The world has ended countless times. Reborn anew, changes made with each bloodied wish. Memories are scattered like grains of sand, save for those of the victor. Whoever the world belongs to will awaken alone, on a bench sequestered in the rusting carcass of an abandoned bus station.
While the world is changed, there are certain rules that can not be broken.
Eventually the victor will be approached.
If the world is adequate, then it will continue to exist.
The imperfect will be offered as a sacrifice, should the victor so choose.
Wrote this one with no clear roles in mind.
I just wanted to post something, before trying to get some sleep.