<Center>"I think the greatest illusion we have is that denial protects us. It's actually the biggest distortion and lie. In fact, staying asleep is what's killing us."
-Eve Ensler-

*The camera falls on the interior of a dark dim room lit by a singular light source. A single bulb which sets in the very center of a dingy room. At least the floor is dingy, grimy, the kind of floor one sees in abandoned places where men no longer walk for fear that the memories of the past linger still. The walls of the room hidden so perfectly by the darkness as if the shadows themselves stood at the edge of light afraid to step inside. In the center of this odd scene sits an old burlap bag sitting quietly beside a n empty worn wooden chair. The scene looks undisturbed and forgotten the dust heavy on all around save for the sack which lies stained with dirty dingy spots and handprints of a rusty color. Suddenly the stillness is broken. Not by movement but by a voice which resonates in the room like the booming of the voice of Metatron himself.*

Seph: Denial is a terrible thing. It's more than mere rudeness or vanity. No, denial is a lie. It's a lie one tells himself. Worse still it's a lie one believes.

*Seph steps slowly forward his cane and boots clicking resoundingly in the quiet stillness. His face is serious stern but ever filled with a sort of aristocratic air which is carried by those of such breeding and opulence. He looks to the camera slowly as he steps from the darkness like a nightmare made flesh. His eyes peeking through the curtain of hair in his face.*

Seph: I myself told such a lie the other week and for it I paid a terrible price. I underestimated someone, someone that I long to meet again. But make no mistake children I was not defeated that night. No, you see I yet stand here amongst you. I yet exist. I yet draw breath. I remain despite desires of men and in that failure they will find that I am not defeated... only delayed.

*Seph turns his head but a moment. The naked lightbulb sits above him ever so slightly like a halo. He glances up at it. As the camera pans upward. His eyes locked on it as if gazing into the heaves before the camera lens slowly rises before a steel mesh of iron as he drops his head back away from it. The angle odd and deliberate showing the glistening light on his hair before cutting back to him his head down as he paces a slight step.*

Seph: But that was two weeks ago and wishing for the past to be different is as fruitless an endeavor as man can do. So let us not dwell upon unpleasantness, children. Oh no. Let us focus on the future. A bright shining future that lay before us. For this week we face not the current champion but a former champion. James Huntington-Hawkes the third in a long line of proud industrious men. Clawing and climbing your way to the top echelons of society and indeed of this business. A man I respect for his ambitions. But like many great men before you; you lack vision beyond your own selfish wants and desires. in a way I consider you the very perfect representation of the human species.

*He chuckles a bit as the camera filters to a sideways close up of him licking his elongated canine teeth. they gleam and shine in the light which illuminates only him as the camera goes back to it's original gaze locked on a face heavily shadowed by lack of light through the platinum drapery which hangs from his scalp.*

Seph: You see people see what they wish to see. They choose to believe some things they are told and deny somethings which are in front of them. You close your minds to the possibility that there are things upon this earth and beyond this earth which not only exist but have existed among you. Your ancestors used their instincts to sense when danger was near. They trusted these instincts to keep them alive long enough to pass those traits on to their offspring. But as we move into a new world constantly evolving we find that our spacial awareness, our fear developing instincts are becoming less and less used. Much like the cow or the noble horse you just trust what you are given. It is the cow's bargain safety in exchange for service to another. In your case the shadowy faceless hand of your betters.

*He raises a hand as he smiles curling his long slender fingers into a motion of one as if calling for attention or telling a child to wait a singular moment.*

Seph: Now this is where it gets tricky, boys and girls. So let's all pay attention now.

*He says with a wicked grin before dropping his hand and tilting his head in false whimsy.*

Seph: Now, who do you think those betters really are? Think of every time you went into the woods as a child. There was no end to the danger. Rock slides, falling limbs, poison plant life, dangerous wildlife, lightning, viruses, all the little dangers that one comes in contact with in the slightest way. Oh you maybe a seasoned woodsmen or a trained survivalist but most would not recognize the simple dangers until they were befallen by it. So it is with my kind. Imagine it, the perfect predation. To live among the herd of cattle. See them bustling before you. So busy in their own little lives. Their noses buried in books and tablets. Talking on phones and texting so much that they are oblivious to true danger. And so you fool yourselves into not seeing. You pretend that the worlds dangers don't exist. As if they are fables in a tale. Even though we live among you. Even though we walk right beside you. Even now you deny the danger you're in, Mr. Huntington-Hawkes. Even now you sit in your own world trying to tell yourself it's just a man in a suit. This is my design. The perfect camouflage.

*He smiles rolling his head against the warmth of the bulb slowly turning it in a circle. The slow sizzle of the bulb running around and around before he drops his head teasingly with a low chuckle. His eyes fixated on the camera as it admires the gleefulness of his smile.*

Seph: What more successful predator could exist that walks among his prey as one of it's own? Who though different appears as no more a man as you? Do you feel those eyes on you, James? Those eyes like fingers running slowly up and down your body? That's us. For you can deny that a bear charging down on you doesn't exist all you want. That doesn't make it a reality. And let's just say that I was somehow delusional. that somehow I wasn't what I claim to be. What is the alternative? That I am dangerous? That I am unstable? That I am (for all intents and purposes) mad? If I am what I claim to be then you face a horror more dreadful then any you've known before. If not I am a psychopath that feels no more about you as he does ripping off a butterfly's wing.

*Seph steps back never looking away once from the camera casually grabbing the chair from it's resting place beside the large sack. He flips the chair about and sits reverse style leaning down in a rather provocative and seductive way. His eyes one of empty hollowness as he seems to watch through the lens of the camera staring at him, not at the audience or even at the cameraman but almost as if staring dead into James Huntington-Hawkes soul.*

Seph: See I don't care if you call yourself J2H or James or some other ridiculous byproduct of your inbreeding aristocracy. You see this new attitude is just what it seems to be just a ploy to seem more important than you are. it's true what the bard wrote " A rose by any other name would smell as sweet". In your case a wretch by any other name is still a wretch. Your the same over inflated spoiled child you always were and deep down that timid scared little boy is still there. Still crying for mommy and daddy to come to his room and check under the bed for the monsters. Only you don't need to look under the bed or in the closet for the monsters, James...

*He reaches up pushing the lightbulb with a single finger hard into a spin. The bulb twirls free spinning in an arch all around and as it does the inky black shadows give way to the light revealing thousands of messages, cries for help. Fingernail gouges in the walls, counting lines scratched deep into stone. Graffiti made in a rust colored tone reminiscent of dried blood cry help to the viewer in one horrific free form lightshow as Seph just sits smiling as the light begins to stop it's terrible dance.*

Seph: ... we are all around you. So bring up every pop culture references you can. Ridicule me. Discredit me. Because the facts don't lie. Whether i am or am not I am real. I am flesh. I exist. You can deny the spirit but you cannot deny the man. For I am the fallen one...

*He lifts his head to the sky taking in a deep intoxicating breath.*

Seph: The Chosen One. The on...

*He stops as the burlap bag suddenly begins to move the muffled cries inside sounding so human as it blindly spills and writhes and turns casting his attention away but for a moment. He grabs his cane up and smacks the bag once or twice with the head of his cane. His face locked into a dark blank annoyed gaze devoid of anything. Empty doll-like eyes. Like a sharks eyes. before turning back to the camera with a low chuckle moving his fingers through his long flowing hair.*

Seph: The only one, Sephiroth du Lac.

*The bag lets out a soft weeping. Low moans escaping as he stands grabbing the burlap with one hand and dragging it back kicking and writhing into the dark shadows as the scene fades to black.*

 <Center>"It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest."
-Adam Smith-

*The camera falls upon the image of a kitchen fully fleshed out with sparkling silver cookware. An older brick oven built into the wall sits cold as the clanking of pots and pans tapping together forms an odd symphony. The smell of ingredients hangs in the air like a thick fog as the sound of rushing water from the sink resounds and hangs like the twinkling of wind chimes. It is here at the sink we find the fallen one, Sephiroth du Lac. His hands amid the heat of the water lathered richly and thoroughly with soap. As a surgeon washes for his labor so does the the dark warrior Sephiroth . His hands cleansed with a meticulousness rarely seen. He uses his elbow to tap the spigot causing the water to cease as he moves to his linen apron donning it with a subtle regality given only to a master chef. He ties it about his waste as he looks down at the counter and begins his preparation.*

Well, well, boys and girls. Haven't I impressed someone? So much so that they have given me such a delightful gift this Christmas. Dinner and a show. For what else can one call such a festival of delightful violence such as this. Six men all vying for the right to stand before me. To be counted among the chosen. I had said once before that I would be the measuring stick that this company shall look to from the moment I came here. How expected that my prediction has come true. But then again when one sees the true quality of such a man as I what other conclusion can be raised?

*He draws his hands to the counter taking a carving knife and a sharpening instrument. With tender strokes he begins preparing the blade. Nice even strokes that cause the air to come alive with the sheen of a blade. Much like an artist preparing his paints he prepares the blades for their venture. His skill the equal of any culinary giant.*

But I digress. For tonight is not about what has been but about what shall be. The future of six men and my own ascension. For nothing matters so much then in this moment. This pivotal moment that hangs like the sword of Damocles over all of us. I must admit to a bit of excitement at the prospect of an unknown opponent. Tell me gentlemen, have you ever been to a blind wine tasting? It's much like this. Each mysterious package formed with it's own unique body, flavor, and texture. You swirl it around. Breathe deep to inhale it's robust and unique palate only to taste it's rich boldness upon the lips. And to me gentlemen that's what you are. A sampling of the finest wines SCW has to offer me. Such delicious refreshment. I must write a thank you card to Christian and Mark for the lovely bouquet. But which one? Which one will be the sample offered? I do so hope it pairs with what I'm preparing. I so hate clashing flavors in a meal. It brings me... displeasure.

*He begins the tender process of carving a young baby lambs ribs slowly. The bloody deed spills forth from the tender cuts. Slowly he molds and shapes carving meat away until only the most tender cuts remain. As a gardener trims his prized roses so he alters the meat casting aside the the scraps*

One must separate, after all, those precious things that take away from the experience of the flavor. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. For the good of all. That is why matches such as these exists do they not? To show the truly blessed rise above their station? How oddly fitting then that the victor will have their shot against one such as I. You know the Mayans would play at a deadly game similar to soccer known as pitz which would require human sacrifice at the end. Now while many believe that the losers were sent to sacrifice it is also conjectured that the winners were chosen instead having proved their worthiness to the gods. So it is with this victor that you be sent to sacrifice. A worthy treat for a worthy foe.

*He takes a small silver instrument crushing cloves of garlic into olive oil. His hands wet with the juices as he gently drops them in one at a time . He then drops in rosemary freshly cut removing the stems as he does so. Before grinding fresh pepper and sea salt into the concoction. His hands dip into the bowl as if baptizing them before he begins to rub and massage the meat of the lamb. Drenching it in the rub by hand.*

So which one of you shall it be? Which one of you is worthy of the sacrifice? Which one of you shall tease my palate? Which one shall I devour in my conquest? Could it be you, Mr. Acquin? The very man I so thoroughly defeated last time. The man that I already defeated to ascend to this very station above you all. Could he be the redeemed? Could he be the divinely risen? Well, I will say this much about you, Mr. Acquin. You are a man of good... taste. I would think after so soundly a thrashing one would not be too keen on the idea of once more climbing into the breach. You are either a very brave man or a very foolish one. Such a sad little lamb. A lost little one that bravely struggles to find some means of success. Sadly I fear, Mr. Acquin, that if you were to put on the feeble show you put on for me a week or two ago then the only thing you will be known for is that you were merely the first. At least you were refreshing if a bit bland. Like drinking a multitude of water. Filling but not really satisfying.

*He begins to gather a small array of fruits. Taking a smaller knife he begins to cut into a blood orange. The camera centers on it listening to the cut as it slowly pierces the fruits flesh. The sight of the juices surging forth from the fruit excite the senses as the smell of the citrus permeates the air as the smell of the now cooking lamb mixes with the citrus boding a welcoming aroma that makes the mouth salivate.*

Perhaps it will be instead Mr. Ajax? The young cocky upstart. When I see you, young Ajax I see a world of potential after all. Lean, hungry potential. Sadly too often have I seen the same in others. They all have the same look. The same brashness. The same devil-may-care attitude. And sadly the same taste. Oh it's a rich full body taste. A succulent young grape fresh off the vine but in the end there is a bitterness. As time wears on; that fresh, clean, sweet taste turns sour. As age sets in it does not fair well. Where men such as I age with dignity and grace. Your brash arrogance cannot withstand the ebb and flow of times cruelty. And when you are that ancient decrepit old man you'll look back at this moment I'm sure. The question is, Mr Ajax, will it be a fond memory? I highly doubt it. After all, I've seen it before.

*Tenderly he spreads pomegranate seeds at the base of the plate. The sweet red seeds blending with a series of crushed nuts to form the base of the presentation plate. His hands reach over draping grapes to the sides of the plate as garnishes of red leafed lettuce hang like drapery. He pulls out the roasted lamb. It's bones jutting out like a cage.*

Ah but yes, it could be Lord Raab. He assuredly has the instincts. The desire. The sheer killer instinct that separates those like myself from the common rabble. You are accurate indeed Lord Raab. You enjoy taking the life's blood from your fellows. Where as I, in my meekness must in order to survive. Sadly the differences don't end there. You see you are a man. Just a man in a mask. No matter how much you play at being a monster. No matter how much you long to be like unto me and my kind. You will always be just a man. Where as I am something more. Something better. The apex predator hiding among the prey. They see me as nothing more than one of them. But I'm not. A ram when rabid can become hostile to his herd. But that doesn't make him the wolf. No, see that is what you are, a sick animal. And what does one do with a sick animal? Well, they put it down. Just as well though I feel your blood would taste too much like despair. What does despair taste like, you may ask children? Exactly as you would expect to. Bitter sickly and unappealing. Of course that won't stop me from having a taste.

*He takes two finely carved birds skulls to decorate the finishing pieces of the tray as slowly he ties the bones of the small rib together. It  comes together slowly making a steeple like shape as if the ribs were praying. The carcass itself praying for the souls of those that might devour it.*

Perhaps it is Mr. Shipman that stands above his peers. After all he had the amazing deductive skills to do a Google search to determine that my name is of french origin. Then he makes presumptuous notion that I speak french. Do I? Well yes I speak a multitude of languages but that is neither my origin nor the origin of my name. You see my name is a title given to me long ago by men better than yourself. A kind benevolent soul lost to the greed of man. Should I assume that since your name is Shipman that you are a sailor or the son of sailors? Should I judge you upon the title and not the man? It is a fool that reads the cover of a book and thinks he grasps the concept. It's meaning. It's worth. Now, you faced nine legends in your past federations. A noble endeavor. But your not in that federation now are you?  You talk a big game but I wonder if your truly able. You claim to be a sadist. The purveyor of a sick mind. But what you claim as extreme I claim as sport. What you call sadism I call amusement. I delight in the suffering others. Not just in the physical suffering of others but in their anguish. In their horrid moments of fear and trepidation. In their sorrow. In every cry of "Dear God help me"... that is the torture I inflict. I leave you broken in body and mind, it makes the blood that much sweeter.

*He takes the platter gingerly in his hands and with a sort of aristocratic air walks out of the kitchen and out into a dimly lit dining room. Before him is the table and seated in the dim candlelight sit six individuals. Their dress and styles very but all have a common item. Each wear a mask colored gold draped to hide the person behind but each mask bares a striking resemblance to the participants of the battle Royal. Each mask handmade, carved with expert skill. Each one a mocking face of frowns and sorrow. Even Lord Raab's mask perfectly recreated save for the coloring.*

But perhaps it is the Blasted Monk? His feared fists and temper striking out in fury? His blood wild, impassioned filled with exotic flavor and life. His rebellious spirit making him so deadly... so savory. No, but alas I just know that thirty minutes after the match I'll find myself unsatisfied and hungry again. More is the pity.

*He lays the plate before the figures it's decadent look and aroma filling the air. The others say nothing. Do nothing their faces locked frozen at the table as he tips a bow before the table.*



Seph: Dinner is served. Take delight my friends for this is the most divine meal you will ever taste.

*He says as he sits at the head of the table not a word is spoken as he pours a glass of red wine from a bottle, covered in dust with label long since lost to time. The only sound the sound of him pouring as the figures stare empty at the table their breaths echoing in the stillness. A creepy macabre scene out of someone's fevered nightmare.*

Still if I had to choose one that I truly valued among them I would choose the one known as the Blaque Hart. A man cut from the mold of champions. He has the grace, the cunning, the look but above all he has my respect. You alone acknowledged my worth and so I shall return the favor. No witty retorts. No underlined threats. Not even a crude attempt at a joke. You spoke to me as a man and therefore shall I treat you like one. Should the day come whether that day be here and now or somewhere down the line in which we face each other. I promise to remember your words. And whether this be your time or no I will acknowledge you as a worthy opponent. So I will charge you with only this. Win. Win and prove your worth and take your place at my side. I will give you my all. As I know you will give me yours. I see into your heart, Evans. Let's see if you can earn the right to see into mine.

*The sound of breathing slowly skips from one as a soft sob comes from under the mask. He turns to the figure. His eyes burning into them as they meekly turn their head away. He leans in a finger worming under the mask pulling the parodied face of Joshua Acquin to his.*

Seph: Is something the matter, my dear? Don't you like the meal? I know you haven't eaten in a while.

*The figure drops their head and in a beautiful if shaken female voice answers.*

Girl: Please... please... don't do this.

*A slow frown begins to form on his face. The grim look of one who is disappointed.*

So who shall it be? Which foe will I face? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. The chance for each of you to prove his mettle. But only one of you can join me at this table and he shall have the greatest reward. For even in defeat there is glory here. To best 5 others. To face another fresh, terrifying, unstoppable. It is a task that makes legends. Have I done such an action? I have. But the past is past. You can never relive it. Only remember it. What matters is the here and now. And here and now there is a shadow cast over you all. Only one will reach my gaze. Only one can sit at my table. Only one will dine with me.

*He grabs her harshly ripping the mask off of her. Mascara runs down her face, her eyes stung red with tears. For a moment he looks as if he is going to hurt her. His eyes locked into hers with a sinister glare only to morph into his trademark smirk.*

Seph: Oh my dear, don't you see that this is a rare treasure? Every meal is just a meal save for this one. This is the most delicious meal you will ever have for this is your last. The last time your tongue will ever savor the taste of meat. The tang of a ripe tomato, the sweetness of a grape. No meal will ever equal this one last taste for it is in the appreciation of this small thing that you will find it's flavor immeasurable. All die but to appreciate life. That is to live. You cannot live later so live now. Eat.

*The girl looks confused for a moment then stares into his face. Something connects as he says the words then her eyes lower. She looks at him then to the meal teasing her. Tormenting he. The hunger of three days without food stabbing at her. She reaches over tearing off a piece of meat. the others watching as she sinks her teeth in the sacrificial lamb before her. Her eyes alight and she tears another bite. The others look to each other with a sort of quiet surrender. They tear at the meal each hand ripping and gripping tearing the lamb apart. Sephiroth merely smiles leaning back in his chair.*

Only one of you will taste the finest meal you will ever know. Till then I remain respectfully yours, Sephiroth du Lac.

*He raises a glass toward the camera as the sound of tearing flesh and rattling plates fill the air.*

Bon appétit.

*As the scene fades to black.*

 <Center>"Give them pleasure - the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare."
-Alfred Hitchcock-

Have you ever dreamed the same dream over and over again? No matter what you did you couldn't help having the same exact image appear in your mind? Every night I see it. See her falling. Ever falling. As if flying. Flying like a bird. Like an angel as if she will fly away into the nights sky. Then the ground reminds me and I scream...

*The camera opens on the image of a darkened room illuminated by a blazing fireplace and the crackling light of a morning sun peering through the heavy velvet curtains trimmed elegantly with lace. The pale alabaster walls accented with baroque patterns and fine carvings. Over the fireplace a hand carved mantle sits empty save for a set of candles and the painting of a woman above. Her skin is pale as porcelain, her hair as black as the night, with lips like blood curved with expert hand into a smile that haunts. Her eyes pale blue like the glistening sea stare; watching over the darkened room. Suddenly from the far end of the room the silence is broken. A sudden scream of terror and pain.*

Voice: NO!

*The figure in the four post bed sits up. Sweat glistening off the pale well toned flesh. His hair long draped like a curtain of platinum almost silver blond. His face stabbed in surprise for but a second revealing elongated canines hidden behind cold pale lips. He stares into the dark with green catlike eyes searching the darkness for his bearings. His deep panted breathing making chest rise and fall before receding into a more  calm demeanor as he realizes the truth of his reality and tosses back the covers to greet the new day.*


So it is that with every morning I rise to greet dawn with the replaying agony of a dark memory. Long since taken from this world but no less missed. For what died in that moment of time was not merely a woman of exquisite beauty and grace but the last remnants of my own humanity. And so haunted by the curse of my own flawed inadequacy I rise eternal. My nights scarred with the torment of waking nightmares.

*He walks slowly in staggering deliberate steps. The cold bare wooden floor under his bare feet as he inches toward the marble fireplace. He leans in his hands upon the mantle letting hair drape about his face. He looks up then at the painting of the woman silently staring into the void as he brings one hand up to caress her cheek. his hands touching the brush strokes that make up her tender flesh as if trying to reach through the painting to feel skin long since cold and forgotten. he hangs his head a bit a solemn sorrow in his eyes.*

And so it must be that from this; this moment of sorrow and pain nightly relived..

*His head raises then but not in a gaze of sorrow anymore but one of grim determination, a dark smirk gracing his visage. The sudden switch unnerving as if the previous emotion were merely an illusion. As a talented actor switches roles before the camera.*

... that I became a nightmare unto others.

*The camera cuts to a shirt laid out well pressed though frilled with exquisite white lace. Alongside it sits a starched detachable high collar with folded triangular creases. A hand lays out a cravat neatly laid out with meticulous care. The camera cuts again to his well toned and muscular frame slowly being covered with the shirt as he buttons each button slowly.*

Thus now do I return once more. Once more into the breach. For lo have I waited till the moment is right. Many times have I returned from the dark places of men's thoughts. Some have known me as a tale to tell the young. Some have known me as a haunted memory of battle. But ever have I walked among you. A shadow waiting to be made flesh. The reoccurring nightmare of the squared circle. This I have been. This I will be again. For I am the name that men fear. The tale of warning to the frightened child. The waking terror which you dare not speak of less I hear it and sit next to you. I am the Fallen One, the Chosen One, the ONLY One. I am Sephiroth du Lac.

*He adjusts his sleeves, the fine lace wrapped about his wrist tight. The collar placed so tight about his neck much like a brace holding his posture in a stiff and refined manner. The cravat draped about his neck tied and knotted in the old style. The picture of Victorian and turn of the century style. Slowly he pulls his coat to him a black dark piece of fabric, black as pitch of a cloudy midnight. It's brass buttons etched with the image of a lion as he begins to tease and flair the the ruffles of his sleeve out. His image caught in the mirror that of a refined gentlemen. Like something from the days of the ripper. The quintessential picture of the true gentleman.*

And who amongst you I dare say would stand to such a man? Who amongst the cornucopia of talent would offer themselves in bitter sacrifice to quell the thirst which even now awakens my palate? A man. A wild man. Sophistication versus the crude blue-collar masses. A bit low brow for my delicate tastes. After all, can one truly compare a hot dog to the savory taste of a lobster? Or domestic swill to aged fine wine? No, it's a matter of quality and I am a man of quality.

*With simple motions and a black ribbon he ties his hair tightly back. A long slender ponytail that weighs down to the small of his back. He runs his hand across his face neatly trimmed and shaven. The small bowl before him wet with water as he sets the razor sharp barber's razor down next to the confirmation letter from the SCW offices. He then lays down his long fingers across the words of the contract savoring their welcome greetings. His face twisting in the mirror into a long toothed sinister grin.*

Tell me, Wallace, how do you sleep at night? Was it your dream to become a stepping stone for men greater than yourself? Did you wake up one morning and think to yourself that your ambition in life was to be culled by your betters? Do you even dream anymore? Do you aspire? The recklessness of youth slowly fading in each step. The agony of so many defeats and losses wearing itself upon your face. Etched in every wrinkle and scar that newly appears. Is this truly your dream? You struggle every day with it don't you? You stare in the mirror wondering where the years go. Another loss and another and another. Your dream. Your nightmare. The nightmare that you are exactly what we think you are. Nothing. Nothing but poor white trash desperately struggling to make the boyhood dream come true.

*He walks over to the decanter in the center of the room pouring a thick reddish ruddy liquid into a glass chalice. His hands delicately wrapping about it as he steps. He inhales it's scent delicately his eyes closing in ecstasy and euphoria as he savors the smell. His hands spinning the contents of the glass before raising it to pass through his cold lips. He simply smiles at it's treasure the notable thickness of the red liquid staining his teeth as he drinks deeper. Walking from his resting place lost in a thought that makes his cold flesh shiver with warmth.*

And so I arrive and behold I make everything new. A fresh chance. A new opportunity for you. A fresh start. A chance for the dream to once again take flight. But it won't. For you do not fight against a man but against powers and principalities no mortal mind can comprehend. You fight against the power of darkness. The power of a warrior who has stood the test of time. For over a millennia I have walked this earth and I have seen men like you. The long tanned face of the common rabble. The bitter anger of those who have nothing because they deserve nothing. You are a peasant. You are cattle. Nothing more than the mewling deer that men such as you hunt for sport and sustenance. For there is no outcome I can foresee that would place you as my equal. No gathering of stars or fortune tellers portents that could see your victory. You are without hope. And so it would be every time we faced each other. For this isn't the moment of your dream's renewing but merely the beginning of the SCW's nightmare. Of your own renewed reoccurring failure.

*He steps down the steps of an old manor. The well polished wooden wrapped staircase giving way to the Italian marble beneath his feet. Slowly he steps his movement barely a breath in the mass of the house. The stillness broken only by the sound of heavy shoes upon the stone. He reaches to the doorway grabbing a slender cane of black oak, it's head a raven's talon clutching a red spherical crystal. He pulls it close and sets it down hard. it's weight heard in the echoing of it's clicking upon the floor.*

And much like that nightmare that haunts your waking sleep I shall return. Night after night. Each beating fresh exquisite agony. As if a dream you've relived over and over again. Until you fear the former pleasure of slumber. I am that dream. I am that nightmare. The one you relive each time you close your eyes. And so it is with the ring itself until everytime you see my name. Everytime you glance at that marquee that hangs in bright lights over your head, like the sword of damocles, you will tremble. You will fear. You will pray and beg to God this time will be different. That this time you will emerge in great triumph over the evil that has plagued you from this coming night hence. You will pray and you will find it futile. You will curse and weep and chastise God with each utter failure. You will believe he has abandoned you. He hasn't. No...

*He turns staring into a nearby mirror the flashing of the image of a girl watching behind him. He glances back to see nothing but only smiles at this diversion. Turning back to reveal no one in the looking glass once more. No one but him as he adjusts himself one last time dusting off his finery. Before turning back and opening the front door. The sun peaks over the hills as the dawn rises and he turns from the light. Staring back into the darkness the feint hint of whispers calling as the camera pans to him staring into the void of the empty house.*

... for you see to you; I am God. I decide whether you live or you die. Whether you lose or win. I am the measuring stick. The scale to which all men measure their worth. I am the judgement that awaits you. That awaits ALL of you

*The camera closes in on his face as a slow sadistic grin crawls across it. His eyes sparkle with delight as the sun silhouettes him like a living shadow.*

And I am looking forward to our time together.

*The words echo in the audiences ears as he shuts the door casting us all into darkness as the scene fades to black.*