“Iᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ, ᴀᴇᴏɴs ᴀɢᴏ. Nᴏᴡ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏɴᴇ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴜʀɴ ᴍᴇ.”
There are things the beast knows now, in his heart of hearts - not the ones he has taken over the years, pinned to his great black claw & kept safe in his cavernous chest, but his true one, if such a thing even exists. He must have one, he thinks, for how else would he have made his way to the first of his chosen? Then again, it is not his place to fathom his Maker’s designs, to question the fabric of his being. He is nothing but a vessel, nothing but a bringer of His word.
But he gleaned his past once, as though it were ripped out of him with fierceness by the blades of the Arisen. In the end, she fell to the frightful magic of Wyrms, but the memories remained, vague & doomed to fade with immortality’s stretch. Yet he knows for certain he, too, was once a man. Was Grigori his name? Was he righteous, was he good? After a thousand thousand years, none remain who would remember him at all.
“I ᴀᴍ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ɴᴏᴡ ᴀs I ᴀᴍ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ Dʀᴀɢᴏɴ, ғᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀᴍᴏʀᴇ.”