Otherworld

The king is dead. Long live the king. The race was on, a young king found dead in his chambers without a wife or heir, the sharks smelt blood in the water. Distant relative after distant relative poured in to claim the Crown of Glass. The acting regent did nothing except for find the next true king, the people were starving, animals were dying. Criminals ran rampant. Knights grew lazy and fat. And then It happened. They happened. The Red Sun of the southern most point, marched on Queenrock and slaughtered all in their path to the throne. For months they went unchallenged, allowed to kill as they pleased and take what they please. But with their leadership came a sense of order. Their lacky's fed the people and trained the kights. Criminals were locked up. All at the price of life. No more. Over-world folk came out of the woodwork to fight the immortal tyrant. They called themselves the Rebellion of Witches fighting for the rights of those who could not fight for themselves. Nothing bands people together more than a common enemy. And they all called for their kings head. 'The king must fall' they said. Long live the king.