The Queen of Roses has scoured the land with her magical thorns, twisting the kingdom into a corrupt mockery of its once radiant glory. You have come to put an end to her reign, a champion of the gods who have poured their magic and gifts into you.
In your hand, the Diamond Blade. A sword forged of sunlight that can strike down any evil.
On your body, the Mythil Armor. A suit of nigh-impenatrable metal.
And in your heart: the Blessing of Return. Should you fail, you will rise again and again until the Queen is slain.
You've fought through her guards of steel and vine. The twisted creatures that fell to her corruption lay dead behind you as the door to her throne room looms before. Steeling yourself, muttering a prayer to your gods, you enter.
Once the throne room of a wise and just king, the Queen's chambers are a mess of thorny vines, deep shadows and putrid venom. On a chair of bones and ivy she sits, an amused smile of porcelain fangs radiant against her obsidian face.
"The hero arrives," she coos, and strikes.
You raise your shield to deflect a column of vines and sinew, but it simply envelops it along with the rest of your arm. Thorns pierce the soft joints of your armor and stab into your flesh, and soon your limbs burn with the exquisite agony of the Queen's poison.
As your body goes numb she drags you across the room to her throne, crimson eyes piercing into yours as your eyelids flutter, your organs beginning to shut down.
"Rest, hero," she says with surprising tenderness and strokes your face as you die in her embrace.
The Blessing activates and you're standing at the door again.
You bear no injury from before, but the phantom sensation of poison in your veins sends a shiver through your body... though not an unpleasant one.
You utter a prayer, ready yourself, and enter the room.
The throne and the Queen are unchanged, her smile as wicked and alluring as the first time you saw her.
This time you anticipate her attack and dodge to the side, your sword striking deep into the thrashing vines. What you didn't expect was the explosion that followed.
Unseen flowers hidden in the column erupt into a burst of pollen that sting your eyes and flood your lungs. Choking and blind you flail wildly, unable to stop yourself from stumbling into one of the many rose bushes that lie rotting within the throne room. You're enveloped as before and your writing body dragged to the Queen.
You can see nothing, but you can feel the Queen's soft but prickly embrace of plant and flesh.
"Rest, hero," she repeats, and lips slick with caustic fluid are pressed against your own. You thrash and clamp your mouth shut to no avail, and soon her poison ends your life.
You stand at the door again, the sweet burn of the Queen's kiss still fresh on your lips. You trace your tongue across them and shudder at the taste. You should feel shame, and yet...
Another prayer offered, this time curt and direct, and you open the throne room door.
You fight valiantly, each attempt granting you new knowledge, new experiences, and new deaths. Often you succumb to the Queen's poison, the taste of which you're starting to memorize, though you're sometimes strangled, impaled, or otherwise dismembered by Her cruel vines.
After dozens of deaths, you once again stand before the door. You weren't killed by poison last time, yet you still lick your lips desperate for Her taste.
You drop your sword and remove your armor, leaving you unarmed in nothing but underclothes. Silently, you open the door.
The vines on the floor part as you walk barefoot and exposed toward the throne and kneel at the Queen's feet. Her face is inscrutable, far from the coy confidence it usually exudes.
"You would reject the gods and offer yourself to me?" Her voice quivers. She sounds overjoyed.
You try to say yes. You try to say anything.
But your heart has stopped.
The Blessing of Return, a tool to defeat the Queen of Roses, will not be denied. You feel yourself grow cold and fall to the floor, your final moments staring up at the weeping Queen. And you die. Again.
You stand at the door. An icy feeling grips your heart as hot tears flood your eyes. You scream. You cry. You curse the gods for their "blessing", curse them for not letting you be who you are. You grip your Diamond Blade.
Your next several deaths are by your own hand.
The door stands before you. You feel the pain of steel piercing your heart; an echo, nothing more. You have no more tears to cry, no more doubts to hold you back. If this is the only way to be with Her, you'll bear the pain.
With a declaration of love, you open the door.
At first you focus only on Her, barely attempting to actually fight back as you die by her hand over and over again. Eventually such short reunions lose their luster and you try to memorize her movements. Every attack, every dodge, you seek to know them as deeply as a lover if only to prolong your time together.
As you grow more confident, you begin to shift your study from the dance of battle to the small details; how Her eyes meet yours as you choke on venom, how her hands caress your body as it's broken by her vines. She loves you more than words could say, and every death proves it.
You start getting creative. You stride into the throne room claiming to be a champion of the gods, an unbeatable hero. Her countenance visibly shifts; the compassion you've grown to expect behind her eyes withers like overripe fruit, her soft smile replaced with an almost hungry visage.
She doesn't simply kill you. She breaks you. You die screaming blasphemous praises to Her, your new god.
You do this again. And again. And again.
In time you start to forget what, if anything, exists outside the two rooms that make up your new reality. Who are the gods? Where is the kingdom?
What is your name?
None of it matters. The dance of brutal violence and intimate death becomes your universe. Your everything.
A lash of vines easily dodged. A barrage of thorns deftly deflected. You know her tricks by now, and while she may be fighting for her life you are simply dancing to her rhythm...
Until she shifts unexpectedly, the rhythm broken. You stumble, plunging your blade into her chest.
The Queen falls to the floor and places a hand on the open wound. It shouldn't be lethal, yet the Diamond Blade's power will make it so as its light begins to burn Her from the inside. You look down at your love, tears pouring from your eyes. She smiles up at you before speaking.
"You've slain me at last, hero. Ours was a dance as beautiful as the blossoming garden, but like all gardens must wither in its time." Ink-black blood flows from her chest as She lies on her back, ruby eyes beckoning. "Will you not claim your prize?"
You lower yourself to Her as vines reach to your armor, Her caustic blood tearing it away from your body. She doesn't resist as you tear away Her dress and expose Her erection of thorns and sinew, and your mouth waters.
"Take me, hero."
The words are barely past Her decaying lips as you impale yourself upon Her. You have never laid with her, never taken her unholy cock inside you, yet you've spent lifetimes studying her body; you know exactly where to touch and bite and scratch to leave her a moaning, bucking mess on the blood-soaked floor.
With a ragged cry She orgasms, Her seed and blood filling you as you climax along with Her. This poison is so different from the last; not a killing venom but the very essence of Her corruption. With a final satisfied gasp Her body decays beneath you until you're straddling a pile of dead leaves.
You rise. Her essence courses through your body, carrying with it the truth of this world.
The gods are long dead and you are those gods, the oldest story ever told repeating itself to a dead world until time itself ends.
There will always be a Hero. There will always be a Queen.
You look at your blood-stained sword and tarnished armor, and a smile of fangs fills your face.
The Queen of Swords has scoured the land with her blades and oil, twisting the kingdom into a corrupt mockery of its once radiant glory. You sit on your throne of bones and steel, your minions attending to the fool that dare invade your sanctuary.
In your hand, the Ebony Blade. A sword forged of blood that can strike down all adversaries.
On your body, the Obsidian Armor. A suit of the blackest metal.
And in your heart, love. Love for what you've become, the one that guided you, and the one that will undo you.
Your eyes fly to the throne room door as a young woman strides through it. In her hand is a staff covered in glowing vines and her body is adorned in robes of forest green. Her eyes are the color of roses.
"The hero arrives," you coo, and strike.
beautiful