Walking down the dark corridors of Arcadia, Grimskull has been energized by the words of Drewitt. His eyes, burning with a dark intensity, pierce the veil of darkness as he begins his ominous address.
“You speak truth, brother. Our foes dance the dance of War, a relentless dance of chaos and fury, yet without Conquest, it’s but a hollow echo of unfulfilled ambition.”
He grins. “Drewitt, you know War, but I am the harvester of its fruits. For Conquest is not just the act of defeating; it’s the art of claiming what is rightfully ours. It’s the final stroke in War’s tumultuous symphony.”
Turning his scorn aside, Grimskull’s voice grows colder, “Sebastian Boswick wears censorship and ideal as armor, thinking it shields him. But soon his veil of control will be torn to shreds. He believes he conquers through ideals. Ideals don’t bleed, men do.”
Drewitt nods along as Grimskull continues. “And Tucker Goode is naught but a marionette dancing on the strings of his own lies. He believes hiding his truth is his Conquest? No, it’s a prison. In War, there are no secrets, no shadows to hide in. His hypocrisy will be his downfall.”
The air grows heavier as Grimskull shifts his focus. “The Kingdom: Red Falcon, White Bear. They parade as heroes, they claim to fight for truth, to expose Goode’s duplicity, but what do they truly conquer? False idols, crumbling under the weight of their own pretense.”
Grimskull’s voice rises, thunderous and unyielding, “This battleground we step into, it’s not just a ring; it’s the crucible where pretenders are unmasked, where false conquerors are laid bare. The ACA, The Kingdom – they’re but pawns in a game where you and I are the players. They all fight for shadows of conquest. We fight for the tangible, the undeniable – the spoils of war.”
He reaches out, grasping the tag title they’ve already claimed. The metal glints in the light. “This,” he holds it high, “is just the beginning. A symbol of what we’ve taken, and a harbinger of what is yet to come. In our Conquest, we will strip them of everything – titles, pride, illusion.”
The purple glow of Grimskull’s eyes seem to reach out, until they center in on their goal.
Grimskull steps forward, the dim light casting long shadows, “So now they ride to our battlefield, with illusions of conquest. But they do not know that in our realm, facades crumble, victories dissolve. In the end, they will embrace the bitter truth – in the War they wage, the only true Conquest is ours. For we are the inevitable end, the stark reality that devours fantasies. To the Conqueror goes the spoils, and the spoils will be ours.”
His voice becomes a low growl, echoing the corridor, “Remember, Drewitt, in the symphony of War, without Conquest, all you fight for, all you believe in, will be consumed by defeat. For in the pursuit of Conquest, there is no room for weakness, no tolerance for deceit. We are the unyielding storm, and in our wake, only the worthy shall remain.”
Darkness.