The quill's nib touched the surface of the black inkwell, causing tiny ripples to dance across the liquid's surface. The disturbance caught the eerie green candlelight, creating fleeting patterns that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. As the nib emerged, a single drop of ink fell back, creating a fleeting vortex in the well.

  The nib met parchment with a soft scratch, its metallic whisper echoing through the opulent chamber. The verdant light flickered across the pages of the tome, casting ever-shifting shadows that breathed life into the words forming upon its surface. The scent of ink mingled with the musty aroma of ancient tomes.

  A figure sat hunched over the writing, long dark hair falling forward to veil a face of sharp angles and high cheekbones. Elegant hands, adorned with ornate rings, guided the quill with practiced ease. In the dim light, faint lines beneath pale skin pulsed with a subtle gold-green glow, matching the eerie light that flickered through eyes icy blue but with an otherworldly gold-green shine. The quill paused, hovering over the page as its wielder contemplated the next words, full lips curled into a knowing smirk.

  The quill touched parchment once more, and words began to flow, a stream of consciousness both profound and chilling:

  Everyone believes they are immortal, until they are not. As a child in the gutter, dodging blades and scraping for scraps, I thought myself untouchable. As my power grew, so too did my arrogance. Yet, at some point, one must face the truth: all things must die. Why? Take your pick—the birth of something new, the fleeting joy of life, or perhaps the pointlessness of eternity. After all, if we were all immortal, how long would it take to get shit done?

  And so, I find myself once more scribing into my tome. My thoughts. My story. My life. Yet even this is not immortal, for one day, a foolish and ignorant soul will deem it evil or too dangerous and destroy it for whatever pathetic purpose they see fit. Or perhaps fate shall mock me, heh, and it will be forgotten, gathering dust in some library, only to burn in a fire started by some... foolish reason. Haha! For this world is filled with fools.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  It reminds me of a saying I once heard: 'Profanity is a sign of the feeble-minded.'

  Perhaps I am of feeble mind, for I use it quite often. My response to such notions, of course, is simple: fuck you. So many restrain themselves from such words because of churches or etiquette. Yet I have slain countless of these pious men, through strength, wit, intelligence, and cunning.

  So I wonder—are they simply more feeble-minded than I? Or is a man of feeble mind, in fact, more dangerous than one who is not? What, then, defines a feeble mind? Does it make one lesser or greater? And if lesser, then who is greater than I?

  I—who hold hundreds of wives, countless concubines. I—who possess more treasure than I could spend in a lifetime. I—who command an army the world has never seen.

  Suddenly, his hand tightened on the quill, driving it sharply into the page. Ink bled through the parchment as his jaw clenched.

  I, WHO HOLD THIS WORLD BY ITS THROAT!!!

  The quill suddenly froze in place, ink pooling at its tip as if holding its breath. The inscriber forced a long, steady breath, easing his grip. Slowly, the tension faded from his shoulders, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a dark smile.

  Ah, but I digress.

  Everyone believes they are immortal, until I kill them. And I am immortal until I am slain.

  But regardless, I shall live for thousands of years. At first as history, later as myth... perhaps longer, as a tale to frighten children. Perhaps, even for tens of thousands of years, scholars and the common man will debate whether I ever existed, as they do the gods. They will make stories of me, great plays of me. Children will take turns playing the role of me. Of Aventus.

  For I am Him.

  I am Me.

  I AM AVENTUS MONSTROUS