Mirrored by Fate?
Open, to a scene that is none too unfamiliar to the eye.
Return, to Hardknott, Scotland, and the Roman ruins which lay scattered about the land, Earth, Fire, Wind and Water all having taken their course over the past twenty centuries.
The forces of Nature wreak havoc on this day, as on most days in the harsh Scottish Highlands. The rain falls gently amongst the rocky terrain, the mood is cold, the atmosphere unrelenting, and powerful.
The souls of men are tested in such climes as the one that day. These climes were not for the weak of body and spirit.
For His Grace by the Grace of God, Robert Edward James Lancaster II, Duke of Wessex, he finds himself quite content, and impassioned. He finds influence, comfort, and inspiration.
The sounds of the sure and steady steps of a midnight black British percheron horse are absorbed largely by the moisture-rich grasses and mosses, as Lancaster rides atop the stallion. The Duke, dressed in riding boots, his long blond hair soaked with rain, wearing his black cloak fastened near the left shoulder by his Chain of Nobility, rides silently as he reaches a ledge, halting his horse.
He gazes out upon a fairly large lake, whose waves dash against the beach with violent force, the wind picking up energy.
There was no harmony or peace to be found in nature today.
His eyes turn to a high place, where a hawk sat, staring downwards.
From its perch it lunges down and attacks prey it had spotted, tearing it to shreds instantly. The hawk then takes to the air, its prey breathing its last moments of life, struggling and limping vainly to escape. The hawk vanishes from the Duke's site as he casts his eyes to the grey heavens.
"So fair and foul a day I have not seen..."
Lancaster turns with his horse and steps away slowly, thinking deeply upon himself and what was to come so shortly in mere hours. The terrain stretched for as far as the eye could see, grass and rock, jutting out unevenly and coarsely.
The stage was set, the characters were in motion. All had their chance to fret and say their roll pieces upon the stage, so that all could see and hear their promises of victory and threats to conquer those who step out of line within the confines of a merciless steel cell. He had made them too with his brothers of the Triumvirate. But in the few hours that remained before the entanglement was to occur, he preferred to be alone.
He was reviled by the crass and vulgar likes of Flare and Kline and Grubb, but respected them for their talents; but not for any other reason.
They, and every other man who opposed the Triumvirate, and would be in the hellish confines of that cell, were there for one reason, and one reason alone:
to be destroyed.
They would cease to be men, to be warriors, striving for triumph. They would become mere targets, objects on whom to pour out terrible wrath.
They would be as Egypt, as France, then known as Gaul, and indeed even Britannia, to the Triumvirate. Nations whose people dared to fight against overbearing force and strength that was Rome.
And they would all pay the price.
Blood would be spilled, there was no doubt in his mind, as his horse took him along the chaotic Highlands. Thunder rumbled above.
This is to be one of the matches that will define his career. He had had countless matches, but only a handful that defined his career. This was his chance, and for his Triumvirate brethren, to carve out their niche, to display their physical prowess and show that they could rise above the other mortals of Pagliano's franchise.
Lancaster's mind was a torrent of emotions. Of loathing, of hatred for his opponents, yet, calmness, resolution, keeping a check on his confidence. He was to be in the ring against some of the best of the world. He knew what Kline and Flare, and Vincent, specifically, were capable of, having faced, and defeated all of them, save for Kline, whom he lost to in the Search for the Chosen One II.
Strategizing for a much such as this would be nearly impossible. The ring and cage would become a prison of torture, of blood, of sweat, and, determination.
And above all else perhaps, sacrifice.
Lancaster was prepared to do it all. Sacrifice his body,
at any cost.
His mind,
at any cost.
And whatever was left of his soul;
at any cost.
To ensure victory and triumph for the Triumvirate.
He would rejoice whatever the result, be it the climax of success, or the taste of bitter defeat. He knew that him and Kushner, and Finnegan, will have poured out every iota within their beings, and left them inside that structure.
And the message would have been sent, and would resonate endlessly.
Even the legions of Rome were crushed by internal and external pressures. But their legacy lives on. As would the Triumvirate, whatever the outcome.
Whatever the outcome: the boot of the Triumvirate will be placed on the throats of SeX, NAE, LTL, and it would not be removed until each and every member of the most damnable factions breathed their last.
As he continued to ride along, Lancaster knew that what he had planned would be different from what the Fates had in store.
There was no exception, no way to predict what they had in store, nor any way to appease them.
Perhaps though, he could foreshadow what was to come.
Lancaster smiles as he stops his steed, and stares at the ground which lay before him.
He stares and stares.
He reaches down and pulls out a small camcorder, and flips the switch.
The sound of rain and wind suddenly comes to life on disc, as the Duke attempts to focus the shot across the Highland.
Lancaster speaks out of shot, as a gentle creeking sound is also picked up, of unknown origin.
"Only a few days from now, gentlemen. It will all be on the line. The gold, the pride, the honour...our lives. We've all waited for a moment like this, where men will rise above to conquer weaker men. And in but these few days, let me assure you...you will find me, amongst Kushner and Finnegan, to be relentless. Heartless. As cold and unyielding as the steel in which we are about to embark. And...maniacal."
The camera swings violently to the source of the creeking.
Gallows.
Dangling slowly in the wind: nine empty nooses.
Tied.
Ready.
Hungering for flesh.
The shot zooms in and slowly moves across each empty space.
The horror,
the horror
...the horror.
"Have I made myself clear."
He laughs.
"There is no escape, no hope. Only doom, only foreboding."
A pause. He pulls the shot back so that the entire gallows is visible.
"A few days gentlemen. Pray that the Fates do not go to such lengths as to mirror what you see before your eyes this moment. For now though. Know what the future holds."
"Now."
"Tremble."
The scene ends.
What damnation possesses this man to go these lengths?
This man abandoned God and humanity, only to have the Dark One embrace him and put him to use in his service.
Lancaster's soul was already in hell. Satan, disguised as a beautiful woman, returned, and has sunk her teeth into him once more.
What hope has he for repentence, or salvation.
What hope do his foes have of escaping with their bodily minds and souls in tact.
Perhaps, none.
Until then.
Perchance to dream.
Return, to Hardknott, Scotland, and the Roman ruins which lay scattered about the land, Earth, Fire, Wind and Water all having taken their course over the past twenty centuries.
The forces of Nature wreak havoc on this day, as on most days in the harsh Scottish Highlands. The rain falls gently amongst the rocky terrain, the mood is cold, the atmosphere unrelenting, and powerful.
The souls of men are tested in such climes as the one that day. These climes were not for the weak of body and spirit.
For His Grace by the Grace of God, Robert Edward James Lancaster II, Duke of Wessex, he finds himself quite content, and impassioned. He finds influence, comfort, and inspiration.
The sounds of the sure and steady steps of a midnight black British percheron horse are absorbed largely by the moisture-rich grasses and mosses, as Lancaster rides atop the stallion. The Duke, dressed in riding boots, his long blond hair soaked with rain, wearing his black cloak fastened near the left shoulder by his Chain of Nobility, rides silently as he reaches a ledge, halting his horse.
He gazes out upon a fairly large lake, whose waves dash against the beach with violent force, the wind picking up energy.
There was no harmony or peace to be found in nature today.
His eyes turn to a high place, where a hawk sat, staring downwards.
From its perch it lunges down and attacks prey it had spotted, tearing it to shreds instantly. The hawk then takes to the air, its prey breathing its last moments of life, struggling and limping vainly to escape. The hawk vanishes from the Duke's site as he casts his eyes to the grey heavens.
"So fair and foul a day I have not seen..."
Lancaster turns with his horse and steps away slowly, thinking deeply upon himself and what was to come so shortly in mere hours. The terrain stretched for as far as the eye could see, grass and rock, jutting out unevenly and coarsely.
The stage was set, the characters were in motion. All had their chance to fret and say their roll pieces upon the stage, so that all could see and hear their promises of victory and threats to conquer those who step out of line within the confines of a merciless steel cell. He had made them too with his brothers of the Triumvirate. But in the few hours that remained before the entanglement was to occur, he preferred to be alone.
He was reviled by the crass and vulgar likes of Flare and Kline and Grubb, but respected them for their talents; but not for any other reason.
They, and every other man who opposed the Triumvirate, and would be in the hellish confines of that cell, were there for one reason, and one reason alone:
to be destroyed.
They would cease to be men, to be warriors, striving for triumph. They would become mere targets, objects on whom to pour out terrible wrath.
They would be as Egypt, as France, then known as Gaul, and indeed even Britannia, to the Triumvirate. Nations whose people dared to fight against overbearing force and strength that was Rome.
And they would all pay the price.
Blood would be spilled, there was no doubt in his mind, as his horse took him along the chaotic Highlands. Thunder rumbled above.
This is to be one of the matches that will define his career. He had had countless matches, but only a handful that defined his career. This was his chance, and for his Triumvirate brethren, to carve out their niche, to display their physical prowess and show that they could rise above the other mortals of Pagliano's franchise.
Lancaster's mind was a torrent of emotions. Of loathing, of hatred for his opponents, yet, calmness, resolution, keeping a check on his confidence. He was to be in the ring against some of the best of the world. He knew what Kline and Flare, and Vincent, specifically, were capable of, having faced, and defeated all of them, save for Kline, whom he lost to in the Search for the Chosen One II.
Strategizing for a much such as this would be nearly impossible. The ring and cage would become a prison of torture, of blood, of sweat, and, determination.
And above all else perhaps, sacrifice.
Lancaster was prepared to do it all. Sacrifice his body,
at any cost.
His mind,
at any cost.
And whatever was left of his soul;
at any cost.
To ensure victory and triumph for the Triumvirate.
He would rejoice whatever the result, be it the climax of success, or the taste of bitter defeat. He knew that him and Kushner, and Finnegan, will have poured out every iota within their beings, and left them inside that structure.
And the message would have been sent, and would resonate endlessly.
Even the legions of Rome were crushed by internal and external pressures. But their legacy lives on. As would the Triumvirate, whatever the outcome.
Whatever the outcome: the boot of the Triumvirate will be placed on the throats of SeX, NAE, LTL, and it would not be removed until each and every member of the most damnable factions breathed their last.
As he continued to ride along, Lancaster knew that what he had planned would be different from what the Fates had in store.
There was no exception, no way to predict what they had in store, nor any way to appease them.
Perhaps though, he could foreshadow what was to come.
Lancaster smiles as he stops his steed, and stares at the ground which lay before him.
He stares and stares.
He reaches down and pulls out a small camcorder, and flips the switch.
The sound of rain and wind suddenly comes to life on disc, as the Duke attempts to focus the shot across the Highland.
Lancaster speaks out of shot, as a gentle creeking sound is also picked up, of unknown origin.
"Only a few days from now, gentlemen. It will all be on the line. The gold, the pride, the honour...our lives. We've all waited for a moment like this, where men will rise above to conquer weaker men. And in but these few days, let me assure you...you will find me, amongst Kushner and Finnegan, to be relentless. Heartless. As cold and unyielding as the steel in which we are about to embark. And...maniacal."
The camera swings violently to the source of the creeking.
Gallows.
Dangling slowly in the wind: nine empty nooses.
Tied.
Ready.
Hungering for flesh.
The shot zooms in and slowly moves across each empty space.
The horror,
the horror
...the horror.
"Have I made myself clear."
He laughs.
"There is no escape, no hope. Only doom, only foreboding."
A pause. He pulls the shot back so that the entire gallows is visible.
"A few days gentlemen. Pray that the Fates do not go to such lengths as to mirror what you see before your eyes this moment. For now though. Know what the future holds."
"Now."
"Tremble."
The scene ends.
What damnation possesses this man to go these lengths?
This man abandoned God and humanity, only to have the Dark One embrace him and put him to use in his service.
Lancaster's soul was already in hell. Satan, disguised as a beautiful woman, returned, and has sunk her teeth into him once more.
What hope has he for repentence, or salvation.
What hope do his foes have of escaping with their bodily minds and souls in tact.
Perhaps, none.
Until then.
Perchance to dream.