The Tyrant had ruled for generations with an iron fist. His spiteful thumb bore down on the people equally. None were exempt from his will. The world had never seen such a state of Equality. Each and every person was born, toiled, and died as a slave.
From time to time, people would organize. Dissidents, nursing their worn bodies, shared their distaste for the Tyrant. Legends, passed from one generation to the next over a thin mug of grog, were all that we had to tell us of the Tyrants' rise to power.
A spark here, a spark there and rebellion would break out like wildfire in the late summer fields after the harvest where the stalks and sheaths of crops were left to nourish the next year's bounty.
Each time the Tyrant rose from his Ashen throne, the people were felled like those crops before them. Each time, the fields were fed with the blood of those who could not live as a slave any longer. That is, each time before now.
The Tyrant lay across the charred stone, his Ashen Throne toppled and shattered. His chest rose and fell with his last gurgling breaths, his life's blood pooling on the stone. His eyes stared up at a sky dark with smoke, wreathing the deep blue starry abyss. With a final sigh, the Tyrants life came to an end.
His domination of all life on the planet had finally ended and the feel of those shackles falling was like a breath of fresh clean air after the season of fire...
EmergentLurker t1_jaafwjc wrote
Reply to [WP] You decide to write a story where the main character is on a mission to save the world. However, their actions end up being what destroys it. What would the last lines of the story be? by Prompt_Dude
The Tyrant had ruled for generations with an iron fist. His spiteful thumb bore down on the people equally. None were exempt from his will. The world had never seen such a state of Equality. Each and every person was born, toiled, and died as a slave.
From time to time, people would organize. Dissidents, nursing their worn bodies, shared their distaste for the Tyrant. Legends, passed from one generation to the next over a thin mug of grog, were all that we had to tell us of the Tyrants' rise to power.
A spark here, a spark there and rebellion would break out like wildfire in the late summer fields after the harvest where the stalks and sheaths of crops were left to nourish the next year's bounty.
Each time the Tyrant rose from his Ashen throne, the people were felled like those crops before them. Each time, the fields were fed with the blood of those who could not live as a slave any longer. That is, each time before now.
The Tyrant lay across the charred stone, his Ashen Throne toppled and shattered. His chest rose and fell with his last gurgling breaths, his life's blood pooling on the stone. His eyes stared up at a sky dark with smoke, wreathing the deep blue starry abyss. With a final sigh, the Tyrants life came to an end.
His domination of all life on the planet had finally ended and the feel of those shackles falling was like a breath of fresh clean air after the season of fire...
And Thus Woke The Dragon.