AWS Pride Championship
2 out of 3 Falls Match
Jamal Payne © vs. Blackthorne

The arena hums with restless energy, the crowd buzzing as they await the next segment of AWS Monday Night Ward XLVI. Suddenly, the lights flicker, plunging the arena into pitch black. A single bell tolls — deep, resonant, and foreboding. The screen turns to static, crackling with faint whispers as if a thousand voices muttered from the abyss. Then... a crimson glow bleeds across the stage. Fog rolls from the entrance ramp, curling like skeletal fingers over the steel. The haunting sound of a church organ wails from the speakers, each note dragging like nails against a coffin lid.

Out of the murky shadow steps Blackthorne — the sinister figure clad in a ragged black cloak that drapes over his towering frame. His pale, deathly face is illuminated by flickering torches along the stage, revealing sunken, shadowed eyes that glisten like twin obsidian stones. His lips curl into a twisted grin, exposing jagged, yellowed fangs. In one hand, he clutches an old, leather-bound book — its spine cracked and weathered with age. In the other, a silver goblet filled with a dark, viscous liquid.

Blackthorne raises the goblet high above his head, tilting it slowly until the crimson contents spill to the steel ramp, splattering like fresh blood. The crowd murmurs with unease as Blackthorne steps into the ring, his voice finally cutting through the tension — low, guttural, and cold as a graveyard wind.

Blackthorne:

“Jamal Payne... mighty warrior... reigning champion... pride incarnate.”

He sneers, spitting the word "pride" with palpable disdain.

Blackthorne:

“You believe yourself invincible, don't you? The symbol of strength... a man who endures punishment and refuses to break. But oh, how misguided you are.”

He chuckles darkly, pacing the ring like a stalking predator.

Blackthorne:

“Your victories, your accolades, your championship — they have blinded you. You march into this 2 out of 3 falls match thinking you will outlast me. You think your endurance will win the day. Fool.”

He pauses, gripping the top rope and leaning over it, his piercing eyes locking onto the camera with chilling intensity.

Blackthorne:

“I do not measure victory in pins or submissions. No... I measure it in suffering. Each fall is but a verse in a grim requiem I have composed just for you, Jamal Payne. The first fall? That will be your strength... drained, siphoned away like blood from a fresh wound. I will watch the sweat pour from your brow, see the defiance in your eyes slowly dim as my hands crush the breath from your lungs.”

He flexes his fingers — blackened nails glinting under the lights like talons.

Blackthorne:

“The second fall... ah yes... the second fall. That is when your will breaks. You will struggle to rise, but your legs will tremble, your spine will falter... and you will see it in my eyes... the certainty of your doom. You will feel the weight of the inevitable, dragging you deeper into the abyss. And when your body finally buckles and you taste the bitterness of failure... it will be then — and only then — that I deliver the third fall...”

His grin spreads wider, teeth glinting like daggers.

Blackthorne:

“The final fall... the one that ends it all. When that bell tolls for the third time, it will not signal your defeat — no... it will be the sound of your legacy dying. The sound of your championship reign being dragged into the grave. When I raise that AWS Pride Championship above my head, your name will be spoken only in whispers — as a warning... a tale of a man who dared challenge the darkness and was swallowed whole.”

He kneels in the ring, clutching the leather-bound book tightly to his chest. The pages flutter, though no wind stirs. Blackthorne begins to chant in a twisted, ancient tongue — his words guttural and discordant. The torches at ringside seem to flicker and flare as if disturbed by some unseen force.

Blackthorne:

“Your strength is flesh. Your will is mortal. And both will crumble before me... as all men do when confronted by the endless night.”

He opens the book, revealing yellowed pages scrawled in faded ink — twisted symbols and crude sketches of twisted figures, their faces frozen in agony. He runs a bony finger down one of the illustrations — a warrior lying defeated, a crown shattered at his feet.

Blackthorne:

“The pages of this book have told of many souls who thought they could endure the torment of the abyss. Jamal Payne, your name shall be added to this scripture... your pain immortalized in shadow... your pride swallowed whole.”

His head tilts back, and his voice rises to a bone-chilling howl.

Blackthorne:

“The darkness is coming for you, Jamal! There is no light bright enough to pierce it... no strength great enough to defy it... and no man courageous enough to withstand it! You will fall... and you will fall again... and again... and by the end, you will beg for that final bell to ring... for only then will your torment cease.”

He rises to his feet, arms outstretched like a dark messiah.

Blackthorne:

“Monday Night Ward XLVI will not be your battle... it will be your funeral. And when I stand over your broken body with the AWS Pride Championship in my grasp... the world will know that there is no pride in defying the inevitable. There is only suffering... and submission... and silence.”

With that, he throws his cloak back, revealing a crimson-stained vest bearing twisted runes. The lights flash, and with a sudden gust of wind, Blackthorne vanishes in a cloud of dark smoke — the torches at ringside extinguished as if swallowed by the abyss itself. The screen turns to black... but faintly, ever so faintly, Blackthorne’s haunting voice lingers in the air.

Blackthorne (whispering):

“...Fall... fall... fall...”