لخّصلي

cannot escape the noise.They sing of glory, of victories, of gods who never cared for me. Their joy is a dagger twisting in my chest, reminding me of what I will never have--companionship, warmth, belonging.Call it rage, call it envy, but how long can one endure such torment without striking back?They say he is stronger than any before, a hero destined to crush me. I feel the weight of dread pressing in my chest, but also a flicker of excitement.And now--rumors reach me of a new warrior, Beowulf.In their screams I hear justice.So I attack.

cannot escape the noise. Every night their laughter spills from the great hall, burning my ears like fire. They sing of glory, of victories, of gods who never cared for me. Their joy is a dagger twisting in my chest, reminding me of what I will never have—companionship, warmth, belonging. I am condemned to shadows, yet their voices rise like a cruel mockery in the night.

So I attack. Call it rage, call it envy, but how long can one endure such torment without striking back? When I tear through their hall, I silence their songs. In their screams I hear justice. Their blood is the only answer to my loneliness.

And now—rumors reach me of a new warrior, Beowulf. They say he is stronger than any before, a hero destined to crush me. I feel the weight of dread pressing in my chest, but also a flicker of excitement. If he comes, let him. At least the endless misery may find an ending—whether in his death, or in mine.