How Dream got his mask and other stories

Bloody And Bruised

TW for, as the name suggests, blood and death

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Blood.

That was all he knew.

Once upon a time, he was a young boy in a village, climbing trees and drawing faces in the mud.

But that seemed like eons ago now, all lost to something as strong as time.

His name was The Blood God.

Not by choice, but the Crowd had chosen it for him.

The Crowd chose everything.

Once upon a time, he had a name. He must have.

But that was lost beneath the howls and chants of the spectators, all wanting the same thing.

Blood and gore.

When he was young, he used to write his name on the wall with mud in an effort to remember himself.

But then the first Fight came, and he tasted blood.

The Fight was long and gruesome, and he killed more people than he wished to admit.

From that day on, he wasn't a child. He was a god.

The Blood God never dies! the crowds proclaimed.

He wished with his whole being that this wasn't true.

Three hundred and thirteen fights and he was still there, still the victor of something he was the victim of.

Winning was good, it kept him alive. It gave him lavish clothes, gave him fire, and enough food to not go hungry.

But the God wasn't a king like he dressed as. He was a boy, thrown into the Arena and forced to fight.

Fighting back was the only option.

Three hundred and fourteen fights seemed like a good one to die at.

He was brought into the Arena, chained up and sword in hand.

The crowd was it's usual screaming, bloodthirsty wreck that haunted him at night.

Three people stood across from him, most likely travelers or would be heros that would attempt to kill him in return for money.

Nobody ever got the prize.

The trio put up a good fight, landing a couple hits that hurt, but ultimately the Blood God won, leaving three bodies, soaking in blood and missing limbs.

This was over.

He was done with this.

Whipping around, the God sliced a guard that was coming to take him away in half.

The people started fleeing, but the Crowd chanted for blood in his mind.

Nobody could stop him. Their greatest asset had become their horrific downfall.

The God made his way up the stairs, ending anyone who got in his way without a second thought.

As he got to the stands, he set his sights on a glittering person.

The Monarch.

The God cornered the Monarch, the one that stole him from his life, who had made his life into a bloodbath.

"The crown is mine." He hissed before bringing the sword down on their head.

Delicately, he placed the crown on his head, still dripping in red and turned away with a swish of his cape.

Now, he was king, and he was leaving this empire.

But even as he left, the Crowd followed him. Little voices mumbling in his head, begging for the same thing they wanted when they lived.

Blood.

Through deserts and mountains, through fields and tundras, the God walked, trying to escape the voices of the Crowd that didn't leave him, even though death.

And as he walked, he met someone new.

The voices didn't want his blood, oddly. They seemed to know who he was.

Even the God knew who he was.

He was the Angel of Death, the one who everyone feared in their darkest time and prayed to in their best days.

This was Phil, creator of the world.

Phil knew who he was, he had been watching over him as a child.

And Phil gave the God a name.

Techno, welder of the Blade, and, most importantly, his friend.