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| The "Huntsman" Ethan Stryfe |
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Posted by: PhantomTroupe - 05-28-2025, 04:49 PM - Forum: Inactive
- No Replies
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-----------------------------------
PERSONAL INFORMATION
-----------------------------------
![[Image: f2295e9a363004fb7847450562839f1d.jpg]](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/f2/29/5e/f2295e9a363004fb7847450562839f1d.jpg)
Wrestler's Alias: The "Huntsman" Ethan Stryfe
Wrestler's Real Name: Ethan James Morrison
Twitter Handle (if applicable): Nah...
Pic Base: Jeff Hardy (2002/2003 edition)
Height: 5'11
Weight: 215 lbs.
Birthdate:
Birth Place: Koloa, Kauai, Hawaii
Current Residence: Verona, Hawaii
Physical Description:
A handsome blonde, blue-eyed devil without a care in the world. Very well fit from a life living in Hawaii, however due to his family genetics he just *DOESN'T* tan...not even in the slightest. His normal wrestling gear is composed mainly of a white wife-beater shirt and black cargo pants and black/white wrestling boots. Otherwise he tends to wear whatever he damn well chooses...along with his signature stone mask.
WRESTLING INFORMATION
-------------------------------------------------
Wrestling Style: Queen's Court-Lucharesu/Jade Court-Puroresu
Ethan's style of wrestling is full of strikes and submissions, while he might appear to be "playful"-Ethan's in ring work is the complete opposite and is perhaps one of the most vicious strikers currently on the indy scene as he can hit kicks and strikes with an incredible speed and impact, with one of his kicks being quick and strong enough to knock the wind out of his opponent.
In the ring, he is a fast and agile bastard, not really caring for the well being of his opponent as he is known for being incredibly vicious in the ring, moving almost like a surgeon in the ring with his strikes and holds as he prefers not to let a single move be wasted. Even though he is a high-flyer, when he uses submission holds he falls back upon his martial arts training and applies pressure point locks without any form of hesitation or regret, because to him-he just doesn't care in the ring.
Alignment: Heel with Face Pop and Reactions
Years Pro: 4
Theme Song: "Hate Me" by Escape the Fate
Finishers: The "Killing Joke" and the "Howling"
Finishers Descriptions:
1. The "Killing Joke" is a Pumphandle half-nelson driver AKA Penta's "Pentagon Driver"
2. The "Howling" is a High Impact Spinning Heel kick AKA Malakai Black's "Black Mass Kick" (this move is protected)
Signature Moves:
1. The "Final Testament" (Penta's "Mexican Destroyer")
2. The "Last Surprise" (Slingblade), sometimes done multiple times in succession
3. The "Match Day Shenanigans" (Kick to the back of the knee, hit the ropes, follow up with the world's stiffest penalty kick)
4. The "Blood Eagle" (Double chickenwing facebuster transitioned into a cross-legged double chickenwing camel clutch)-can also be used as a finish
5. The "Hollow Point" (Shining Wizard from behind)-adopted from David Morton
6. The "Final Heaven" (Springboard forearm smash)
Common Moves:
1.Multiple Suplex variations
--Belly-to-back/sometimes into the barricade
--Exploder
--Side Belly-to-Belly
--Slingshot
--Super
--Cobra Clutch
--German/sometimes while sliding to an opponent hung from the second rope
--Snap
--Tiger
--Double-underhook front floated over into a cross armbreaker
--Cravate,
--Full Hatch/Snap double-underhook front
--Half-Hatch/Snap single-underhook front)
2. Multiple Kicks
--Running corner
--Front Missile
--Single-leg missile
--Repeated shoot to a kneeling opponent's chest followed by a roundhouse to the opponent's head with theatrics
Super
3. Multiple elbow strike variations (Corner, Diving, Rolling/Discus, Running)
4. Multiple Submissions
--Ankle Lock
--Arm trap seated abdominal stretch
--Back-clinched double-arm-trap dragon sleeper
--Cobra clutch to a facedown opponent
--Cobra Twist
--Diving pressing arm-breaker
--Dragon Sleeper
--Indian deathlock
--Single leg Boston crab/sometimes with Ethan's knee wrenched into the opponent's spine or neck
--Sleeper Hold, Surfboard/sometimes proceeded by a double-leg stomp to the opponent's knee or while applying a dragon sleeper or chinlock
5. European Uppercut (Forearm Uppercut, sometimes in a diving variant)
6. Dragon Screw Leg Whip
7. Backflip off the top rope over a standing opponent, followed by a crooked arm lariat
8. Bent-arm stomp
9. Double knee facebreaker
10. Tope con Hilo (Suicide somersault senton)
11. Powerbomb onto the Knee
12. Lung Blower (Double knee backbreaker, sometimes while spring boarding)
13. Gotch-style Piledriver (Cradle reverse piledriver)
14. Jumping High Knee
15. Snap Scoop Powerslam
16. Olympic Slam
17. Jujigatame/ARMageddon
18. Diamond Dust
19. Swanton Bomb
20. Triangle Choke
Strengths:
1. Unorthodox Bastard: There is nothing normal about Ethan, from his mannerisms to how he operates outside of the ring, he is very cock and egotistical as well as being eccentric, rebellious, and of times perverted, often disrespecting or just outright mocking his opponents in a very vulgar fashion unless said opponents have earned-he's like Alucard from "Hellsing Abridged" became a pro-wrestler...but due to this unorthodox manner he is a very capable and vicious opponent in the ring, among other things.
2. "I'm never truly alone": Ethan never travels solo, because whenever you see him, the "Enforcer" Kyle Gibson (the older brother of the Phantom Troop's Eric Gibson) is usually lurking in the shadows near-by and the 6'2/240 pound "Insurance Program from Hell", quickly shows why he's simply the best.
3. No Fear: Ethan doesn't fear anything or anyone...nor does he give two shits either as fear simply gets in the way of what the "Huntsman" wants to accomplish and as such, it has no place in his world view. He's very much like Giovanni Aries in that aspect.
Weaknesses:
1. Vicious Bastard: Ethan is a very vicious wrestler with every single move and hold applied without any form of wasted move or action...if he is made to deviate from this, Ethan will become much more physically violent...all with a wide grin on his face because this is a sadist who enjoys his work all too much.
2. Light Heavyweight: Although seen as a weakness, Ethan has actively chosen to stay in the light heavyweight range (215 pounds) and works hard to keep it that way.
Entrance:
Biography:
Born in Kōloa, an unincorporated community and census-designated place in Hawaii, Ethan was a physical prodigy as his grandfather was one of the few surviving masters of the ancient Hawaiian martial art of Kapu Kuʻialua which was based around bone breaking, joint locks, throws, pressure point manipulation, strikes and various other things that was only practiced by the king's honor guards after the "Koa" helped Kamehameha the Great to unify the islands in 1810. The style came naturally to Ethan as did his education as he graduated with honors from the Governor Wallace R. Farrington High School. Having grown up watching old tapes of Polynesian pro wrestling from the eighties and been inspired by them, Ethan soon looked up a local wrestling school and joined the first class of Vergil Urahara's "Apocalypse Academy" and found himself in a unique place on the ground floor as the first class was being jointly trained by Devon Slayton and Jacob Striker.
Trained alongside Kyle Valentine, Marcus Owens, David Striker, and a few others that would become represented by the Tiger's Den which helped him to start working for the Extreme Wrestling Incorporated and started working touring dates all over Japan and somewhere along the way, Ethan formed the "Rogue Army" faction in EWI which turned out to be very effective with it's dark nature and sinister overtones...in short Ethan's mad ways made him successful.
However Ethan's influence hasn't just stayed solely in Japan as Ethan has been revealed as the "Little Devil" on the right shoulder of David Striker, who seems to be working his "corrupting" influence on his old friend and former training partner among other things.
Sample RP (optional):
HANDLER'S INFORMATION
-------------------------------------------------
Handler's First Name:
Email:
Discord:
Other:
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| MAN/MONSTER || CHAPTER SEVEN (SPIRALBORNE) |
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Posted by: Enigma - 05-27-2025, 11:06 PM - Forum: Character Development
- No Replies
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The spiral wakes in blood and bone—
not curse, not gift, but oath and throne.
It binds the breath. It brands the kin.
It marks the wound beneath the skin.
ROCK HILL, NEW YORK
MAY 1, 2025
(OFF CAMERA)
Elle didn’t cry when she saw the spiral. Not when the shape branded itself into her son’s soft skin like a birthright carved by unseen hands. Not even when the voice inside her finally rose up and said: you lied to yourself. For years.
She didn’t cry, though she wanted to. She simply rocked him, whispering words that said everything and nothing. He cooed, soft but deliberate. Too steady. Too human. His strange eyes opened. She remembered a boy – those same eyes, the same hollow gaze, sitting cross-legged in the sand, saying: “you don’t belong here either, do you?”
Inside, that black door creaked wider.
One she’d buried in memory – under logic, under love, under Sev. Under all the trauma heaped on her, like a punishment never understood until now. A penance she’d accepted because some part of her always knew what waited on the other side.
No more creaking. The door flung itself wide. Because it had to.
She was ten again. Back in that cold, windowless house where she’d been ditched for the summer. The one with the rules. Rules she never understood – no one ever explained them. The one where she wasn’t allowed to speak unless spoken to, and even then, nobody ever listened. The one where the air was always too still, and the floorboards creaked like they were warning her to run. The one where she’d learned how to be invisible and agreeable as a matter of survival. She’d forgotten all about this first visit. Or maybe it had been buried on purpose – the place didn’t matter. It was what had brought her here.
There had been a boy. Younger, pale, always alone. No one talked to him. Because he had the mark.
She hadn’t understood, then. Not really. She’d thought they meant a scar, or a bruise, or some weird birthmark. Until she saw it. The boy had fallen during a storm drill. Peeled up the sleeve of his shirt. She’d knelt to help him—
And there it was. A spiral, ink-black and perfect, winding just under his skin like a secret trying to crawl out. He’d looked at her, hollow-eyed. Said nothing but there was pity in his gaze. She ran because something stirred inside her when she saw it. Answered. Screamed a name she couldn’t recall. And that terrified her more than the mark did. She’d gone home early, burning up with fever and had drawn that same spiral over and over, covering every inch of paper she could find until her little hands ached. She couldn’t ask the question caught in her throat: who is Wyatt?
She’d forgotten all of it. Or told herself she had. Until now.
Now, holding her child, that same feeling buzzed through her bones. Not fear. Not revulsion.
Recognition.
Sev was speaking— his voice low, broken, begging. But it was background noise. The world had narrowed. Focused. Elle looked down at the boy in her arms, whose eyes were not yet open, but whose breath already mirrored the slow, steady rhythm of something older.
She leaned in, kissed his forehead. Whispered, “I remember now.” Then, finally, she looked at Sev. And what he saw in her eyes wasn’t shock—
It was knowing. A long-buried truth finally came to light.
“I’ve seen this before,” she said, needing him to know it wasn’t just a memory— it was a return. “Before I met you. Before I even knew what you were.” And then— softly, almost to herself:
“…I think I am, too.”
He heard her. He heard her. But his mind tried to reject it, like the body flinching from a too-bright light. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe.
I think I am, too.
The words didn’t echo. They landed like stones in still water. No drama. Just undeniable and inevitable. And Sev— THE MONSTER MACHINE, survivor of horror and handler of beasts— felt his knees go weak. Not from fear. No. From the shattering reversal of it all. He had lived his whole life believing he was the edge she’d walked. The curse she’d taken on. The dark she’d let into her veins in defiance of fate. He’d let himself need that. Let it justify the way he had clung to her. Protected her. Warned her, over and over, “you don’t know what I am.”
But she did. She always had.
She’d just forgotten.
Or lied.
Or both.
Sev’s hands trembled. Their boy let out a soft grunt in Elle’s arms, shifting slightly, unaware of the silence that had detonated the room. The spiral was still there, like a blessing from something older than either of them. A shared hallucination, maybe. But now that they’d both seen it, the mark settled— growing fainter with each breath. He could still feel its truth in the silence, smelling burnt herbs like a mystical offering. But he knew now, this wasn’t just his mark.
It was theirs.
He stepped back. Not far. Just enough for the space between them to feel different. He looked at her like he was seeing a stranger – or the clearest version of her he’d ever seen. He tasted blood, not even aware he’d torn the cracked skin from his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth as if he could grind all those questions to pulp just as easily. One slipped out anyway and he hated how weak that whisper sounded. “Why, Elle… why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked down at the baby and said nothing.
Sev’s voice cracked when he spoke again, fragmented with emotion he couldn’t begin to name. “Why didn’t you tell yourself?”
That landed. She flinched— just slightly. But it was enough for him to understand. She had known something. Not consciously. But the body always remembered what the mind buried. And her body had chosen him because it recognized kin.
He pressed the heel of his palm hard to his eye, as if pushing tears back in. “All this time, I thought I dragged you into this,” he rasped, “I thought I’d ruined you.”
She looked up, sharply. “You didn’t, Sev. You could never.”
“You’re saying you were already…”
He couldn’t say it. Marked. Chosen. Like me.
She finished the sentence. “I was already part of it.”
The words weren’t triumphant. They weren’t resigned. They were just true. Sev sat hard on the bed’s edge, palms open, eyes wide.
“I don’t know what this means.”
Elle came to him, slow. Still holding the boy. “Neither do I.”
And for the first time since the birth, they sat together. Not monster and mother. Not sinner and redeemer. But something else. Two people— each with a scar the other had never seen— staring down into the face of what they’d made.
Something new.
Something old.
Something the world would never understand.
The child cries. The forest grins.
What once begins, begins again.
A crown of fire, a serpent ring,
a mother's fear of what she'll bring.
ROCK HILL, NEW YORK
MAY 20, 2025
(OFF CAMERA)
It was nearly dusk when she saw him again. Through the kitchen window— past the smudge of toddler fingerprints and the leftover rain still clinging to the glass— Sev was out walking the dog, bandaged hands in his coat pockets, shoulders bowed ever so slightly. He moved slowly, like his body still ached from everything it had carried lately.
Maybe it did.
Maybe it was just the aftermath of five days on the road— back-to-back bookings with SCW and PWC.
She felt that flutter in her stomach, the rush of warmth that hadn’t faded even after all this time, and a part of her whispered: welcome home.
She watched his progress beneath the bare-branched canopy, Gizmo tugging gently at the leash in that aimless, instinctual way dogs do near woods. The light was soft— bruised pink and gold— and it haloed him like some exhausted saint dragged from a forgotten painting.
That light suited him – almost flattering, in a way that made her breath catch and fog the glass.
The dog tugged ahead, eager but unhurried, nose to the dirt path curving towards the woods.
Elle stood still, the baby cradled in her arms, his breath warm and steady against her collarbone. She rocked gently, more out of instinct than intent, and watched Sev begin to fade into the treeline, swallowed by the early shadow of trees.
Not all the way into the forest— just enough to blur.
Just far enough for the trees to close around him like an old memory.
And for one breathless instant, she saw something that couldn’t be there.
A door. Half-sunk. Waiting.
Not a memory. Not a metaphor.
Just the truth – rotting quietly beneath the trees.
It was gone as quickly as it came. But her blood knew it. Her bones remembered. It had existed. Once. Not here. But in a place like this.
And once— she couldn’t remember how, or why—
Someone had gone through it.
She could still feel the pull.
Not fear. Not grief. Just the echo of absence.
She hadn’t thought of that place in years.
Not since she was a child, and her mind had folded that summer into corners too tight to open.
Not since her brother—
Elle’s breath caught on another fragment of memory.
She’d told her mother, once. Gotten a strange look and a curt: “Don’t be silly. You never had a brother.”
After that, she stopped asking.
Her son shifted in her arms. A grunt. A whisper. Eyes not quite open. She looked down to hush him. When she looked up again, there was no door.
Outside, Sev turned, as if he felt that stabbing ache she was trying to reckon with now.
The empty womb.
The absence where those memories should have been.
He looked back at the house. At her.
He lifted one hand and waved— and even through vision blurred with tears that refused to fall, she knew that smile was on his face. That smile. The one that transformed him.
She raised hers in return, fingers trailing across the windowpane.
The chill of the glass grounded her. For now.
But behind her ribs, where old things slept, the black door waited.
She held him closer now. Not like a mother holding a newborn. Like a girl clinging to a ghost that never said goodbye.
Her lips brushed the crown of his head.
Warm. Real. Spiralbright.
She held him like she was falling. Like if she let go, the world would tip back into forgetting.
Like the connection she’d remembered— the chasm that had finally been closed— would yawn wide open between her and Sev again. She kept her lips pressed to his baby-soft skin, breathing in his scent. His breath was shallow, like hers.
The spiral burned cold, imprinted on the insides of her eyelids. She could feel it turning.
Her arms trembled with the weight of it all.
“Wyatt,” she whispered—to the boy and the ghost and the name in her blood.
Then, softer— raw with promise or warning—
“…they won’t take you again.”
She said it like a vow.
But somewhere, in the hush between her heartbeats, the woods seemed to breathe. And she wasn’t sure if they believed her.
The sky dimmed as Sev turned, pulled back towards the woods and for one breathless moment, she thought she saw him change.
Not in shape, but in weight, as if something slipped from his shoulders, and something else slipped on. A mantle. A shadow. A memory made flesh. Not monstrous. Not yet.
But not wholly human, either.
Elle whispered, almost reverently, “don’t forget your way back.”
And this time, she didn’t mean just the path. She meant him. The man. The MONSTER. The MACHINE.
The father. Their protector. Her everything.
She blinked. He was just Sev again.
Just the tired man with a dog and bandaged hands, heading down the trail where the light always seemed to vanish faster than it should. But the feeling remained— sharp, metallic, lodged like a splinter in her mind. The baby stirred, as if he’d felt it too. She pressed her lips to his temple. “Shh,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure who she was soothing.
Beyond the glass, Sev stopped walking and turned his head— slowly, almost dreamlike— toward the trees. Toward where that door might have been. The wind caught the hem of his coat, tugging it sideways like a hand trying to pull him in. For a moment, he just stood there.
Then, without warning, he turned back. Walked home.
Not fast. Not slow. Just deliberate. Like a man who knew where he’d been, and what he was walking away from— for now.
Elle’s heart knocked against her ribs. Not in fear. Not in panic. But in recognition.
Again.
When Sev stepped inside, he didn’t speak. Just met her eyes across the kitchen, and something passed between them— wordless, marrow-deep.
Not a question. Not yet. But a promise.
There would be more doors.
They both knew it.
The child stirred. Twitched, once. Let out a low sound that wasn’t quite a cry. She whispered to soothe him, though the words came out shaky. Like part of her wasn’t sure if she was comforting the baby or herself. Because she knew, now. Not just about Sev. Not just about the invisible line between man and monster. Not just about the forgotten boy from the summer house. Not just about the spiral. But about herself.
And about the road ahead. All of it was almost too much to bear and yet she felt alive for the first time in years. Her hand drifted across her son’s back, as if searching for something she couldn’t name. She didn’t find the spiral. But she felt it.
Pulsing.
Turning.
Softly.
Patiently.
Like it was waiting.
Sev joined her at the window, gathering her into his arms. He smelled like tobacco and pine, petrichor and salt – he smelled like home.
I bear the mark. I bit the steel.
I made the gods choke on their meal.
I lit the match with a monster’s right,
To feast on the ashes of your birthright.
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| Breakdown writers - May 22, 2025 |
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Posted by: supremecw - 05-20-2025, 04:06 PM - Forum: Match Writing Board
- Replies (7)
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Polly Pingotti vs. Kemal Yilmaz vs. Gavin Taylor vs. La Pequena Luz
Writer: Rupp
Glory Braddock vs. David Striker
Writer: Matt
Dexter Grant vs. Derek Adonis
Writer: Rupp
SCW Television Championship
Sal Darius vs. Marissa Swanson
Writer: Jay
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![[Image: LJJeMoD1_o.jpg]](https://images2.imgbox.com/a3/90/LJJeMoD1_o.jpg)
