“The man in black fled across the desert, the gunslinger followed”

-The Dark Tower

The heir to the Throne of Worms crossed the sea, atrocities in his heart. Headlong, he sought Valhalla. He would conquer distant lands and, like other barbarians of note, he was determined to crush his enemies, see them driven before him, and to hear the lamentations of their women.

Each day, he would dissect his enemies in the most cruel, violent, and sadistic manner his twisted mind could imagine. Each day he would mount their heads above his bed, and try to sleep underneath, the blood still dripping and catching on his forehead. Each morning he awoke, unrested, hopefulthat Valhalla awaited still, only to be greeted by the stench of his rage and the cocked hammer of his revolver.

Lost, he sought guidance from the Fates.

“Your exploits are meaningless.” Proclaimed the Fates, “You cannot rest unless you sleep in a bed of fire.”

“You are the heir to the Throne of Worms, Prince to the Palace of Slime. Come to us and decay. Only then will you rest.”

The heir to the throne of worms examined his collection of enemy heads. What he had once found as a source of pride and as his path to Valhalla, he now knew was a fools errand. He was used to fight another mans war.

Nothing will satisfy the Fates other than his death, and so far, no enemy has been able to kill him. The truth was that they never would. If he were to die…if he were to reach Valhalla, it would need to be by his own blade.

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