The Unlife

There was a time where I would not have wished the pain of slow agonising death on anyone, where the thought of wishing another to feel their innards rot away, the ability to smell and taste their own rotting flesh forever, was unthinkable. Hoping to inflict the sense of maggots burrowing through their soft belly or worms squriming through ones skull, slithering down your neck, such hopes would have seemed monstrous. But now, having lived like this for so long I wish nothing more than to inflict this hateful agonosing state of unlife on those blessed enough to still be alive and more so to those who can afford with coin or service to prolong the delay of the unset of such unpleasent effects of death. How I hate that now I can barely move, limbs rotted away mearly my malignant spirit festering in this rotting hust that had once been so strong. How I hate the heroes that slayed the gods trapping us here for all eternity to fester on this dying world, how praised they were, how foolish they seem now.

I shall go on lingering no doubt long past the time my mind completly decays to maddness and roam the lands a mindless ghost, oh how I hope that time comes soon, how blissful it shall be to be no more than a mindnless malignant spirit tormenting the living to my hearts content, heart, how droll.