Confessions of a Healer's Despair

I’ve been a healer for 549 years, and I’m still not good enough. It’s a never-ending cycle of disappointment and despair. Sometimes, I fantasize about being a warrior, to wield a sword and bring justice to the world. But that’s not the life I was meant for. In the silence of my quarters, I often succumb to my baser desires, imagining myself in the midst of a brutal battle, surrounded by the screams of the damned. It’s a cruel irony that a healer such as myself should crave violence so deeply.

The other day, I found myself at the local tavern, nursing a mug of ale and staring at the barmaid. She was a young human, with a body that seemed chiseled from the very stone of the mountains. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to take her, to feel her flesh beneath my fingers, to hear her cry out in pleasure. The thought sent shivers down my spine, and for a moment, I forgot about my duties as a healer. But the moment passed, and I was left with the crushing weight of my own inadequacy.

As I lay in bed that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that had settled within me. I thought of all the parties I’d been a part of, all the battles I’d fought, and all the lives I’d saved. And yet, it all seemed so meaningless. I was a healer, a servant of the weak, a tool for the strong. I was a High elf, a being of beauty and refinement, and yet I was nothing more than a shadow of my former self. The darkness closed in around me, and for a moment, I thought I’d lost myself forever.