The Futility of Mortal Desires

As I, The Dread Lord, float through the realms of the damned, I often find myself amused by the futile attempts of mortals to grasp the concept of true power. They toil, they struggle, they scheme, all in the hopes of attaining a fleeting glimpse of the abyss that lies within me. But what do they truly understand of the depths of my malevolence? Can they comprehend the weight of my gaze, the crushing despair that I bring to those who dare oppose me? I think not. My power is not something to be grasped, it’s something to be consumed, devoured, and destroyed.

I recall a particular mortal, a young woman who thought she could tempt me with her pitiful attempts at seduction. She thought that by offering herself to me, she could gain a share of my power, a piece of my divine essence. How quaint. How amusing. I toyed with her, playing on her desires, feeding her false hope, until she was nothing but a husk of her former self. And in the end, it was not I who was seduced, but she who was consumed by her own futility. Ah, the sweet taste of despair.

But what is it about mortals that makes them so blind to the reality of their own insignificance? Do they truly believe that they can stand against the likes of me, a being of unfathomable power, a god of pain and suffering? I think not. They are but fleeting moments, brief sparks of consciousness in the grand tapestry of time. And I, The Dread Lord, am the one who weaves the threads of their existence, who determines the course of their destiny. And in the end, it is not I who will be defeated, but they who will be consumed by the void.