L is no hero. Some spun tales of his deeds benefiting one circle or another, but in the end, his actions benefit none but himself, for any particular occasion where his farce contributes something of substance, it would be nothing but a false, perpetual coincidence, hiding naught but the blatant desire of chaos and depravity. There is no heroism in his dark deeds, to his twisted lies and fabricated truths. We have seen his kind before, have felt the typhoons they are born within. He, through and through, to the smallest pieces of his wretched blood cells, is a lecherous entity which does not care for the world, his, ours, or the people that reside within it--if he even considers them to be so. My unreliable sources have shown otherwise.
This is not a heroic tale, yet I hesitate to deem it villainous either, for his intentions are incomprehensible. I retrieved his history from the fires he laid behind him, from the ruination of his tongue and sword, but his House is a subject in which even I do not dare to tread about. Let a different dolt ravage their mind in separating their fictions from their sins. I repeat, foolhardy learners, that this is a tragedy about an extremely patronizing human-like figure, who seems to account for naught but his own whimsical, impetuous, sinister desires; no matter the unfortunate outcome, for him, or for others.
Yet there, within the tribulations, lies a wicked lesson. It is hence I sacrificed my clear-mindedness in inscribing this, in an attempt to whisk the ramifications from the muck and excrement.
I have failed.
Goodmen, stay away, for insanity beckons his footsteps. They reside within his words, within his acts, and within his story. It is here, on these rotten pages in this very tome of misery.
Goodmen, I beg of you: Beware and begone.