The Finite Reality.
The life of a pirate is synonymous with the brutality of greed.
Like the seas that which they sail upon in order to seize control of treasurable properties, victories can feel endless – a gambler at a craps table with a hot pair of dice, successfully predicting outcomes that are in their favor as if they’ve inked a deal with their soul and Nostradamus himself.
That feeling becomes intoxicating, and the consistency of that intoxication creates the illusion of a bulletproof body suit.
Nothing dare hurt, nor haunt you, as you continue to sow away with a blind eye turned towards what you may reap in your seemingly infinite successes.
Eventually however, all things must answer to the finite realities of our world.
Like Black Bart, when he was hit with grapeshot to the throat while engaging in a war similar to others that he had won by a landslide, and bled out.
Like Walter Kennedy, who was captured and publicly executed by slow strangle at the end of a short rope.
Like Blackbeard, who’s forces could not sustain the vengeance they had coming to them and thus, the final chapter in his legacy came with five musket-ball wounds and 20 sword lacerations.
Grimwolf, the mystical anomaly, who’s lived for an unfathomable amount of years – existing as an authoritarian of the seas, with taffeta breeches and fancy velvet Captain’s coats – establishing more lore on land, within the halls of OSW, and further decorated yourself with beautiful championship gold.
You didn’t need to plunder the oceans in order to find treasures anymore. You could satiate that hunger by conquering the wrestling ring and the other competition that enters with you.
It all seemed like such a simple transition, until the victories were suddenly not as endless as the life you lead. In fact, you became so blinded by your unhinged greed that even those that were originally inspired by you, like young Cael Gable, abandoned ship.
And since then, nothing has really felt the same, has it?
All so suddenly, you find yourself in a twisted valley – where you aren’t the conqueror. You’re surrounded by people that see through you, like Corvus does, and there’s a bleeding desire to show you how useless that bulletproof armor of yours is now that you’ve reached land.
Because we own these parts, Matey – not you.
We dare to hurt you, to haunt you, and to challenge all of that mystical hooplah that you established before you ultimately became shipwrecked here in Old School Wrestling.
Of course, this isn’t anything that you haven’t come to understand.
It’s the reality of the finite world where the dice run cold – where the hunters start to see you as a weak link – persecuted for your pirate’s greed and publicly brutalized by an opposition that conquered this land long before you decided to show face.
The only treasure here is you, Grimwolf, and we intend to plunder every bit of meat until there’s nothing left but achromic bones –
Mystical bones that serve no other purpose than to be buried underneath the grounds that you never had any business treading upon.