Illusive Eden - He Pretends He's the Hero

A rectangular wooden rack raised from the ground of about ten feet. The man strained in chains drowns in his own watery red grave.

Shrilling heavy boots clicks in the cold tiled floor, the eery torture room had even the fat rats sheltered in the dark shadows—tremble in fear.

A golden wine bucket, filled to the brim, in the hands of a man in a black robe with golden trim. Glancing at the chained figure on the wooden rack, a sinister smirk dooms over his lips.

The rush splash of wine on the face—has the stiffened man in threatening chains gasp out awake.

The brittled veiled eyes of his, attempts to raise themselves up. Within the slit of damp, black long wavy strands of hair, down his shrivelled face, his head sinked, he glances up at the chortling figure before him.

"Pleasant to see that you're awake. Sam Ishmael." Still, he laughs, as if the scene delivered to his face was the utmost amusing one he had ever run accross.

Ishmael roves his gaze—here to there, the fuzzy orange glow from the rusty lanterns, a fair amount to regard this mad-man; who had the nerve to jeopardize him.

The nasty smell of torture, vileness of blood and spoil of flesh. Foreboding tormenting weapons.

It was all so mundane to him. Yet, how long has it been for the one to exert strength to lie there; being the one to be ill-treated.

He exhales: frailty. That face was not familiar. He had a good deal of enemies, did he impose on him, or perhaps his associates?

He felt ridiculed. Trampled on his ego. In disbelief of such fatality of mockery, he schemed to bleed him of tears—begging to let him leave, praying for dead.

A blend of vivid and faint recollection thrashes his head. His wounded body ached, his bleeding head hurt. Ishmael with his men, had been travelling from overseas—through the narrow streets on the woods, then the calm air shifted and the barbarous onslaught rumbled the vehicles of his men to explode in ruins.

The one he was mounted on, had not been the target of flaming bullets from a single 6 foot man standing against them—glued to the ground, he leaped from up a tall tree.

Zev had the control over the steering wheel, a rapid reflex, he whirled it to the right, crashing their car on a tree. For the man thin metres from their reckless acceleration, had the very intimidating weapon worned to destroy his men; jagged at their face.

Ishmael had eclipsed of the world, he had succumbed to the darkness. Then he awoke, lifted the curtains to this wacky spot he was fooled into. Half of his frame naked, pants the only garment.

Ishmael trails his eyes on the craven, as he regards him, dragging a stool and placing it in a slight distance before him. The craven places himself down on the stool, a smile on his face.

He was pale, straight long hair. Seeming to be in the middle of his thirties.

He sighs as if he had found the deepness of solace. "I have gathered much to speak to you. Hmmm. Where shall I begin?" Legs crossed over one of the other, his arm propped up on the thigh, he taps his chin, coming off as if he were in a great abyss of thoughts.

"What do you need?" Low groggy, sober voice of Ishmael reverbs in the ruinous, hushed surround.

His brows raised in great amusement. He points his index finger to himself, "What do I need?"

Ishmael says nothing, just the doomy gaze of his a demunition to this craven's presence.

Was he so scared? He had to maim and chain him down for just a conversation?

"Never did... ever being bear the bravery." He morphs a pleased demeanour.

"Young man, you are muddled to why you are here, I believe." A friendly, unearthly voice was of his.

Sound of heavy breaths from Ishmael. He attempts to have his chained hands and legs break free from the constraints. They were large and strong, beyond human strength to crush it apart.

He makes a dissaproval noise with his tongue—head shaking in dissapointment.

"To my cherished guest I offer an apology." He threads his gaze—right then left, gesturing with his arms, "For this poor hospitableness."

"Martyred soul of your people were not in vain. It were a reward for you." The still curved up lips of his, had Ishmael creeped to queasiness.

"Shut with your crap, remove this!" Ishmael demands, the exert of force on the chains—making a rude noise. His inborn dominant aura, causing the man in robe to smirk.

"Certainly, a scant moment later." Excitement laced in his voice, he freezes his face with a grin.

"I shall admit all your bewilderment, and you must reciprocate the same." Then he makes a perflexed face.

"Ahh—I dearly neglected introducing myself." He stands up, approaching Ishmael closer.

"Delighted to see you, Sam Ishmael."

Raised chin, arms spread about, a Lord exalting power.

"I'm Lyca of the Srael. Your Majesty."

"The King."