Match 2

Femme Fatale Championship

Carlotta Paine Vs Vera Eames

“A Crown of Thorns” – A Vera Eames Roleplay

Location: Dublin, Ireland – A dimly lit bar, the scent of whiskey and rebellion in the air.

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(The camera flickers to life, the lens settling on a bar in the heart of Dublin. It’s a relic of the old world—wooden beams darkened with time, the quiet hum of folk music in the background, and the faint clink of glasses as a few regulars nurse their drinks. Sitting in the corner, boots propped on the table, is Vera Eames. A leather jacket hangs off her shoulders, a cigarette lazily burning between her fingers. Green eyes flick up to the camera, a smirk twisting her lips as she exhales a slow cloud of smoke.)

Vera Eames: “Y’ever hear the story of the thorn and the rose? Some poetic bollocks ‘bout beauty and pain, love and ruin. ‘Course, I’ve never been much for fairy tales—but I like the lesson in that one. ‘Cause ye see, a rose ain't just a pretty thing. It’s got thorns, sharp enough to cut if ye don’t handle it right. And me? I ain't here to be admired. I ain't here to be plucked and put in a vase. I’m here to bleed anyone foolish enough to grab hold of me.”

(She flicks the cigarette into an ashtray, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. The flickering candlelight casts shadows across her face, the intensity in her gaze unmistakable.)

Vera Eames: “And that brings me to you, Carlotta Paine.”

(Her smirk fades, replaced by something colder—calculated, measured.)

Vera Eames: “They’re sayin’ we’re the ones chosen to fight for the vacant Femme Fatale Championship. They’re sayin’ the world’s gonna see who the real top dog is in this division. I’d say it’s an honor, but let’s be honest, love—I don’t need a belt to tell me who the hell I am. I’m Vera fuckin’ Eames. The Rebel Rose. The mad bastard from Dublin who’s been breakin’ bones, takin’ names, and leavin’ chaos in her wake long before TKW ever opened its doors. This? This is just the next fight. Another war to be won.”

(She leans back in her chair, rolling her shoulders, the faintest hint of amusement crossing her face.)

Vera Eames: “But you? Carlotta fuckin’ Paine. The ‘Red Right Hand.’ You fancy yourself a real hard case, don’t ya? I’ve heard the stories. I know what they say—ruthless, vicious, a woman who don’t mind getting her hands dirty. They call you a storm, an unstoppable force. But let me tell you somethin’, sweetheart—I am the thunder that rolls before the storm. I’m the warning shot, the omen that spells out your doom. You might be strong, might be dangerous, but ye ain’t ever been in the ring with the likes of me.”

(She reaches for a half-empty glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. The burn is familiar, comforting, much like the fire that’s been roaring in her belly ever since the match was announced.)

Vera Eames: “Ye see, I ain’t just fightin’ for a title. That belt? It’s nice. It’s shiny. But it’s more than just gold—it’s a symbol. It’s a bloody crown. The first ever Femme Fatale Champion will set the bar for this division. They’ll be the name on everyone’s lips, the woman every bastard in that locker room will be gunnin’ for. And ye know what?”

(She chuckles darkly, shaking her head.)

Vera Eames: “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

(Her hand tightens around the whiskey glass, the ice clinking softly. Her voice drops lower, the passion rising in her words.)

Vera Eames: “People like us, Carlotta—we don’t get fairy tale endings. We don’t walk into the sunset, hand in hand, all smiles and happy ever afters. Nah. We get bloodied, broken, and buried before we ever see a scrap of peace. But the difference between us? You fight because you have to. I fight because I love it. I fight because it’s in my very bones, carved into my soul like an old hymn hummed through the streets of Dublin. There ain’t no fear in me. No hesitation. When that bell rings, I’ll march straight to the frontlines, fists raised, ready to tear you apart piece by piece. And that, Carlotta, is why ye won’t leave Riot with that championship.”

(She sets the glass down with a sharp clink, her expression hard as stone.)

Vera Eames: “Because I know what this moment means. This ain’t just a match. It’s a baptism. A rebirth. It’s the night Vera Eames stops bein’ the best-kept secret in this business and becomes the name that sends chills down every spine in TKW. The night they see exactly what happens when you push a wild Irish rose into a battlefield and expect her to wilt. Spoiler alert, love—I don’t wilt. I burn. I rise. And I take what’s mine.”

(She exhales slowly, running a hand through her dark hair before fixing the camera with a steady glare.)

Vera Eames: “Carlotta, you’ll throw everythin’ you’ve got at me. You’ll fight like a woman possessed. And that’s grand—I wouldn’t have it any other way. But it won’t be enough. Because on Riot, I’m not just fightin’ for the Femme Fatale Championship. I’m fightin’ to show the world that Vera Eames is the heart of this division, the backbone of this company, the name that’ll be whispered in fear for years to come.”

(She tilts her head, smirking once more, but there’s a dark glint in her eyes now.)

Vera Eames: “And when it’s all said and done, when the dust settles and the blood dries, I’ll be standin’ over you with that title in me hands, a fresh crown o’ thorns on me head. ‘Cause in this world, Carlotta? There ain’t room for two queens. And I’ll be damned if I let a pretender take what’s meant for me.”

(She stands now, grabbing the whiskey glass and downing the last of it in one smooth motion. The fire in her chest burns brighter than ever. She flicks a few bills onto the table before turning her gaze back to the camera one last time.)

Vera Eames: “Come Riot, Carlotta, you’re gonna learn what everyone else already knows—ye don’t bet against a rebel, and ye sure as hell don’t bet against Vera Eames.”

(With that, she turns on her heel and walks out of the bar, her leather jacket billowing slightly behind her. The camera lingers for a moment before fading to black, the final sound the soft hum of Irish folk music playing into the night.)

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End of Roleplay.