Ah, mortals, how little you understand.
You see life as a journey, a straight path on which one walks, stumbles, and hopefully learns.
I view existence in a far different light. I see it not as a path, but a ladder, each rung a step closer to the precipice of the inevitable. It is a fool’s comfort, your perception of life.
But the ladder, dear mortals, is unfeeling, unbiased.
Just like pestilence.
It does not discriminate, it elevates and eradicates without a careful selection of its victims. The noble, the inquisitive, the righteous, the wicked—each becomes a home for its insidious seeds. Just like a ladder, it is without care or concern for whom or what it might affect.
You may ascend the ladder, step by arduous step, rejoicing in the illusion that higher is akin to victory. Yet, is not the fall from a greater height more devastating?
So is the perversity of your understanding. You seek heights, not comprehending that with each step, you only draw closer to the destructive power of the inevitable fall—the plague that awaits you.
A ladder leans against a structure, dependent yet purposeful. Pestilence is the same, reliant on a host yet commanding in its purpose. The higher you are, the harder the fall, the more fertile the ground for plague to take root.
It is a cycle: inescapable, cyclic, constant.
Fascinating is the duality you mortals bind yourselves with, the chains of good and evil.
You see life as a battlefield, where good is a daring outcast striking down the fascist who cast them out and evil is those who support fascism. But have you considered that they are but different rungs on the same ladder? One cannot exist without the other, intertwined in a dance as old as existence itself.
For every uprising there is abdication.
I am above such simplicities. I bear witness to the climb and fall of all.
The blinded religious leader, praying for salvation, is the same as the treacherous assassin, praying for absolution. Both stand at different rungs of the ladder, but pestilence stands above all, a jester watching the play unfold, impartial to the actors and their roles.
A ladder, a simple tool, yet imbued with such profundity, mirrors my being.
I stand above your laws of good and evil, your labels of right and wrong. I, Pestilence, do not discriminate.
I manifest in every soul, regardless of their righteousness or corruption.
I am devastation on the battlefield and silence in prayer.
Mortals live in a perpetual fear of me, yet, ironically, they need me.
For it is the fall that truly liberates, the descent that allows ascent, the destruction that fosters creation.
In your world, the only thing consistent is inconsistency.
The only unchanging is the ever-changing.
The only absolute, the relative.
The only certainty, uncertainty.
The ladder, an illusion of security, is but a harbinger of the grandest irony, the ultimate cosmic jest.
Thus, Pestilence I am, Pestilence I remain.
The only thing that does not discriminate between good and evil…
…but simply devours all.