They called him the King. He was very good at sending people off to meet their ends, and meet what came next to them. And they all loved him for it. They loved him for his hideous, hidden face, they loved him for his hollow eyes, and they loved the way he incinerated their flesh, before making it walk once more. Everyone had been beautiful before him. Everybody had been alive. But the King introduced the concept of death, when he was born as a screaming grey thing.
His mother had been the first to die. Her soft pink flesh couldn't handle this wailing grey thing with the hollow eyes and the sharp teeth. And so, she dies. And they all watch in horror as she does so, for they had never seen death before. The baby had destroyed her. The baby was magic. The baby was a god. The called him Dihenydd which was the only word that they had in their language for death. It meant ending. And the baby became their god. The good, plush pink people worshiped this child who taught them how to die. Dihenydd grew to become more and more powerful. People lined up to die for him. To be killed by his hand- ! What ecstasy was that!
But the villagers got bored with death.
So Dihenydd showed them a new trick. A boy came to him. A young, handsome Shepard boy, who would become a hero in some horrid fairytale. And Dihenydd killed him without a word. But then, he woke him from the grave. He brought his corpse to life. And he never said a word. He waved a branch, a twig, a stone, and Dihenydd had not only invented death, but the hereafter. He rose all that he had slain back to consciousness - a whole realm of nothing but the living and the unliving. Death was no longer static. It was a state of being.
Dihenydd never wanted to die. He never wanted to be risen from the dead. So he cut out of his heart, and placed it within a box, which was the fed to his Creation. His Creation was sewn together - an abomination of a dragon made from the stitched flesh of the villagers. They called him Dinister. Dihenydd had created Dinister, and thus, he had created Fear. And within Fear, beat his long dead heart, for a man who had invented death but would never die. And he became a God. A King. The Lord of the Dead. The Lord of the Dying. The Lord of Fear.
And then, a voice spoke out. It was a living boy. He said, No more death. I want only life. No more death. I am sick to tears with death. I will live. I will not be risen from my grave. I will never die. The boy smiled, and the villagers believed him. They called him Lyrif. That was their word for eternal. They called him a King, the living did. And they all loved him. He vowed to them, I will rid us of the Tyrant! I will make him living again, and then he can be slain! And he will never live again! I am the Lord of the Live! The Lord of the Living! The Lord of Deliverance!
Dihenydd hated the boy with all of his heart within his monster.
Now, you should decided who you are. Are you Live? Are you Dead? Are you Afraid? Are you Delivered? The Kings are warring at each other. The battle is raging hard and fierce. The Living fight their Dead and the Dead fight the Living, all while Dinister looks on, breathing fire and love down upon them all. Are you a dragon? Are you a Lord? Lyrif plunges the Golden Sword of Life into the Dead and they live once more, pink and plush and immortal. Dihenydd watches from his Iron Tower of Death and sends the Living to their next of kin. He worries about his heart. Worries that they find it, he will die. And he's always been afraid of the death. The Creator of Death and Lord of Fear was afraid of death. Lyrif watched the dragon with those horridly blue eyes. He was afraid of Dinister. He was afraid of his firey breath, and the feelings of Love he stirred within mankind. He was afraid of being loved by the tender breath from the Creation of Fear.
You're not afraid.
I can see it in your eyes.
You're going to rip out his Heart.
You're going to take up the Sword.
Join the Fight.
Choose your side. And watch the whole world burn down when you do.