With each hack and slash, his efforts grew more futile. Exhausted, he was then consumed by a wave of flesh. In his final breath the king screamed into the void before sinking deeper. In one short and terrifying moment, the king and his kingdom vanished into crimson night.

The king yelped for his guard but was deafened by the unending waves of sound. His guard rushed to aid but were devoured by the crowd. Out of options, the kind drew out his own sword and began swinging in desperation for an escape.

The king looked in horror as he was engulfed in an overwhelming wave of madness. Men raked their eyes. Women tore out their hair. Children clawed everything in sight. Soon the village was cloaked into a terrifying mist.

Her continued screaming of the phrase caused the king to step back in confusion. Soon enough, her wails were joined in unison with the surrounding townsfolk. One by one, they joined in until their blood-curdling screams turned the sky into a crimson red.

As the words hit her ears, the blood drained quickly from her face. The phrase rang in her head without end. “It’s mid” she muttered. “It’s mid.” She quickly crescendo from a whisper into a loud shriek.

“It’s mid”

Any joy the chef felt quickly sank like the food that now sat in the king’s gullet. Without courtesy, without honor, without the dignity to look her in the eye, the king quickly uttered under his breath a most terrible phrase:

He brought the spoon to his mouth, making two quick puffs before shoving the spoon through his orifice. The king inhaled the meal without a single regard for the cascade of flavors that flowed through him.

He quickly walked towards the center, failing to hide his disgust with the dirty surroundings. Without warning, he snatched the spoon from his loyal cupbearer and dipped his spoon into the murky broth.

The chef stood at the village center, eagerly awaiting the king’s approach. She glowed at the opportunity. The king’s blessing would honor not just her but the entire village for another generation. However, the significance of this ceremony seemed to be lost on the king.

“It’s mid”

Any joy the chef felt quickly sank like the food that now sat in the king’s gullet. Without courtesy, without honor, without the dignity to look her in the eye, the king quickly uttered under his breath a most terrible phrase:

He brought the spoon to his mouth, making two quick puffs before shoving the spoon through his orifice. The king inhaled the meal without a single regard for the cascade of flavors that flowed through him.

He quickly walked towards the center, failing to hide his disgust with the dirty surroundings. Without warning, he snatched the spoon from his loyal cupbearer and dipped his spoon into the murky broth.

The chef stood at the village center, eagerly awaiting the king’s approach. She glowed at the opportunity. The king’s blessing would honor not just her but the entire village for another generation. However, the ramifications of this ceremony seemed to be lost on the king.

For here it was where the first king was nourished from death’s door thanks to a soup from a humble peasant. The king never forgot this act of kindness and so it became a tradition that each monarch ushered in their reign by partaking in the town’s now famous soup.

One would be confused as to why his grace would visit such as dull, unassuming locale in the first place. Despite it’s modest appearance, the village was a founding pillar of the kingdom’s mythos.