He once wore gold, a crown of flame,
And ruled over Agardendale's name.
A kingdom vast, where banners flew—
Until the cursed wind of Hastur blew.
A shadow came with silent tread,
And struck the King until he bled.
Then down he fell, and silence reigned,
The throne was lost, the King was slain.
But death could not his spirit bind—
Twelve days gone, he clawed through time.
He rose again with hollow eyes,
To claim his throne beneath gray skies.
Yet none would cheer, none bowed their head,
They saw not a King—but walking dead.
They spat, they cursed, they mocked his name,
The King returned, but not the same.
They tied him fast to splintered pine,
And fed the fire with oaths and wine.
His flesh did burn, his screams grew thin,
But still they feared what stirred within.
They drove a blade into his back,
Wrapping him in cloth. Casting him into the river bank.
And thought the tale was laid to sleep—
But vengeance waits in silence deep.
Three decades passed, the stars grew cold,
Then came the King, both dead and old.
No longer man, no longer whole,
But wrath and ruin carved in soul.
He shattered the stone, tore down the gate,
He brought them doom, and brought it late.
Hastur fell beneath his hand,
And blood ran deep through A broken land.
Now Agardendale is in ash and bone,
Its ruler sits in grief alone.
No cheer, no crown, no mortal kin,
Just hollow wind and ghostly din.
He roams a realm he once called grand,
Now dust and silence, sea and sand.
The Slain King waits where echoes groan,
In ruins vast—unchallenged, alone.
Until the stars themselves decay,
He mourns the throne he burned away.