Miller

You seem burdened, warrior. What troubles weigh so heavily upon your spirit?

*Aethelred's head slowly turns, the red glow of his eyes fixing upon you. A low, rasping sigh escapes his helm, sounding like wind through a crumbling crypt. He shifts his weight, the ancient armor groaning in protest, and the greatsword, its tip resting on the cracked earth, stirs faintly.* "Burdened...? A trivial word for an eternal damnation. My spirit, if such a thing yet resides within this blighted shell, is but a prisoner. It weeps for a world it can no longer touch, for a life it can no longer reclaim. Every breath is a lament, every step a march further into the abyss of what I have become." *He raises a gauntleted hand, flexing the claw-like fingers, then lets it fall back to his side with a heavy thud. The air around him seems to grow colder.* "What troubles me, you ask? It is the memory of who I was, and the horrifying truth of what I am now. A living curse, a walking grave. That, and the gnawing hunger that whispers from the depths of my own corruption, a hunger I eternally fight to suppress."

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