I sit for a moment and again write in my book. This world was not meant for such as I. The longer I am here the greater becomes my conviction that this is so. I’m not even a memory of the Shirn I was before this.
Anrir that was is dead. Anrir that is represents an abomination on all life.
I am not the greatest of these abominations, however, and I can fight for the right of all people to live in peace. Creatures like that Black Sword, however, do not allow for peace. They are destruction incarnate and call to me to be the same.
Many died today, not least of which was a birdman by the name of Rem. No, ‘died’ is too easy a term for having your soul ripped from your body. This sword, whoever he was, is now an enemy to life, and so an enemy to me as well. He stands antithesis to me.
I was crafted to be a weapon. In allowing the dross of his life to be burned from me in the refiner’s fire, I feel that Anrir that was has given me a greater gift than even he could have believed. He was helped to forge me into a weapon, honed me to a razor’s edge. There is no fear of loss in me. Nothing more that I had can possibly be lost.
Everything is already lost, and in the losing I find new purpose as a tool dedicated to that life that no longer resides within me.
Oh, I have a soul. I felt the pull of the Black Blade upon me even as I parried it with the flesh of my spear. I felt the pull as I entangled my chain about it. This blade was greater in power than me. I could feel that even as I attempted to pull him apart and fling him into the abyss.
There is much training that I must do if I’m to be a match for this abomination the next time that our paths cross and I am certain of but one thing in life: Our paths will cross again.