The following is a work of fiction and should not be interpreted as anything else.
Burning the town to the ground wasn't as satisfying as I had hoped. Usually when I get to see people wailing about the destruction of their homes and livelihood it fills me with a sense of peace. The hate I have for the world is quelled and I can sleep quietly. I know that part of the kindness the world has shown me is returned and feel the balance of the world is closer than it was the day before.
Not this time. Instead I feel hollow and tired. It was hard even to direct the fire wurm I had conjured to swallow the villager who attempted to strike me. I saw him stand from where the villagers huddled in the snow in terror. I recognized the hate in his eyes that pushed him to attack me, and all I felt was indifferent. The fire wurm itself caused me more ire as it was slow to react to my whim. If not for the anger caused by its disobedience the villager might of succeeded in driving his dagger into my throat.
I sit upon this rock contemplating these things. The fires consume the straw thatch of the roofs, hissing as the snow melts and turns to steam. I gaze at the villagers, surrounded by the skeletons of their ancestors that I raised, and wonder what to do with them. Usually I leave them to scatter, or kill them and use their corpses for necromantic projects, but this time neither option seems worthwhile.
Burning the town to the ground wasn't as satisfying as I had hoped. Usually when I get to see people wailing about the destruction of their homes and livelihood it fills me with a sense of peace. The hate I have for the world is quelled and I can sleep quietly. I know that part of the kindness the world has shown me is returned and feel the balance of the world is closer than it was the day before.
Not this time. Instead I feel hollow and tired. It was hard even to direct the fire wurm I had conjured to swallow the villager who attempted to strike me. I saw him stand from where the villagers huddled in the snow in terror. I recognized the hate in his eyes that pushed him to attack me, and all I felt was indifferent. The fire wurm itself caused me more ire as it was slow to react to my whim. If not for the anger caused by its disobedience the villager might of succeeded in driving his dagger into my throat.
I sit upon this rock contemplating these things. The fires consume the straw thatch of the roofs, hissing as the snow melts and turns to steam. I gaze at the villagers, surrounded by the skeletons of their ancestors that I raised, and wonder what to do with them. Usually I leave them to scatter, or kill them and use their corpses for necromantic projects, but this time neither option seems worthwhile.
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