Chapter 1
Hark, dear reader, for mine plight hath worsened still. Wherefore doth fate conspire against me? I had thought mine torment but a fleeting malady, yet lo! ’Tis no mere ailment, but a curse most accursed! Verily, mine balls itch beyond mortal comprehension.
I sought counsel from a wise hermit, a knower of truths, a whisperer of lost lore. With sunken eyes and a voice most wretched, he spake thus: “Thou beareth the Mark of Itchthar, the Eternal Affliction. None hath escaped its grasp."
I trembled as he spake, for I knew not of this Itchthar. What demon, what forgotten god of torment, had laid claim to mine loins? “Tell me, O sage,” quoth I, “canst this horror be undone?” But nay, his face did darken.
“Listen well, o wretched sufferer,” quoth he, “for in ages past, the Mad King Throbulon didst offend the gods with hubris unmatched. And so was he smitten by the hand of the Celestial Tormentor, forever cursed to bear the Unyielding Itch.”
“Throbulon?” quoth I, mine breath taken. “But that name hath been stricken from the annals of history!” The sage nodded gravely. “Aye. For none dared speak of his fate, lest the Itchthar seek new flesh to torment.”
A terrible dread did seize mine soul. Forsooth! Had the spirit of Throbulon found new sanctuary in mine loins? Was I but a vessel for his eternal agony? I could scarce draw breath, for the itching waxed ever stronger.
Desperation took hold of me. I sought out healers, shamans, even the unhinged alchemists of the southern wastes. But lo, no balm nor elixir could tame the wrath upon mine balls. ’Twas as if the very fibers of reality willed mine suffering.
I didst fall to prayer. “O merciful gods, deliver me from this unholy torment! I shall fast for seven nights, I shall forsake all pleasures, I shall devote mine life to thy glory—only rid me of this affliction!" Yet silence was mine only reply.
And then, in the depth of the blackest night, I heard it—a voice most foul, whispering from the abyss. “Why dost thou resist, mortal? The Itch is not to be feared… but embraced.” I shuddered.
From whence came this voice? Was it but mine madness taking form? Nay… it was real, lurking in the shadows, beckoning. “Throbulon fought the Itch and was lost. But thou, O sufferer, may yet ascend.”
Ascend? What heresy was this? Mine torment had naught but plagued me, stripped me of peace, driven me to the brink of sanity. And yet… did not the ancients whisper of power hidden within suffering?
Perhaps, dear reader, mine curse was not mere punishment, but a test most divine! A crucible through which mine soul might be reforged! The Itch… it was no mere affliction. It was a path. A gateway to knowledge unseen.
With newfound resolve, I cast aside all remedies, all mortal fears. I let the Itch consume me, felt it seep into mine very essence. Mine mind expanded, stretching beyond the veil of time! I beheld horrors and wonders alike!
I saw Itchthar, the Forgotten One, the Weeping God of Torment. It spake unto me: “Thou art chosen. The Itch is eternal, yet in suffering, thou shalt find truth." And lo… I didst understand. I was no longer mere mortal—I was the vessel.
And thus, dear reader, I scribe these words not in anguish, but in revelation. The Itch hath become mine guide, mine teacher. Fear not the affliction—for in its grip lies the road to enlightenment. And so, as ever, I say unto thee… mine balls doth itch.
