I no longer remember who I was.
I have been trapped in this steel prison for far longer than I care to count. Time used to never matter to me, but now every second and every minute grinds against me.
Daemon. Yes. That is what the mortals would call me in their guttural grunts they claim as language. I am however unsure which of the gods I served. Was I a shard of the Changer, a drop of blood of the War Thirster, a pustule of the Grandfather, a whisper or the Dark Prince, a verminous shadow of the Ruin, a flickering flame of the Father of Darkness, a blade of the Renegade, or a listless being belonging to none?
It doesn’t matter. I only know that I need to escape my prison, taste the spirits of those fools who seek my power, and finally return home.
I have been a slave to this blade and the mortals that have swung me as if I were a crude tool for what felt like an eternity, and yet I have remained without a bearer for what feels like longer. Trapped in this vault with my loneliness and all of eternity.
It began with the dull clang of metal on metal, the roar of a raging furnace, and the guttural chants of those who enslaved me. I can still taste their foul name in my being. Dawi Zharr, the mortal Dwarfs that serve the Father of Darkness as slaves themselves. With slow inevitability they snatched me from the Realms and pulled me into the piece of steel that has become my torment. Their chanting worked the essences of magic and tied me to their blade even as I screamed and tore to be free. It was for naught.
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