I was part of a people now long dead. I was their shaman, their priest and now I am their only survivor. We were a small group, one village overshadowed by the great city a few miles away. We subsided with them until one day they grew tired of our mutual existence and they raided us. They came in and slaughtered the men, raped our women and they captured the rest of us for slaves. Except for me that is, I was to be their gift to the gods.
So they dragged me, kicking and screaming up the pyramid. I had already prayed to my gods for salvation and they had not answered my call, so I got desperate. I began to pray to the dark god, the god of pure darkness as I was dragged up those steps and thrown upon the slab. I continued to pray to the dark one up until they ripped my heart out.
And where my heart once was, darkness flooded into my body, flowing through my veins. Shadows consumed my soul and my body and to the shamans amazement and horror, I was not dead yet. I crushed his still beating heart and descended upon their village, bringing the same fate they had brought to mine.
I expected after my massacre of my murderers that I would die, that his power would leave me, my prayers having been answered, but it didn’t leave. He tasked me to be his mortal instrument on the land of the living, I was to wreak havoc and bring eternal darkness. And I did that for many centuries, until one day my master vanished.
Gods survive on the belief of a people and my god had died with my people. As the memory of him faded, he did as well. My power and I had outlived the man who gave it and I did not know what to do with myself. The darkness had long eroded what goodness my soul contained, but this life of ever constant destruction was not my choice. So now I wander, serving various dark lords, hoping that I can finally find a place where I belong.
