic woman. She doesn't immediately resume her attack, however, instead half-entering her stance and waiting for Karla to collect herself.

"Get up. Your little games aren't going to beat me. You don't have the time to try to just hurt me. Show me your strength, if you still have any. You have any substance, or is it all just cheap tricks?"

[Monsy]

What leaked on the inside was hard for Karla to pinpoint. Seeing the crowd’s eyes on her side made her want to puke. If she could, she’d punch them all purple and black. They deserved as much. Her face was still tight that she wanted to tear off her nerve endings. Her neck wasn’t too bad. This? This was nothing so far. The Main Event doesn’t lay down, she turns over onto her belly, gets on all fours, and firmly stomps her boots down until she takes a stance once again. The Main Event doesn’t stare sheepishly, she glowers through her hair which was slightly disheveled in front of her face. Neither does she keep her frown. A Main Event’s pearly-white smile was richer than gold. A Miss Main Event is a star. Untouchable.

“Do I?” Karla scoffed, coming back her hair, calmly and slowly. It helped. Just to not explode.
“Hundchen, who has won over a dozen times in a row? Who has retired a man twice YOUR size.” She gestured to herself with spread arms, then pointed her index at Wyvern and started counting, “WHO has tamed more veterans, ended more hot streaks, and pinned more giants between us? Who? You want to talk about strength?” Karla took two paces forward, then blew a kiss that turned into the middle finger, “Get of the undercard, FIRST.” Said with spit. That middle finger dipped down to her lead right boot, “--And kiss my boot.”

Old tricks die in distractions. One of words as Karla’s fingers were twitching. She was struggling not to just scream every syllable. Sometimes it broke. But this was a mere statement to all these onlookers. And her finger pointed down, she stepped in and shot a straight sucker punch for their jaw.

[Hills]

Wyvern holds her entire body loose as Karla rants at her, keeping to her stance and impassively meeting the older wrestler's eyes. Karla's list of accomplishments was certainly longer than hers. That wasn't surprising, given her longer tenure in the company. By the sounds of it, she'd had an impressive career here. Indeed, compared to her, Wyvern's own record was spotty at best. She hadn't even had a dozen matches, let alone won that many in a row. Her record was more balanced than weighed towards wins or losses. She'd deliberately gone for the hardest opponents she could find, and had regularly been punished for it. Every loss had been a lesson, however. Wyvern wasn't the type of person who raged at hardship or stewed on failure. She rolled with the punches and improved herself. And when Karla sucker punches her, the Main Event feels almost no resistance as the Irish wrestler uses her loose stance to absorb the strike with minimal damage, immediately turning her gaze back to her opponent.

"Predictable."

Unimpressed by Karla's speech but unable to honestly retort, Wyvern decides to focus on the match rather than continue the exchange of words. While not able to stop the suddent attack outright, her preparations had allowed her to avoid the worst of it, leaving her in a prime position to fight back. Spinning on her foot, Wyvern swings one leg around before stabbing it straight outwards with a thrusting back kick, attempting to bury her heel in Karla's stomach.

[Monsy]

It’s just such a vindicating itch. Just couldn’t scratch it. Whatever station they think they hold. Any confidence. It needed to be snapped in two, even for just a moment. She knew how to drop folks in one clean fist. Take their brains for a spin and leave them drooling like a saint bernard. She smiled at first, but Her mood only sours when this isn’t the case.

“Tch.” -- And when she went to grab the shoulder, Wyvern already spun and buried her foot into Karla’s fit. Her abs crunched. She’s tossed onto her back and into a roll after she folded over the leg and ended up back on her feet. Her back hit the ropes and she hooked an arm over, taking a deep breath in. There’s a reddening blotch where it struck. She sighs, biting the urge to run to walk calmly from the ropes.

“You want strength? Then let’s compare strength.”

Her hand raised, fingers fully flex with the arm fully extended. It serves to get a rouse from the crowd, every time without fail. A simple challenge: test of strength