The Cult of Death

When blood was spilt and the first being fell, Death had found himself born. To reap the souls of all slain as his only goal. As the fires raged and rot consumed what once was, he walked through the fields to reap those who were lost. He had no hate for life, no love for death, only his duty. To judge and pass on all who perished. His scale spoke true, and his judgement blind. He served no master. No god to order him about. No one to please, none to anger. Death truly was his domain, and a just ruler he was.   His followers do not seek to kill. To maim or injure. They looked to Death as he was. A beginning and an end. A guide to worlds much farther beyond their own.