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X-treme Wrestling Federation BOARDS »   » Archives » Relentless Day 3 RP Board 2020
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Relentless Media, Part VII: Lessons from the Masters
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Lacklan Offline
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XWF FanBase:
The 'cool' kliq fans

(booed by casual fans; opportunistic; often plays dirty while setting the trends)

Post: #1
09-17-2020 10:32 PM

“...hmmm HMMMMM hmmmmm hmmmmmm….”

Sarah Grey-Lacklan hums to herself as she moves through an eclectic pile of items, the albino’s High Londoner accent sounding strong even with the hum. She hums a sweet song, a sad song, a song of memories. Dressed in a simple white muscle shirt and shorts, away from lecherous eyes while in the privacy of the Egg, Sarah’s pale white skin shines with a light sheen of sweat. Even after over three years of living in Southern California, and with the air conditioning set to push out as close to a glacier’s breath as possible, the Maine native struggles with the heat. But her angular face has a small smile of wonder as she hums and rummages through the items sent by her “Mumsie,” her Step-Mother, Avaline Lacklan. Delivered several weeks ago, the Grey-Lacklans had been too busy to set time aside to sort through the collection of trophies, awards, and other memorabilia, but this moment of repose allowed her this skip through the years.

“...oh...oh my…”

Sarah’s face falls as she picks up one of her many awards, falls as her eyes follow a small piece of paper which drifts to the floor of the room, it’s home underneath the trophy disturbed. Her voice matches her face, the humming from before losing some of its joy in exchange for a shot of sadness. Setting down the trophy with a sudden detachment in her grip, she lowers herself to the floor until she rests her bottom on the floor. She spreads her legs and pulls her knees up to her chin as she regards the piece of paper laying in front of her, her odd red eyes moving back and forth rapidly. Sadness fills those eyes as she regards the paper, a picture of a raven-haired woman, pretty despite several scars on her face, with powerful eyes of blue which shine with spikes of green, alongside the 14-year-old version of herself.


She reaches down with her right hand and places her fingers atop the picture, her middle and forefingers lightly caressing the face of the raven-haired woman. Her eyes momentarily look at the younger version of herself, a full head shorter than the woman, and shakes her head.

“...I look like such a goober…”

The smile on 14-year-old Sarah’s face, the smile of adoration and fan-worship, is wide enough to fill her entire face, and the smirk on the raven-haired woman’s is that of suffering compliance. Sarah picks up the picture delicately and brings it closer to her face. She takes a moment to adjust her glasses, making sure to see every detail of the memory she can, and lets out a sigh. She closes her legs, pulls her knees in close, sets her head down on her arms, and loses herself in memory.

Presenting the House of Lacklan Saga Story of:

Lessons from the Masters

~~November, 2016~~

“Do it again!”

Sarah Lacklan leans over at the waist and places her hands on her knees. She tries her best to get deep breaths into her body, but the burning in her lungs makes it difficult. Every breath makes her insides ache, every movement makes the sitch in her side from the bruised ribs flare with agony.

“Now, dearie!”

Sarah looks up and tosses her hair back, but the loose strands stick to her sweating face. Her eyes sting from the sweat, and she shuts them hard in order to push away the biting pain.

“If you put your hair up properly in a braid like I said, rookie, you’d be able to see.”

She growls at the woman across the field from her, but she does as she is commanded. She reaches down into her shorts, pulling free a hair tie, and quickly wraps her platinum hair into a tail. She then stands to her full height, sets her feet, and pushes off into a sprint. From one end of the green field to the other, she runs atop the balls of her feet, keeping the heels elevated, and pistons her arms with precise angles of her elbows. She runs as fast as she can, her powerful legs pushing her closer and closer to the vile, wretched woman. What had possessed her to make this arrangement?! What moronic thought took over her mind to beg and plead with her father to make this hell a reality?!

“Five minutes rest.”

Sarah collapses to the ground, her mouth opening as wide as possible in order to suck in air, and winces with every movement.


A deep and gravelly voice, a voice which sounds as if the owner gargled sharp rocks every moment, fills her ears. She raises her head, slowly as to not make the world spin, and takes in the dark shape before her. Her father, dressed in his black robe, his entire head covered by the hood and cowl around his black mask, towers over the villainous woman. The woman, with hair as dark as her twisted heart, looks up at him without hesitation or even the barest whisper of fear.

“Today’s cardio is almost finished. Then we’ll move on to something difficult, eh?”

Sarah’s teeth grind as she listens to the woman. She nearly bit down on her own lips over how strong the Canadian accent was in eh. Damn this woman all to hell...and all of Canada with her!

““...what is...the”

Sarah’s heart aches as much as her side as she hears her father’s voice. The last year had not been kind to him. Unbeknownst to her, the cancer had riddled his body for years, but the last twelve months had seen a growth of the dreaded condition which had begun to take his voice. The experimental drugs from the geneticist Anubis, alongside more conventional radiation therapy, had kept the cancer at bay, but they had lost their effect recently. And now, even as he continued to wrestle and much at her behest as anything else...his body was beginning to fail.

“Actually, I was hoping you could help with that, Jean.”

Sarah turns her hate-filled eyes to the woman. Very few people in the world were allowed to be so informal, so close, with her father, as to call him Jean, and it jarred her ears. Even IF Nikita Dolore was the best wrestler in the world, she should offer him the expected decorum of Lord Lacklan,” or at least Jean-Paul.

““...however I...may champion.”

Sarah scowls at Nikita’s smirk. So WHAT if she WAS the CWT champion? So WHAT if she was literally Sarah’s favorite non-family wrestler? So WHAT if she was-”


Sarah’s eyes widen at the command...and the smirk that accompanied it. Lord Above knew what her father’s reaction was, as his face was fully hidden behind his mask, but his long stare told her how drole he found the woman’s tone. Not for the first time, Sarah has a hard time believing that, just a few months prior, she had entertained the idea of trying to hook them up. Uh! She’d rather get Ava pulled out of the asylum before that!

““ my champion...commands…”

Her father turns and heads away from the edge of the field, heading towards the group of Minions and staff waiting for them, and Nikita turns back to her.

“Break over, kiddo!”

She loathed when she called her that. She was 18, damnit! Almost 19! And she had endured every vicious tactic the woman had used to put her through her paces during these months of training, survived every “do burpees until you puke” session, persevered through every “stretch,” had even almost survived being choked out in the Hail Mary. Yet still, she treated her as if she were the 14 year-old kid who had tripped over herself in her haste to get Nikita Dolores’ autograph.

“Don’t make me help you up...again.”

She wouldn’t admit to the shot of fear coursing through her stomach, but she hastened to her feet, nonetheless. The first time Sarah needed help to her feet, she had found herself picked up...and then flipped over...and then tied up in an octopus stretch. Just the memory of the pain in her joints had her body demanded she move faster.

“...think fast…”

It was only a whisper, but Sarah heard enough and reacted, successfully “thinking fast.” Nikita threw a closed fist at her, a straight right jab, which Sarah dodges by moving her head to the left, but she is unable to dodge the left uppercut which catches her in the ribs. Already bruised, the sudden pain makes her cry out and her eyes moisten.

“You moved your head too much, dearlie. It’s one thing to dodge, it’s another to overextend and leave yourself open. Dodge...but dodge barely. Keep yourself in position!”

Another straight right hand streams in at Sarah’s head, and she moves her head to the side again, but this time she keeps it tighter, only moving as much as she absolutely has to. She feels the wind of Nikita’s fist fly by her ear, feels her hair move from the force, and sees the uppercut coming. Not out of position this time, she pushes her hands down and catches the second fist in both of her hands, then twists her wrists. Nikita cries out as Sarah turns her arms and body, slipping behind her, and forcing her arm up and back into a hammerlock. But Nikita suddenly drops to her face, flinging her feet backward as she does, and entangles Sarah’s legs in her own. Sarah’s eyes again go wide and she finds herself falling onto her own face, the victim of an elaborate drop-toe, and a few seconds later, Nikita is atop her in the mount position, her legs squeezing Sarah’s hips, her arms about to slip on a rear naked choke.

“Almost, kid. Almost.”

Nikita chuckles as she slaps Sarah on the back, hard enough to leave a red mark on her back, and pushes herself to her feet. She holds out her hand to help Sarah up, but the albino scowls and rolls away before pushing herself up to her own feet.

“Lessons learned.”

Another chuckle from the woman accompanies the comment. Sarah’s joints are pleased with her decision to not be “helped” again.

“Remember, kid: In this sport, people like us need to use every advantage we’re given. Your entire career, you’re going to face people bigger than you. Stronger than you. It’s essential that you twist them into position, use their momentum against them, and compromise their offense. If not? If you put yourself in a spot to go toe-to-toe?”

Nikita shrugs and shakes her head.

“Lights out.”

She reaches down to her bag at the edge of the field, a black and purple athletic bag provided by her employee, and pulls out a bottle of water.

“Drink up. You know the rules: If you’re thirsty, it’s too late.”

Sarah nearly rolls her eyes over the comment, a comment she first heard when she was five years old in her Beginning Dance class and had heard repeated her entire life, but she was able to stop herself in time. Not rolling her eyes at Nikita was a hard lesson learned, too. She drinks aggressively from the bottle after catching and opening it, upending it and draining it of it’s contents. As she drinks, Nikita circles Sarah, casting a critical eye over her body.

“Your shoulders are starting to catch up with your legs, which is a good thing. You need strength down below to keep a guy pinned, but you’ll never get a tap if you lack upper body strength. Women almost always lack upper body strength, so keep those curls and presses going.”

She shakes her head and issues a “tsk.”

“Need to work on that core, too. I should be seeing an ab or two by now.”

Sarah turns her eyes away from Nikita at that, not wanting to meet the wrestler’s eyes. Between Nikita’s tutelage and her final year of high school sports, Sarah’s cardio was intense, but her fondness for sweets was counteracting much of the work. She didn’t need to hear Nikita...or her father, for that matter...remind her that “abs are made in the kitchen,” especially since her love of cake pops was powerful.

“Yes, Sensei.”

It was Nikita’s turn to scowl, which causes Sarah to smirk. She hated being called that...which just made her say it even more! Nikita scowls more, but then sighs and shakes her head.

“You sure you want to do this, kid?”

Sarah raises an eyebrow as she finishes the last of the water, and Nikita motions to her.


Sarah opens her mouth wide to protest, but Nikita silences her with a wave of her hand.

“I know, I know. The Path of the Light. Your dad’s the Voice and Hammer, and you’re...well...whatever you’re going to be.”

“...his firebird…”

Sarah licks her lips as the words slips out, and Nikita gives her a nod.

“That fits.”

She turns her head away from Sarah and to the group of black at the far side of the field. She shakes her head again and turns back to Sarah.

“You’re young. Pretty. The world in front of you. You could be anything.”

Sarah narrows her eyes a bit.

“So were you, at some point. You were young, pretty, and could have been anything.”

Nikita openly scoffs.

“You know better than that, kiddo. I had nothing. I came from nothing. Poor family with no prospects. I fought because I had to. And what did that give me?”

She pulls up the sleeves of her long-sleeved shirt and bares her arms in front of Sarah. Several dots lines her arms, the scars from old needles.

“Not to mention these.”

She points to her face where several thin scars make her seem older than she really is.

“I fought in the streets because I had to, Sarah. I fought in the backroom clubs because I had to. I suffered backyards and dirty carnivals for years before I made it, and you can avoid all of that.”

She turns and waves her arms towards the group of black, now coming toward them, but both the blue and red eyes go up into the horizon. There, the Lacklan Manor could be seen, the monstrous manor house filled with its twisting corridors, stairways which seemed to lead to nowhere, and Lena’s Spire reaching high into the air. The centerpiece of “Lacklanland,” as Sarah’s burgeoning marketing skills had dubbed it, the generational house alongside the Penobscot River oversaw a forest full of birch used to make strong stationary, multiple blueberry fields, and a growing community of Path of the Light Churchgoers.

“You don’t need to suffer what I’ve gone through, kid. You could sit at home, sing your songs, dance your dances, paint your paintings.”

She turns back to Sarah, her gaze forcing Sarah’s to turn away from her home and to her, and sets her face to be as stone.

“Why wrestling?”

Sarah schools her own face, adopting an air of tranquility and serenity.

“It is what I was born to do, Sensei.”

Nikita stares at her without speaking as the mob of black approach, and Sarah keeps her back straight, her own features rigid. The World Champion turns away from her as the group settles, and Sarah follows suit. Mostly servants of the House of Lacklan, the group included two handmaidens, one for Sarah and one for Nikita, though the latter loathed having one. For her services as Sarah’s trainer, Nikita had been bequeathed a title, and that meant hassles like hangerson. Along with the handmaidens, there were several members of the guard, men with buzzed heads wearing black uniforms with silver pins. Within their number was, of course, her “personal” bodyguard, her childhood friend Jacob. Nikita gives her a subtle side eye as everyone settles, and Sarah gives an equally subtle roll of hers. Of Nikita’s many lessons over the last year, relationship advice had been included. In her estimation, Sarah was better off sticking with the former boyfriend, a dalliance which had lasted most of their teens, regardless of how Sarah felt about him now. She had spent a large part of the last two years travelling the world as his valet, and she was beyond childish romances.

”Don’t get involved with wrestlers, dearie. It always ends bad”.

The centerpoint of the group which drew the eye, though, was Sarah’s father. With his robes discarded and replaced with his wrestling gear, the image of Jean-Paul Lacklan in his glory was striking. North of six feet tall, over a full foot taller than his daughter, his chiseled body was at least three times wider than hers. His pale skin was covered in tattoos, including the symbol of the Church, that of a cross within a sunburst, on one shoulder, and a woman wrapped in the tail of a dragon upon the other. His broad chest and stomach featured the symbol of the Three Kings, the brotherhood which had once existed between he and the other two “kings,” Creature and Stevie Swing, with a snake wrapped around a raised fist which clutched the pummel of a sword.

““...shall we?”

Her father’s voice was pained and difficult to hear through the black mask with the clear visor which covered his head. Gone were the days when he only needed his alabaster mask to help protect the mass of ruined flesh that was his face, and in their place were days of the mask with the breathing apparatus. Still, even in this state, he had proven himself to be of championship quality and calibre, and had nearly unseated Nikita in her position as World Champion.

“...I want cool gear…”

Sarah can’t keep the sullenness out of her voice. Her father’s gear was cool. Gloves and elbow pads were all that adorned his massive upper body, but long black trunks filled with purple and silver flames stood out against that pale chest like a coming storm. Whether he wore his current colors, or his silver and gold, or even his original lavender, her father had always had a style which both impressed in design as well as added to intimidation.

“Rookies wear black, kiddo. It’s in the handbook.”

Sarah looks forlornly down at her own gear as Nikita says this, and her father nods in agreement. Sarah’s gear was a simple black bodysuit, devoid of color or style. They had both told her, on numerous occasions, that, just like with tattoos, she would have to earn more impressive gear.


The sudden clapping of Nikita’s hands nearly makes Sarah jump, but she quickly regains her composure. Next to her, Nikita motions down at Jean-Paul's feet and then slowly raises her hand up along his body.

“Your father is in his 40s, but is still built like a brickhouse. What did you weigh in at today, Jean?”

The large man unconsciously stands a bit straighter.

““285 pounds.”

Nikita whistles appreciatively.

“That gives you...what...a hundred and fourty pound weight deficit, kid? That is a LOT to give up. And don’t fool yourself: Even the lightweight guys in wrestling are going to be stronger than you. Take a man your height, like one of those luchadores, and you’ll STILL be outgunned when it comes to strength. Mean like your father will knock you out with one punch or kick, if you’re not careful. And watch this: Jump at him.”

Sarah’s eyes go a little wide at the command and she doesn’t move. Nikita’s brow furrows and she repeats her command.

“Jump at him!”

Sarah doesn’t hesitate this time. Setting her feet, she bends down and pushes off with her strong legs, as if she were doing yet another box jump under her trainer’s orders. She flies through the air but stops suddenly, effortlessly, as if a fly caught in a web. Her father’s hands hold her by the shoulder and leg, which then lift her high up into the air above his head. Below them, Nikita cackles as she looks up at her precarious position.

“Not so smart, huh? In order for us women to compete in a sport dominated by men, we have to fight differently. Back in the day, wrestling was a combination of Greco Roman and boxing, and was a bunch of tough guys either stretching you or else trying to KO you with one blow. But more and more people are doing what your father did and wrestle around the world, training in different places. Why, just in the CWT, we have at least six different styles on display every week. There are a LOT of slams and suplexes to go with the strikes, and you know your dad would crush someone like you...or me, for that matter...if we let him get ahold of us. So, we do other things…”

Sarah squawks as she is suddenly dropped to the ground. She pushes her knees out so that she can land on all fours, and she smirks when she realizes why she fell: Nikita had stomped on her father’s foot with one of her heeled boots. Not for the first time, Sarah thought about how functional and tactical heeled wrestling boots would be.

“Always go where they are weakest, kid. Because if you try to punch them in the face, or kick them in the stomach, or go for any drops or throws, you’re going to find herself hitting a brick wall. The amount of guys over 6 feet and 250 lbs in this sport is insane, and it’s completely unregulated outside of the UK. You have to be ready to hit the wall that can’t move, the barge that won’t sink, the iceberg that takes down the Titanic. If not, if you’re not prepared to leave the strikes and slams behind, then you’ll need to find a different dream to run after. There’s a reason why this business has the adage of chopping down the tree, kid.”

Sarah listens intently after getting to her feet, and she can feel the scowl coming from underneath her father’s mask.

““ not...underestimate...the strength...or the...speed.”

As her father’s words come in that clipped and ragged way the mask forced, she finds herself becoming somewhat intoxicated by the lulling of his speech pattern, and she suddenly finds herself hissing in pain. She never saw the elbow that connected with her shoulder, her father’s surprising speed coming into play. She staggers back underneath the blow, her shoulder turning numb from the force of the blow, and she does her best to recoil by sliding away from him. However, she is caught in his strong grip again, and finds herself being lifted into the air with the same ease he had when she was a child. Before she can mount a defense, she is tossed to the ground, this time without the chance to right her body, and slams hard down on her side. When she finally opens her eyes and gets to her knees, she sees Nikita shaking her head.

“You’re meant to be headlining giant buildings in front of massive crowds, dearie. You’re meant to be putting on technical clinics and creating masterpieces. That will never happen if you just try to HAMMER your way through the mammoths of the business! The monsters will ALWAYS assume that a woman is too weak and fragile. You must outsmart them. Do it again! And THINK this time!”

Sarah pushes herself up to her feet, brushes away the dirt and grass from the field, and tries again.


Sarah jumps with a startle, her legs kicking and sending trophies flying. She looks up and sees Kenzi, the caramel starlets face already breaking out into a smile.

"Fall asleep in the middle of your junk?"

Sarah opens her mouth to protest, including a zinging retort about her stuff not being "junk," but closes her mouth instead. She looks down at the picture of her younger self with her idol, and future trainer, and gives a shake of her head.

"Just thinking about some advice that has always helped me in my career."

She places the picture on the desk in the room and holds out her hand. Kenzi takes it and heaves Sarah up, helping her to her feet.

"C'mon, let's go giggle about how Charlie doesn't know what 'lackadaisical' means. I bet I can give him something else to steal in lieu of being original!"

Kenzi nods as she takes Sarah's arm.

"Yeah! And about how wrong everyone is about me being a lesbo. I'm not a lesbian!"

Sarah pats Kenzi's hand and smiles as they leave the room.
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