The dimly-lit room had an eerie glow to it, the candles flickering both sparse and scarce. The room appeared to be small, the walls undecorated and uninhabited. Uninhabitable, even. Surely one could not last long in such conditions, one would perish mentally if one does not perish physically first. But then the dancing flames from the narrow candles grow ever so slightly to reveal a hunched figure - or the figment of one's imagination. Momentary silence fed the curiosity, the anticipation, the paranoia even. But then a voice!

"There is a tremendous sense of peace that can only derive from solitude," an ushered voice proclaimed. "A tremendous sense of peace, and of insanity..."

The candle flames grew once more, only to be joined by the instantaneous ignition of dozens upon dozens of other candles. The supposedly plain walls were revealed to bear medieval weapons of diverse sizes and shapes. Daggers, long swords, broad swords, bastard swords, scimitars, maces, flails, hand axes, double axes, spears, halberds - to name but a few. Also revealed was the validity of the once-questioned figure. Atropos sat hunched on a blacksmith's anvil, his chin buried on the collective thumbs of his cupped hands, his long, stringy black hair shrouding his deathly white face. He was adorned in the glorified battle-armour of a peasant - a hard leather vest and tights. The vest bore steel rivits that succeeded in protecting the body, and failed in hindering movement. The rims of his clothing were laced with a soft gold substance, and a blood-red velvet cloak fell behind him. The complex, lavish decorations contradicted the basic clothing, much like the complex Atropos contradicted the basic race to which he presumably belonged.

"There is an extraordinary feeling one can get when one's mind has no boundaries limiting it, no barriers between proper and improper, civilian and criminal. There is a unique feeling of freedom, freedom to think, freedom to create, freedom to act. There are some who believe that I am insane. Those people would be right... almost. I am not a stereotypical "loonie", I don't spend my time strapped in a white restraint, rocking back and forward, muttering to myself in tongues. I can channel my insanity, I can control it." Although it couldn't be seen through his hair, Atropos smirked. "I can contain it, and I can unleash it."

Atropos raised his head swiftly, his stringy black hair whipping back, the tips resting below his shoulders. He had a demented stare that pierced whatever was in front of him, studying it with both admiration and desire. He rose to his feet and strode forward until he reached a wall. Adorned on this previously unseen wall was a red, velvet cloak bearing a large shield, bigger than the torso of the average man. Resting atop this shield was a large broadsword, with inscriptions running down the blade, inscriptions that appear to be Oriental in nature. Atropos reached up and took this weapon by the lavishly decorated, sapphire-embedded hilt and raised the blade upwards.

"For the time being, I choose to contain my insanity, to focus it, for there is a large task at hand. At Need to Bleed, I shall team up with The Duke to face LowDown and a mystery partner, for the WFC Tag Team Championship. Admittedly, a wrestling prize shall look out of place amongst these tools of the past. But that is a compromise that I am willing to make." Atropos trembled for a moment. He turned away from the wall and raised the sword on high. He gazed up towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. "Need to Bleed, this containment, this imprisonment that I loathe shall cease to be, as will LowDown and whatever fool of a man decides to participate in the match. And in the likely event that LowDown and his partner do not require all of my prowess... there is someone else who will."

With that, Atropos swung his sword downwards, the blade piercing the brick floor beneath him and embedding itself deeply and quite possibly irretrievably into the stone.

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