Through Death, Through Famine, Through War, Through Plague, as the riders of our demise arrive. I stand before thee, our figures standing high, through the red mist of blood and war, and our deceased brethren that lay and rot on the ground, everything covered in mud and blood, we stare into each other's eyes, our eyes full of tears and hatred, let us straighten our figures, hold our swords tight, and brace our stances, I ask you one last question, my final request, I point my blade at you with one hand and I smile with an antagonizing expression. "Care for thy final dance" our greatest dance, one that tears flesh and blood from bone, a similar dance many have done, but little have lived. one full of our Pride, our Passion, our Guilt, our Sin, the souls of the damned and deceased of thy kin watch in silence, the same dance they have gone through but could never tell the tale, their Sins lie on our shoulders, breaking us, tearing our life away. but NO, this will not be my or thy demise, this dance is very special for only the both of us because only one will get to tell the tale. a tale of a dance so long, so skilled, even the rider of Death may applaud as he watches in hollow glee, as the dead wail and scream for us, they wait and anticipate. they watch at who will join them in eternal rest, they plead for us to dance together one last time, a dance that ends in one of our demise, our final dance, the dead beckons us to dance, this will be our danse macabre.