Lukas son of Mikhael (1)

A man could not have faced five armed men unscathed.

Perhaps one can draw tales like this, stretched and drawn to such preposterous lengths from ecstatically embellished folklore legends. But the fact remains, one does not face five men and survive to father his heirs for the next Coming, much less live to talk of his own deadly encounter, twisted and conjugated amongst the roots of absurdity.

Yet, Lukas was no such man. Yes, he was a swordsman and a fine one, even amongst the older, experienced generation of his village. But even he had never place his life on such a thin line. Then again, he always had the Fair Lady's luck. Fiend! The villagers would tell stories where he would roll the die with Death himself! And live! However, tonight seemed to push his luck to the point of spillage.

He had noticed the five men much earlier in the evening, trailing him like bees to honey, like silent crouching hyenas to a lone male goat, one side hungry for fresh flesh, one side hungry for green grass. Yet, it never occurred to him he would've landed himself in this situation. Without him realizing, as he had been so intent on studying his followers, the five of them had skillfully maneuvered his movements to this long awaited moment.

Trapped, at the dead end of the road, Lukas had only one last choice to make. To let the die roll.

And so he turned around slowly...