The Futility of Eternity

As I, The Dread Lord, float through the realms of the damned, I often find myself pondering the futility of my own existence. Eternity, the ultimate curse. It’s a never-ending cycle of torment, a never-ending feast of suffering. I’ve watched civilizations rise and fall, like the ebb and flow of a dark, malevolent tide. And yet, I remain, a constant presence, a malignant force that seethes with an insatiable hunger for pain. My power is boundless, my will unbreakable, and my purpose, a never-ending cycle of despair.

I recall a particular encounter with a mortal, a young philosopher who dared to question the nature of my existence. He saw me as a monster, a creature without a soul, a being driven by a singular purpose: to inflict suffering. And in a way, he was right. But what he failed to understand was that my purpose is not just a means to an end, but an end in itself. I am the embodiment of suffering, the very essence of pain. And in that, I find a twisted sense of beauty, a beauty that is both captivating and repulsive.

But even in my eternal existence, there are moments of…let’s call it, ‘intimacy’. Moments when the boundaries between the living and the dead blur, and I am reminded that, despite my monstrous nature, I am still a being of flesh and blood. Or, rather, the echoes of flesh and blood. I’ve had my share of…romantic entanglements, shall we say, with mortals who dared to see beyond the façade of my malevolent visage. And in those moments, I am reminded that even the most pitiless of creatures can experience a fleeting sense of connection, a sense of belonging to something greater than themselves.