When we last saw Celestine, she’d escaped the Black Rainbow. Her time with them had been terrifying since freed from her 200 years of captivity, which she’d magically trapped herself into. Maereth sought to use Celestine's magical artist abilities for the Shadow with the Yellow Eyes. That enigmatic entity possessed Celestine and did horrible things to opponents in the ring. Celestine’s liberation from the Black Rainbow was supposed to be the happy ending that few find when dealing with the cult.

It wasn’t.

With no money, no friends, no family, and no connections outside of wrestling, Celestine found herself in peril. She hitchhiked on 18-wheelers. She begged in parking lots. She was beaten by gangs for wearing the wrong color. She starved.

It dawned on her that she must do what she deplored. Crawl back to wrestling.

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Scene opens to the ring crew hub at Fabrik Madrid nightclub, home of Anarchy this week. Arrayed around Celestine are tables that’ll be used for her match. Her ocean blues are whirlpools of sadness as she removes her Victorian-era hat and places it over her heart.

“I escaped Black Rainbow but found the world to be madness, and now I must use the only thing I know of this world, wrestling, to forge a life for now. And oh, how I detest this so-called sport. Oh, how I loathe what those in the Black Rainbow taught me of this barbarity betwixt steel and wood.”

Her body shudders as her mind shifts through the harsh wrestling lessons given to her by Maraeth, by Emilia, by Enigma, by Syn. How those lessons were supernaturally enhanced by the Whisper from the Black Star.

“In my era, there was honor in duels, in combative sports, but now everything that made duelling dishonorable is encouraged. Including this tables match against you, Schism.”

Her pretty features scrunch like she’s bitten something sour.

“Schism, you declared fealty to Dolly, the Revolution. You spent ages staring at the stars, fiddling with your stupid Denny’s napkin, until alas, you found Eroica in Dolly… and then Dolly found herself buried under the oppressive weight of King Kieran’s Kingmaker as he surmounted the world and brought the revolution to heel.

Dolly dropped the banner. You could’ve picked it up, led the charge in her stead. That’s what a friend would’ve done. Yet your courage fled from you with the same swiftness humility flees our King, and now you’ve come slithering back, not into the lands of Warfare where Dolly rallied her cause or Wargames where the King would be weakest, no, your shameful, cowardly carcass couldn’t summon the spine for that.

You chose Anarchy. Fewer eyes if you fail. Languid man. Indolent fair-weather warrior. If there was ever a dictionary for slogans, your visage would be printed next to ‘Who needs enemies when you’ve got friends like these’... That goes for the rest of the revolution who scattered like roaches when the lights come on.”

She spits on the ground to show how much disdain she holds for Schism, wrestling, and revolution.

“Because of you, we must commence combat via tables.”

She runs her finger along one of the table’s edges like a mother would her sick child.

“This deplorable modern world has taken tables, of all things, and made them into instruments of barbarity.”

Celestine briefly hugs another table, treating it as something other than an object. 

“In my time, tables were used by kings, queens, and dignitaries to feast upon and celebrate peace treaties. Tables were a sacred altar for creation and beauty, where the likes of Leonardo DiVinchi painted and shaped cultures. Poets and philosophers like Voiliatre penned their immortal words upon tables. Generals and scholars forged the fates of nations on tables.”

She fans herself with her Victorian hat, the corners of her mouth dipping south from longing.

“And most of all, tables were where families gathered for unity, for family, to pray and bless and be merry and full of mirth. A gathering to set aside the troubles of the day by enjoying food for the soul and drink for the mind.”

A tear trickles down her old-world cheek. 

“Yet this modern culture couldn’t even leave that alone. Not a shred of decency has been spared since I trapped myself in that painting for two hundred years. You people, you DAMNED people, and your ravenous, ceaseless appetite for savagery is an affront to any proper era.”

She wipes the tear away and shoves her stylish hat atop her head. 

“And I’m stuck in the middle of it. You’ve made food instant but good sense distant. You’ve made planes, trains, and automobiles, but you’ve unmade everything that made you unique and special. You women, you beautiful, sacred women, have allowed this world to dress you in garments that end where your modesty begins.

When I cast my eyes upon a passerby, I see naught but the top of their head, for their eyes are anchored in supplication to a device no bigger than their palm. How weak you’ve become, world. You’ve allowed yourselves to be enslaved by moving images and bags of white powder that deprive you of the one guarantee you’ll ever have.. A life.”

She traces a finger along the smooth surface of another table affectionately, like she’s reminiscing about a moment in her era. The frown, which has held her face captive thus far, meets resistance. Her lips shift evenly. A nod, resolute. She’s been cursed with wrestling knowledge, but will turn it to blessing.

“So…

Fine, Schism.

Fine. Dolly.

Fine, Revolution.

Fine, Lord Lichter.

Fine, King Kieran.

Fine, Trillionares.

I’ll be the flower that cracks the sidewalk. I’ll show the fans, XWF, the world what class and purpose are. I’ll seek out those like me, like Lady Tatiana. We’ll set course. Verily. My soul is in my keeping now. Schism, you were last seen getting clotheslined over the top rope by Mr. Oz.

On Anarchy, you’ll be last seen as my Final Exhibit.

VERILY!”