[TT] You are a traitor in the group, and you've been tasked with stopping the hero from completing their quest.

...

The Dark Lord can not be stopped.

Perhaps deep down beneath all of the trials and struggles, I've known this fact since I first came to awareness in the world. All I have been, all I will one day be- it is nothing more than a simple lie to appease my own ego, a terrible denial of unimagined consequence.

Indeed, there are men, there are mortals, and there are beings of strength among them. Both of beast and legend, of human and monster: There have been hundreds of Great kingdoms and legacies, weapons, magics, techniques and ancient secrets back through thousands of years. There have even been armies that might shake the earth beneath their feet: each undoubtedly filled with heroes, warriors, mages and poets alike.

How their banners must have flown beneath the sun, so often layered with accomplishments to fill book upon book now collected and filed among ancient libraries filled with dust.

But they are still just that: Finite and ending things.

Be they men, or army, or Kingdom. Even the Great Legendary beasts from before the time of noble races do meet their end beneath the sun or shade. All things are swept away by the passage and sands of time. Even among the most famous, their names will be forgotten in time; all and every, with but one exception.

That single being: The Dark Lord.

How can one forget that which stands tall to remind them? To such an existence, the trivial nature of life's most precious finality is nothing more than a pitiful joke, for he can not die. Not by methods possessed in magic, nor blade, nor chaos. Throughout the histories, many have tried, and just as many have failed. Though their eyes might see a being of flesh and blood, they pass-over the ancient weight of souls. A bloated and terrible aura of taking, that never once relinquishes what has been stolen.

Perhaps he was once born a man, same as I, but such origins have long been forgotten. Buried under a mind so ruthless, it might only find its equal in those unending terrors holding between the planes of existence.

This one single entity has brought more pain and suffering to the world, than any might hope to rival. Be it for the sake of knowledge, for the chance pursuit of passing curiosity or interest. There is little difference to the Dark Lord.

For the briefest of moments in my first life, I had my hopes to defeat this horror. The fires of youth: Naive and foolish as I was, personal witness to those atrocities, I thought myself a chosen champion. A man with both the will and the strength. To rise up from the ruins by a life of research, pain, and sacrifice, and finally rid the world of this Dark Lord.

A chosen hero, who soon made deals with Elves, contracts innumerous of binding and soul past the mortal plane, pacts with Demons, and meetings with ancient beings beneath the world's surface: Through these I deciphered secrets even his ancient mind did not know. With magic, strength, and borrowed powers, I took it upon myself to challenge The Dark Lord.

Only to fail.

I died almost immediately upon raising my assault. A wave of his hand, and my body was broken beyond repair. Truly, my first death might not even trifle his memory, no doubt long forgotten amid a deep ocean of never-ending thousands of others.

My second death was barely any better.

Nor my third, my forth, my fifth... I had triffled with things a mortal should not, you see. Much like he, Lord of Dark and Terror, I had pressed into a realm of magic known only to those who came before and bid upon the bargain of a price I knew not.

By my eighteenth death, he had realized.

By my twentieth, he was perplexed. My twenty-first, curious, my twenty-second I was tortured for decades if only to provide a lack of answers, and my twenty-third was much the same.

Lives past. Time went with it. The World changed as it often seems to do, but still I could not kill him- nor could he truly kill me.

Perhaps it was in this there comes a true difference between our views upon the world.

On my thirtieth life, my thirtieth attempt to end his life, he welcomed me as if an old friend. A smile of ivory, and a quiet chuckle before he did finally put an end to my mortal efforts once more.

No matter how fierce my hatred. No matter how much I wished to bring him to his knees and beg- he could see it clearly. We were bound together, him and I. As enemies, surely, but not on equal terms.

A simple click of his tongue, and my body was discarded. Torn to shreds or shattered to pieces; smashed to a pulp or burnt to ashes and cinders. It matter little. Over and over again throughout the ages. I could not challenge him and win. My Curse was one of failure.

But worse than failure, it was one of consequences.

Just like him- Just like that never-ending horror upon the land: I am immortal. Flawed, but very real in my persistent grip upon reality. I can not die for eternity, only be put to rest.

I have met and accepted my defeat. Too many times I have let life escape me and felt the pain and misery of a body's end. It has broken me, my will, my hope, but what breaks me more is the curse's roots. The method of its brutal continuation.

To take those who come after, not newly-born or fresh to the world, but folk of years and minds of their own. Either men or women who know nothing of me, or those wicked descendants of my own: It is but a choice to make, for I am a terror upon the world.

I am a killer.

I have become a murderer as horrid to the one I once wished to defeat- and I find myself unable stop. No... If only I could accept the grave I am owed. At best I can slumber for the years, before I tumble down to fall upon my next prey with guilt and sorrow.

To take another's life, body, memories, perhaps even their own soul. I take, and take, and take...

As the ages change, as the seasons pass and rotate on to the tune of civilizations, language and beliefs: There is only one man who still recognizes me. Only one other in this world who still remains to smile at my sight. Only one other who might possess the knowledge to end this never-ending misery of immortal construction.

A terrible man, who always asks the same question:

"Will this be the life in which you serve me, or will it be the next?"