To My Dearly Tormented Guests,

 

You have arrived, as all do in time—drawn by your cursed fate, your shackled existence. Whether you cling to the lie of immortality or howl at the moon in blind rage, you are nothing more than twisted remnants of the creatures you once were. Your souls, such fragile things, still dance with the vain hope of freedom, still dare to imagine that you might somehow break the chains that bind you. You imagine yourselves as hunters, champions seeking vengeance for old wounds, here to topple me from my throne.

 

How quaint. How utterly pathetic.

 

Do you think I am unaware of your intentions? Do you believe your presence here is of your own design, as though you’ve chosen this path? Oh, no. You are here because I willed it. Every tortured step you’ve taken, every choice that led you to this forsaken realm—it was I who guided your fall. Even your cursed forms, the afflictions you so desperately battle or embrace, were but seeds planted long ago. Your bloodlust, your beastly rage, all were shaped by my hands long before you ever thought to raise them against me.

 

You are not hunters. You are prey.

 

But you persist, don’t you? You will scrape and crawl through this land, desperately seeking a way to undo what has already been written. You will uncover relics of forgotten ages, whispered rumors of ancient powers, and each discovery will fill you with renewed hope. You will think, for just a moment, that you have the means to strike me down. You will imagine that the very curse that defines you can be turned into your salvation.

And yet, with every fleeting step forward, the ground beneath you crumbles. With every victory, you grow weaker. The light fades, the hunger deepens, the madness gnaws at your mind. You will be consumed by the very nature of your existence, torn apart by the futile struggle against what you are. Each of you was forged in darkness, and you will end in it.

Still, I welcome you to try. Struggle, if you must. Cling to whatever fading hope you carry. It will make your eventual fall all the sweeter, knowing how close you thought you had come, only to find yourselves once more in my grasp. There is no escape here. No salvation. No end but the one I decree.

Perhaps, if you look carefully enough, you’ll see the truth written in the blood-soaked soil, in the howls of the wind, in the agonized whispers of the damned who came before you. Perhaps, in the ashes of your despair, you’ll understand that there is only one true way out of this place. But by then, it will be far too late.

 

Until then, enjoy the hunt. I certainly will.

 

Yours,

The Dread Lord

Master of This Eternal Prison