The goblet slips from my fingers, and the ornate images and reliefs carved into the bone are torn asunder as the vessel shatters, a thousand shards skittering across the cold stone floor. to an onlooker, i am drunk, yet it is not alcohol that plagues me, no, a festering melancholy wraps itself ever tighter around my very soul, a smoldering ruin that refuses to be conquered or righted, a filthy wound that corrodes my will and saps my strength. The cause of this is simple, it is at the same time fear, loathing and jealousy. The fear is that i shall not just die alone, as all must, but but that I will be without the warm light of love for all my life, the tenderness of returned affection denied me. in place of love i grasped at power through the dread art of necromancy,my bitter youthful heart seeing fear as an equal to love, but the cold bodies of my legions brought me no happiness, they merely spread my woe unto others. eighteen hundred years i have languished in this self built mausoleum, my every 'triumph' staring at me, my every crime plain for the world to see, my misery wrapped arounf each like thick velvet covers. I know now why they cursed me, and curse myself a thousandfold, for in my stupidity i traded all for naught, and am left hollow in the trading. I know now what it is to ponder ones shortcomings for a thousand years, what it is to see the true price of immortality, the true penalty of power. it is a penalty i pay constantly, a penalty for which there is no remedy, no cure, no hope. Unto this tomb i pour my attention, in libraries full of dusty books, the things i seek ever elusive. no salve for lack of love, no conveyance through time to redact the bargains made that drove me here, no end to this constant charade They call me a Dread Lich. I name myself forsaken. i dub myself unforgiven. but it is misery that calls me home.