[SephirothduLac]

 <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.*