There it sat, more than a chair yet less than a throne. Gilded with silver and gold in tragic streams, as if an angel had been killed atop it and allowed to bleed rivulets of metallic blood down the entirety. A crest forged from necrotic, blackened steel sprawls like tendrils across the rear of the backrest. It sits abnormally compared to the majority of the room, resting centered at the bottom of a circular pit surrounded by stark stone bleachers. This was likely meant to be a humble placement for a humble throne, but the message has been corrupted by time. The construction was all hard edges, no soft curves to be seen. Not in any way a comfortable spot to rest, as if it were designed to remind its wielder of the reason they sit there. The dark stone material the mock cathedra is crudely assembled from is cracked and worn from centuries of use. The seat was stained a dark crimson from years of tradition. The shackles bolted to the arms of the cruel chair are covered in rust. This was not a seat of reign or rest.
This was a seat of remorseful renewal and return to youth and life meant to have been left behind. The many who have died attempting to place themselves upon that occult device now surely haunt the few who were successful in doing so. A tradition they call it, established righteously by the first king and practiced desperately by every king since. The dark priors enforced the sacrifice in the name of their god despite being long abandoned by any form of true divinity. So many innocent lives sacrificed so that their blood may run and grease the arcane cogs and wheels that drive the throne to do its terrible job. It’s truly an awful day, dreaded across the kingdom. Prisoners are the first to go, if there aren’t enough of them; the next to be given to the horror are any opposition to the throne. Political revolutionaries, activists, dissidents, and many artists compose this so-called opposition. Redemption it is called for the scum and plaque that plague us and seek to destroy our way of life, redeemed through this great, unwilling service to the crown. Sometimes, though, even the redeemed are not enough, and the priors will pull from their very own clergy, those who are so brainwashed by their sermons that they see this as being chosen, as an honor, to die so their god-king may live.
Sitting in this cursed place is the king of this equally cursed land. His bones are protruding through his worn-out skin. His frame gaunt from malnutrition, his ability to sustain himself long since corroded. He is a shrunken figure, as if dried out by the countless years in power. His skin is gray and putrid, his eyes lifeless. The tragic look of a life long past its intended end date sits heavily upon his brow. With a shaky breath, he sits, nearly dead on his throne. A corpse adorned with a brutally assembled crown, a symbol of his damned title. The scars that cover him tell the story of a man not built for a crown or a throne, even one as lowly and barbaric as this. His skin is pockmarked by the sacrifices and conquests this position requires of its holder. He aged even faster this time, reaching such a decrepit state in only a decade or so. Maybe soon the toll will become too much for even a man such as him.
The king rests, covered in blood from the day’s proceedings. The blood of the many soon runs through his veins again, and the ritual is complete. Soon enough, his skin is plump and tanned like a man who spends his days tending fields. His bones once again hide behind ropes of sinew and muscle. The once small, shriveled figure is now towering. His breath is now steady and concentrated. The shackles of the occult device fall from his wrists, and he looks upwards. He is renewed again, yet his eyes remain as lifeless as ever.
