The Curse Of Eternity.

The rain descended steadily, cold and indifferent; it seemed to mock the frailty of existence. Veythor's body lay sprawled on the blood-soaked earth, his crimson lifeblood merging with the rain, carried away in delicate streams. The scene was eerily still, however, interrupted only by the relentless patter of water. Although it was a moment of silence, the air felt heavy with unspoken grief. This stark juxtaposition of life and death lingered, like a haunting melody echoing in the distance.

No one lives forever.

Yet in this ephemeral realm, there resided a narrative—a forgotten myth that only Veythor (and a handful of others) held in belief. It narrated the tale of the first human ever fashioned. This individual was not akin to the rest; he was immortal,his name was Ransha a being designed not for the transience of life but for eternity. Unlike the mortals who followed, he alone could converse with the one true deity. For centuries, he reveled in the joy and privilege of this celestial communion. The world was expansive, its marvels inexhaustible and the presence of the Creator imbued his heart with purpose. However, as the years elongated into centuries, the man began to metamorphose. He found himself solitary. There were no others akin to him, no companions to partake in his eternal journey. The ecstasy of being chosen by God morphed into a burden. The splendor of creation started to fade, the wonders of the world transforming into hollow echoes of their former glory. Time continued its relentless march and his loneliness became unbearable. He started to covet the mortals who lived and perished, their transient lives infused with love, loss and meaning. Their existence was finite, but because of its brevity, it held purpose. His immortality, once a blessing, now felt like a curse—a cruel reminder of his seclusion.

In his profound despair, he found himself turning to the one true God: the Creator who had once spoken to him with both kindness and clarity. He pleaded for release—begging for an end to his seemingly endless existence. He screamed into the heavens, calling out for the deity who had granted him life. However, the silence that followed was deafening, for he knew that the answers he sought were shrouded in the very void he yearned to escape. Although he felt abandoned, this was a moment that would define his journey, because every cry echoed the depths of his soul's turmoil.

But there was no answer.

The silence enveloped him like a suffocating shroud. The one true god, who had once been his sole refuge, now appeared remote and unattainable. He screamed until his voice shattered, however, the heavens continued to remain mute. Without death, his existence felt futile; without connection, his immortality morphed into a relentless torment. Thus, the man wandered the earth, lost and fragmented, burdened by the weight of eternity pressing down upon his shoulders. Some assert he still roams, lamenting to the one true god, yearning for a response that will never arrive. Others propose he succumbed to madness, his mind splintered by the infinite emptiness of his being. Veythor embraced this narrative, not because it provided him solace, but because it mirrored a truth he had always perceived: life devoid of death is an affliction. Although the assurance of an end is unsettling, it is precisely this that gives even the grandest joys their significance. The rain incessantly fell, cleansing the remnants of blood and the recollections of Veythor's final moments. Yet, the tale endured, whispered by the wind and transmitted through generations. This legacy served as a poignant reminder of the fragile equilibrium that exists between life and death.