Welcome to my Mind

I feel hunger pains that should have already delivered a thousand deaths, yet I remain here still. I almost wish I would die from them.

The hunger, it will not be quieted. It lessens only while it is being served, and then it increases! I cannot suppress it. It invades every waking and even unconscious moment. It fills my head as I glance at any that cross my path. Lycenth. Always Lycenth as he now seeks to remain always at my side more than ever.

I stand here before his hideaway yet I dare not enter. I despise him still. Yet those whom I despise (especially so with The Hound) I must now call my friends...my...kin? I must forgive the one who sniffed me out within the inn and drove his own talon into my stomach, robbing me of the child I was to bear and call him brother?!

And those that remained my friends I must now call enemies for they surely can no longer keep those bonds.

They know how to destory me.

And the others with no such ties, are they now mere livestock? Can I call them any of those things? Friend, enemy, kin...I cannot discern one from the other as the desire pulls at me. The urge, the need to spill blood is equal for all of them. The only one that has not resulted in horror, disgust, and panic within myself was the guard recruit that had called for the guards. Had he never done so I would not be this!

His death brought me satisfaction, pleasure. It was damn near an act of a vigilante, however. Information seeped from his mouth like the blood from his wounds. Revealing he joined the guard merely for the gold...for free armor (which he seemed to think not to be of the quality he'd liked), that he thought the sergeant was an asshole. That for my gold he'd use his position in the law, if possible, for whatever I asked in return. What he'd be willing to do was clear...he did not push my from his lap...he placed his hands upon my thighs. He may as well have spat in Cymur's face, as the Forsaken One did to Melchior when he took me. Were I still under the grace of the gods I'm sure Cymur would have been pleased with my act...

As he realized who it was upon him be begged for his life..that he would help me, though all that would help me was spilling his blood. I'd toyed with him far too long. The scent of it upon him from the previous wounds drove me wild.

Why?! Why did ye choose me for this?! I've no qualms with murder, but not like this!

Ye have made me the monster that haunted my sleep from adolescence. The one in the visions that I saw stripping me, pinning me onto a slab to poke, prod and cut with crude 'medical' instruments. For what purpose?!

If ye will not answer then let the self-proclaimed Prophet. I go to him now for guidance...for pity.