Post by Tytus Rost on Dec 4, 2023 2:26:54 GMT
The sharp ring of Tytus's phone pierced through the post-victory haze that enveloped him. He reached for the device, glancing at the caller ID. Berrick's name illuminated the screen, and Tytus couldn't help but crack a faint smile. He swiped to answer, holding the phone to his ear as the sounds of Portland's early morning served as a distant backdrop.
"Berrick," Tytus greeted, his voice a low rumble, the remnants of the jet lag still echoing in his tone.
"Hey there, champ! Heard you traded in the cold of Montreal for the balmy sleet of the Pacific Northwest." Berrick's voice crackled through the phone.
Tytus chuckled. "Da, while my battle with Harper did not go as planned, Berrick, the war continues."
"Damn right, it does! I told you, wins and losses don’t matter when all is said and done … they just change the time frame between you and the top of the mountain, big guy" Berrick quipped.
A sense of pride warmed Tytus as he listened to Berrick's jovial tone. The camaraderie, the shared victories and defeats, had been the glue of their friendship for years. "Thank you, Berrick. How is everything back home?"
Berrick's tone shifted slightly, a subtle hesitance marring his usual carefree demeanor. "Oh, you know, the usual. The cows are doing their thing, and the chickens are laying eggs like it's their job. All in a day's work."
Tytus raised an eyebrow, even though Berrick couldn't see it through the phone. "Everything? No more unexpected visitors?"
Berrick chuckled nervously, attempting to deflect Tytus's concern with humor. "Nah, it’s all good. Just me, the animals, and the occasional tumbleweed. You worry too much, my friend."
Tytus's instincts tingled, a faint unease settling in the pit of his stomach. "Berrick, do not play games. If something is up, tell me.”
Berrick sighed on the other end, his attempt at light-heartedness dissipating. "Alright, alright. There've been a few folks poking around. Curious neighbors, you know how it is. Nothing to worry about."
Tytus's brow furrowed, the tension in his muscles returning. "Curious about what?"
Berrick hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Well, they heard you've been away, and some of the 'good ol' boys' thought they'd take a gander at the place. Nothing more than a bunch of nosy neighbors, Tytus."
Tytus's grip on the phone tightened. "What do they want?"
Berrick sighed audibly. "Just trying to be neighborly, I suppose. You know how folks are. They hear you're not around, and suddenly everyone's got an opinion about your land."
A surge of frustration and concern coursed through Tytus. "Berrick, I need you to be straight with me. What are you not you telling me?"
Berrick hesitated, the weight of a truth he was reluctant to share hanging in the air. "Tytus, some of them have been talking about making a play for your land. But it's all talk, just idle chatter. Nothing's gonna happen."
Tytus's jaw clenched, the revelation hitting him harder than any blow he'd endured in the ring. "Damn it, Berrick. I left you there to keep things in order, not to deal with this. Have they been causing trouble?"
Berrick tried to lighten the mood again, albeit unsuccessfully. "Trouble? Nah, Tytus, they're just a bunch of hot air. Besides, I've got it under control. I've been telling them to buzz off."
Tytus's frustration boiled beneath the surface. "Berrick, this is serious. I can not have them jeopardizing everything that I have worked for."
Berrick sighed, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. "Tytus, I promise you, I've got it handled. I know you've worked damn hard to get where you are. I won't let anything happen to the farm, and I won't let them take advantage of your absence."
Silence lingered on the line for a moment before Tytus spoke, his voice firm. "Keep me updated, Berrick. If anything escalates, I want to know immediately."
Berrick reassured him, "I've got your back, Tytus. You focus on your matches, on winning that World Title. Leave the farm to me."
Tytus took a deep breath, attempting to push the worry to the back of his mind. "I appreciate it, Berrick. Keep everything secure."
As they exchanged parting words, Tytus couldn't shake the unease that settled within him. The tension in his shoulders lingered even after he ended the call. The farm, his sanctuary, felt vulnerable in his absence, and the knowledge gnawed at him.
The early morning light of Portland cast long shadows in Tytus's hotel room. He gazed out at the awakening city, the bustling metropolis a stark contrast to the quiet struggles on his farm. The dichotomy of his life, the pull between the chaos of the wrestling world and the serenity of his rural haven, weighed heavily on him.
With a determined shake of his head, Tytus steeled himself. Survival of the Fittest was in the rearview, his focus needed to be on the imminent clash with Travis Levitt. The World Title still hung out of his immediate reach, and while Tytus felt a pang of joy in the fact that even the great Warren Harper had come up short in his quest, Tytus knew that he couldn't afford to be distracted. But as he left the hotel room, the concerns for his home echoed in the recesses of his mind, a silent undercurrent beneath the roar of the impending storm in the wrestling ring.
The early morning hours in Portland stirred with a quiet energy, a city transitioning between the hushed whispers of night and the awakening bustle of day. The pre-dawn sky painted shades of lavender and indigo, the first light of the sun casting long shadows across the still-sleeping streets. Tytus Rost stood on the balcony of his hotel room, overlooking the city that had become an unexpected refuge, a haven in the midst of a tumultuous storm.
The air was crisp, carrying the bite of winter that clung to Portland's every corner. Tytus, clad in his usual attire, felt an unusual sense of serenity in the cold breeze that tousled his dark hair. The frigid air of Oregon, with its harsh winds and swirling snow, felt more like home to him than the familiar warmth of Texas ever did. The Siberian in him, forged in the unforgiving winters of Russia, found solace in the biting chill of this foreign land.
As the city below began to stir, Tytus allowed his gaze to linger on the awakening metropolis. A dichotomy played out in the tableau before him—the city coming to life, while he, in his solitude, grappled with the dormant beast within. The beast that had been unleashed against Warren Harper, a battle lost, but a harbinger of the war yet to come.
The hotel room was still draped in the shadows of night, the ambient glow from the streetlights casting long shadows on the walls. Tytus's thoughts, however, were illuminated by the harsh clarity of self-reflection. Even in loss, he had proven his mettle against Warren, a statement to the world and himself. But without that victory the weight of a new challenge stood before him, a challenge that loomed on the horizon like an impending storm.
The beast within Tytus, the primal force that made him a Russian Nightmare, had tasted blood, and the hunger for more lingered like a lingering hunger. The looming presence of Dean Harper, the reigning World Champion, cast a formidable shadow over Tytus's thoughts. The eventual road that would lead him back to Warren Harper waited as a battleground, and Tytus Rost, the Russian Lion, stood at the threshold of a fight that could redefine his legacy.
The memories of his family, sent back to Russia for their safety, gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. The worries about the farm, the fear of the unknown intentions of his neighbors, all tugged at the edges of his stoic exterior. Portland, with its harsh weather and unforgiving landscapes, felt more like "home" than the comforts of his Texas ranch ever did. What did that say about him, a man whose heart was as cold as the Russian winters that shaped him?
The city beneath him began to wake, the rumble of distant traffic and the occasional passerby creating a symphony of urban life. Tytus's gaze, however, remained fixed on the horizon, the first rays of the sun painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The shifting colors mirrored the tumult within him, the internal tempest that wrestled with the conflicting facets of his identity.
He turned away from the balcony, the cold air clinging to his skin like a second skin. The hotel room, though familiar, felt like a cage—a temporary sanctuary that couldn't contain the fierce spirit that burned within. The winter, with its biting winds and icy landscapes, mirrored the cold resolve that settled in Tytus's heart.
Tytus walked to the center of the room, the muted glow of the city outside casting shadows on his chiseled features. The beast within stirred, an awakening force that sought release. The impending clash with Travis Levitt weighed heavily on him, but instead of trepidation, Tytus felt a burgeoning sense of acceptance.
"I came to Oregon seeking redemption," Tytus spoke, his voice a low growl that resonated in the stillness of the room. "A chance to prove that the Russian Lion is not a relic of the past but a force to be reckoned with in the present. Warren Harper, you were the first to taste the fury that lay dormant within me."
Tytus clenched his fists, the sound of cracking knuckles punctuating the air. "Now, Travis Levitt, you stand before me as an obstacle between me and the reigning World Champion, the pinnacle of this industry. They say the money is in the Harper-Kane rivalry, the clash of lovers turned toxic. But they underestimate the storm that I am about to unleash upon this ring."
He paced the room, the shadows dancing around him like spectral accomplices. "I've grappled with the demons of my past, the fears for my family, the worries about the farm, the uncertainty of my neighbors. But here, in the heart of the Pacific Northwest, I find a resonance with the wilderness that mirrors the beast within."
Tytus stopped, his gaze piercing through the shadows. "Travis, I don't hate you. I don't bear ill will towards you. But make no mistake; if you step into that ring against me, I will maul you. Not out of malice, but out of necessity. The Russian Lion will roar, and there won't be a man, woman, or referee who can restrain the storm that I am about to become."
He raised his hand, flexing his fingers as if testing the strength within. "You are the unfortunate soul who has been fed to this lion after being stared for weeks following my last match. An unfortunate twist of fate has brought you to me. Where you see an opportunity to put yourself back on the map in IWF I see the opposite. When the final bell tolls, you’ll be as forgotten as you were a week ago. The good people of IWF will not remember exactly who the stain in the center of the ring was, they will only remember the man standing tall; it will be the Russian Lion, Travis. The man who refuses to be relegated to the shadows of the past."
Tytus's eyes gleamed with an intensity that bordered on the feral. "Portland, witness the awakening. Odyssey will not be the end of my story—it will be the rebirth of the Siberian Nightmare. Travis Levitt, prepare for a match unlike any you have faced before. The storm is coming, and I am its harbinger. My condolences to your family."
With those words, Tytus Rost stood alone in the quiet hotel room, the city of Portland stirring outside as dawn painted the world in a palette of colors. The beast within him, now fully awakened, awaited the call to unleash its fury upon the world.
"Berrick," Tytus greeted, his voice a low rumble, the remnants of the jet lag still echoing in his tone.
"Hey there, champ! Heard you traded in the cold of Montreal for the balmy sleet of the Pacific Northwest." Berrick's voice crackled through the phone.
Tytus chuckled. "Da, while my battle with Harper did not go as planned, Berrick, the war continues."
"Damn right, it does! I told you, wins and losses don’t matter when all is said and done … they just change the time frame between you and the top of the mountain, big guy" Berrick quipped.
A sense of pride warmed Tytus as he listened to Berrick's jovial tone. The camaraderie, the shared victories and defeats, had been the glue of their friendship for years. "Thank you, Berrick. How is everything back home?"
Berrick's tone shifted slightly, a subtle hesitance marring his usual carefree demeanor. "Oh, you know, the usual. The cows are doing their thing, and the chickens are laying eggs like it's their job. All in a day's work."
Tytus raised an eyebrow, even though Berrick couldn't see it through the phone. "Everything? No more unexpected visitors?"
Berrick chuckled nervously, attempting to deflect Tytus's concern with humor. "Nah, it’s all good. Just me, the animals, and the occasional tumbleweed. You worry too much, my friend."
Tytus's instincts tingled, a faint unease settling in the pit of his stomach. "Berrick, do not play games. If something is up, tell me.”
Berrick sighed on the other end, his attempt at light-heartedness dissipating. "Alright, alright. There've been a few folks poking around. Curious neighbors, you know how it is. Nothing to worry about."
Tytus's brow furrowed, the tension in his muscles returning. "Curious about what?"
Berrick hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Well, they heard you've been away, and some of the 'good ol' boys' thought they'd take a gander at the place. Nothing more than a bunch of nosy neighbors, Tytus."
Tytus's grip on the phone tightened. "What do they want?"
Berrick sighed audibly. "Just trying to be neighborly, I suppose. You know how folks are. They hear you're not around, and suddenly everyone's got an opinion about your land."
A surge of frustration and concern coursed through Tytus. "Berrick, I need you to be straight with me. What are you not you telling me?"
Berrick hesitated, the weight of a truth he was reluctant to share hanging in the air. "Tytus, some of them have been talking about making a play for your land. But it's all talk, just idle chatter. Nothing's gonna happen."
Tytus's jaw clenched, the revelation hitting him harder than any blow he'd endured in the ring. "Damn it, Berrick. I left you there to keep things in order, not to deal with this. Have they been causing trouble?"
Berrick tried to lighten the mood again, albeit unsuccessfully. "Trouble? Nah, Tytus, they're just a bunch of hot air. Besides, I've got it under control. I've been telling them to buzz off."
Tytus's frustration boiled beneath the surface. "Berrick, this is serious. I can not have them jeopardizing everything that I have worked for."
Berrick sighed, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. "Tytus, I promise you, I've got it handled. I know you've worked damn hard to get where you are. I won't let anything happen to the farm, and I won't let them take advantage of your absence."
Silence lingered on the line for a moment before Tytus spoke, his voice firm. "Keep me updated, Berrick. If anything escalates, I want to know immediately."
Berrick reassured him, "I've got your back, Tytus. You focus on your matches, on winning that World Title. Leave the farm to me."
Tytus took a deep breath, attempting to push the worry to the back of his mind. "I appreciate it, Berrick. Keep everything secure."
As they exchanged parting words, Tytus couldn't shake the unease that settled within him. The tension in his shoulders lingered even after he ended the call. The farm, his sanctuary, felt vulnerable in his absence, and the knowledge gnawed at him.
The early morning light of Portland cast long shadows in Tytus's hotel room. He gazed out at the awakening city, the bustling metropolis a stark contrast to the quiet struggles on his farm. The dichotomy of his life, the pull between the chaos of the wrestling world and the serenity of his rural haven, weighed heavily on him.
With a determined shake of his head, Tytus steeled himself. Survival of the Fittest was in the rearview, his focus needed to be on the imminent clash with Travis Levitt. The World Title still hung out of his immediate reach, and while Tytus felt a pang of joy in the fact that even the great Warren Harper had come up short in his quest, Tytus knew that he couldn't afford to be distracted. But as he left the hotel room, the concerns for his home echoed in the recesses of his mind, a silent undercurrent beneath the roar of the impending storm in the wrestling ring.
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The early morning hours in Portland stirred with a quiet energy, a city transitioning between the hushed whispers of night and the awakening bustle of day. The pre-dawn sky painted shades of lavender and indigo, the first light of the sun casting long shadows across the still-sleeping streets. Tytus Rost stood on the balcony of his hotel room, overlooking the city that had become an unexpected refuge, a haven in the midst of a tumultuous storm.
The air was crisp, carrying the bite of winter that clung to Portland's every corner. Tytus, clad in his usual attire, felt an unusual sense of serenity in the cold breeze that tousled his dark hair. The frigid air of Oregon, with its harsh winds and swirling snow, felt more like home to him than the familiar warmth of Texas ever did. The Siberian in him, forged in the unforgiving winters of Russia, found solace in the biting chill of this foreign land.
As the city below began to stir, Tytus allowed his gaze to linger on the awakening metropolis. A dichotomy played out in the tableau before him—the city coming to life, while he, in his solitude, grappled with the dormant beast within. The beast that had been unleashed against Warren Harper, a battle lost, but a harbinger of the war yet to come.
The hotel room was still draped in the shadows of night, the ambient glow from the streetlights casting long shadows on the walls. Tytus's thoughts, however, were illuminated by the harsh clarity of self-reflection. Even in loss, he had proven his mettle against Warren, a statement to the world and himself. But without that victory the weight of a new challenge stood before him, a challenge that loomed on the horizon like an impending storm.
The beast within Tytus, the primal force that made him a Russian Nightmare, had tasted blood, and the hunger for more lingered like a lingering hunger. The looming presence of Dean Harper, the reigning World Champion, cast a formidable shadow over Tytus's thoughts. The eventual road that would lead him back to Warren Harper waited as a battleground, and Tytus Rost, the Russian Lion, stood at the threshold of a fight that could redefine his legacy.
The memories of his family, sent back to Russia for their safety, gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. The worries about the farm, the fear of the unknown intentions of his neighbors, all tugged at the edges of his stoic exterior. Portland, with its harsh weather and unforgiving landscapes, felt more like "home" than the comforts of his Texas ranch ever did. What did that say about him, a man whose heart was as cold as the Russian winters that shaped him?
The city beneath him began to wake, the rumble of distant traffic and the occasional passerby creating a symphony of urban life. Tytus's gaze, however, remained fixed on the horizon, the first rays of the sun painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The shifting colors mirrored the tumult within him, the internal tempest that wrestled with the conflicting facets of his identity.
He turned away from the balcony, the cold air clinging to his skin like a second skin. The hotel room, though familiar, felt like a cage—a temporary sanctuary that couldn't contain the fierce spirit that burned within. The winter, with its biting winds and icy landscapes, mirrored the cold resolve that settled in Tytus's heart.
Tytus walked to the center of the room, the muted glow of the city outside casting shadows on his chiseled features. The beast within stirred, an awakening force that sought release. The impending clash with Travis Levitt weighed heavily on him, but instead of trepidation, Tytus felt a burgeoning sense of acceptance.
"I came to Oregon seeking redemption," Tytus spoke, his voice a low growl that resonated in the stillness of the room. "A chance to prove that the Russian Lion is not a relic of the past but a force to be reckoned with in the present. Warren Harper, you were the first to taste the fury that lay dormant within me."
Tytus clenched his fists, the sound of cracking knuckles punctuating the air. "Now, Travis Levitt, you stand before me as an obstacle between me and the reigning World Champion, the pinnacle of this industry. They say the money is in the Harper-Kane rivalry, the clash of lovers turned toxic. But they underestimate the storm that I am about to unleash upon this ring."
He paced the room, the shadows dancing around him like spectral accomplices. "I've grappled with the demons of my past, the fears for my family, the worries about the farm, the uncertainty of my neighbors. But here, in the heart of the Pacific Northwest, I find a resonance with the wilderness that mirrors the beast within."
Tytus stopped, his gaze piercing through the shadows. "Travis, I don't hate you. I don't bear ill will towards you. But make no mistake; if you step into that ring against me, I will maul you. Not out of malice, but out of necessity. The Russian Lion will roar, and there won't be a man, woman, or referee who can restrain the storm that I am about to become."
He raised his hand, flexing his fingers as if testing the strength within. "You are the unfortunate soul who has been fed to this lion after being stared for weeks following my last match. An unfortunate twist of fate has brought you to me. Where you see an opportunity to put yourself back on the map in IWF I see the opposite. When the final bell tolls, you’ll be as forgotten as you were a week ago. The good people of IWF will not remember exactly who the stain in the center of the ring was, they will only remember the man standing tall; it will be the Russian Lion, Travis. The man who refuses to be relegated to the shadows of the past."
Tytus's eyes gleamed with an intensity that bordered on the feral. "Portland, witness the awakening. Odyssey will not be the end of my story—it will be the rebirth of the Siberian Nightmare. Travis Levitt, prepare for a match unlike any you have faced before. The storm is coming, and I am its harbinger. My condolences to your family."
With those words, Tytus Rost stood alone in the quiet hotel room, the city of Portland stirring outside as dawn painted the world in a palette of colors. The beast within him, now fully awakened, awaited the call to unleash its fury upon the world.
Well howdy there pardner.