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Most of your interactions were transactional. None of them more than a simple greeting, and a mission briefing. A send off. The unspoken truth that you were to return victorious. A winning streak a mile wide. Your name, obfuscated purposefully. The mere idea of a "follower" enough to strike fear into those you vanquished. Your presence made those you were against plead for mercy.
Your sword, a weapon forged in divine fire beyond your understanding. It knew you best, and when you used it, you were finally whole. The piece of you forever missing from a botched revival, a horrific accident gone wrong. The might of your heavy body reaching the end of its luck.
Truly, you were supposed to die. Not that you knew the feeling of it, of course. But it had just felt right.
You still remember the crouched figures, encased in robes of lilac and white, outstretching their arms as you stumbled around. You were special, in some way. Children are perceptive, they know. You knew you were different when you were taken away from the other children to be trained. Your church chiseling out your soft marble into a warrior's form. Your bright reds and oranges smothered out with smooth metallic armor.
The way your form trembled with more scars than all of the other children. The way that you reacted faster, lifted stronger, ran quicker than most. The way your blood seemed to shimmer in the daylight where the others' would fall into a matte slate. The way your eyes, bright and full of life, saw it all. Hands guided away from collecting everything in sight. Menial tasks, repeating you into the ground.
Crystals embedded into the ground still caught your eye hands that ache to hold and admire. Tales of those who were led astray by forces you cannot understand. You, young, beautiful (and still very alive, for that matter), could not fathom while one would leave. Everything was perfect here.
Your life, revolving around your blade and divine worship. To receive recognition for your ethereal dedication, your willingness to commit to your tasks. You did not ever fully grasp just how much of a stepping stone you had become.
The faces you were sent after. The party sent with you slowly dwindling until it was you, all alone.
All alone. To face the consequences of your higher ups pretending to be false gods. Distorting the view on an unreachable deity, unhearing of your pained sounds. Unhearing and unknowing now, of everything you were. As the brights of your colors replaced by grays and depleting purples. The runes on your body.
To face the world, and all of its cruel hardships. You've seen it all at this point. Countless demons you do not bother to recognize. All of their uniqueness unparsed by your familiarity in ubiquity. The way you scramble at your feathers, plumage ran askew in your panic. Your life turned upside down by the ultimate mission. Pushing all of your emotions down. You are led astray.
You'll come back. When the chains stop hurting and your eyes shed no more silent tears. You'll come back when your mind doesn't tear itself apart at the seams at the thought of it.