It has been centuries. While I have found pleasure in the work, and have gained much skill through time, I no longer get the satisfaction. With every **** I make it gets easier and less fulfilling. I am always searching for that perfect prey to give me what I want, more than the things I need.
Eons pass and men fall before me. Hopelessly bound by my love. Rendered paralyzed by my gaze. Wrestling internally with themselves to figure out if I am real or only a dream. If I am a goddess or a daemon.
Their blood is my life, their love feeds my soul, but they never last long; can't hold up against the intensity of my existence. They worship and bend and beg for my love, and eventually they withdrawal or attack or run. And that's when they are ended like so many before them, and I begin the hunt anew, in search of another.
I grow tired, and wiser, and stronger, but they never seem to change. Mortal men are weak, bound only to themselves and not built for eternity. I eat their hearts and collect their souls. Use their bones to build my armor and that's all they're ever good for.
Their names drip like spells from my tongue, and after centuries it seems my magic still isn't strong enough to find a thing I cannot eventually destroy.