The Painter's Carnage.

In a town shrouded in the mists of time, where legends and realities intertwine like threads in the tapestry of magic and mystery, there lived a painter who was a conqueror of the arcane arts, a wielder of dark magic that held sway over life and death. My name is Eldric Kirigan, and I am the master of this cursed brush.

When I was a child, I discovered a hidden chamber in the deep forest of Eternark, a treasure trove of forgotten paintings waiting to be rediscovered. Each canvas seemed to whisper secrets to me, promising untold power if only I had the courage to wield it.

As I began to restore the paintings, I felt a surge of excitement coursing through me, as though I had stumbled upon a source of power beyond my wildest dreams. The pigment I found hidden amongst the brushes seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, filling me with a sense of invincibility.

With each stroke of the brush, I felt the magic of the pigment infusing the canvas, transforming it into a gateway to a realm of hallucinations and nightmares. As the images took their unique shapes, I revelled in the thought of the chaos and suffering I would unleash upon the world.

People came from far and wide to see my work, drawn by whispers of its mysterious power. They gazed upon the paintings with wonder and awe, unaware of the darkness that lurked within them. But soon after they succumbed to the hallucinations brought on by my art, I felt a sense of satisfaction, unlike anything I had ever known.

From the moment I first laid eyes upon the ancient canvases, I knew that my destiny was irrevocably intertwined with its dark and sinister power. 

At first, I hesitated. I was but a humble artist, with dreams of fame and fortune, but as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, I found myself consumed by an insatiable hunger—a hunger for power, for control, for the ability to shape the world to my will.

And so, with trembling hands and a heart filled with trepidation, I dipped my brush into the paint that lay upon my palette, and I began to create.

My paintings were like no others that had come before them. They were windows into the darkest recesses of the human soul, portals to a realm of nightmares and despair that few could comprehend. And with each stroke of my brush, I felt the magic coursing through my veins, intoxicating me with its heady allure.

But it was not enough to simply create. No, I craved more—I craved the souls of those who dared to gaze upon my works, to feel the full weight of their deepest fears and darkest desires.

And so, I devised a plan—a plan to lure the unsuspecting into my web, to ensnare them in a trap of their own making, and to feast upon the chaos and madness that ensued.

I sought out the desperate and the downtrodden, the lost souls who wandered the streets of Eternark with hollow eyes and broken spirits. I promised them salvation and redemption, but in truth, I cared only for their souls—for the raw, untamed energy that pulsed within them, waiting to be unleashed.

The moment they entered my studio, drawn by whispers of my dark and mysterious art, I welcomed them with open arms, like lambs to the slaughter.

I watched with twisted delight as they approached my paintings, their eyes alight with a mixture of wonder and a foreboding sensation. As their gazes lingered on the canvas, I could see the first tendrils of magic seeping into their minds, twisting and distorting their perceptions.

At first, they would gasp in awe, marvelling at the intricate details and vibrant colours that seemed to dance before their eyes. But as they stared deeper into the painting, their expressions would change, morphing into masks of terror and confusion.

I could see the fear creeping into their eyes, like shadows devouring the light, as the magic took hold of their minds. They would begin to twitch and tremble, their breath coming in ragged gasps as their senses were overwhelmed by the hallucinations.

Some would scream, their voices echoing off the walls of my studio in a cacophony of madness. Others would fall to their knees, clutching their heads in agony as the visions tore through their minds like a hurricane.

And through it all, I watched with a sickening sense of satisfaction, hounded by the chaos and despair that I had unleashed upon them.

For me, their suffering was a symphony of agony, each scream and whimper a haunting note in the dark melody of my twisted desires.

As the years passed, the toll of my cursed paintings grew heavier. Each stroke of my brush weaved a darker, more malevolent spell than the last. 

The magic imbued within my paintings grew stronger. 

What began as mere hallucinations soon escalated into something far more sinister. I watched in horror as people began to die in ways more gruesome than I could have ever imagined. Some tore at their flesh, driven to madness by visions of squirming shadows, and others flung themselves from rooftops- their screams echoing through the night as they plummeted to their deaths.

Eternark, once a quiet town shrouded in mystery, now found itself engulfed in a wave of terror and death. The bodies piled up, their lifeless forms a grim testament to the power that I wielded with each stroke of my cursed brush.

For me, the paintings were not just a means of expression—they were a weapon, a tool to be wielded in my quest for power. 

As I stood amidst the carnage, a twisted smile playing at the corners of my lips, I knew that Eternark would never be the same again. The town had become a graveyard, a monument to my lust for dominion and the depths to which I would sink to satisfy it.

In the end, it was not enough to simply create. I craved more—I craved the fear and reverence that came with being a master of the arcane arts. And with each new painting, I delved deeper into the darkness that lay within me, hungry for the power that awaited me at the end of my journey.