Immortality gets tedious after the first few hundred cycles.
By then, you’ll be a crotchety old man in a body far too young for you.
Fighting in a war you were unprepared for, against an enemy beyond your imagination. Dying from an impossible wound.
I fought in the first war against the Ninth, do you know that? I don’t look it, though.
It’s amazing what a thousand cycles can do for your sanity. And your fur. I was dark grey. Now it’s more like a pale beige.
I don’t look much like a revenant. No dark magic coiling in wisps of smoke from my mouth, just slightly phosphorescent eyes and a smell of must.
Waking up, standing up, seeing people scream. You look down to see the hole in your chest. You try to scream too, but just a wheeze escapes your tattered lungs.
I don’t even eat people.
The warriors came to rid the world of your evil. They tried everything. Nothing worked, but you still felt the pain.
It’s good I don’t sleep. I can get more thinking done.
You get a lot to think about if you live this long.