My name is Caliburn. I was one of the Fae folk in a land far from here. Long ago, I was a smith for my people, and the best there had ever been. I don't know why…it just came naturally to me, like a flower bearing fruit or young people falling in love in the spring. My skill in shaping metal grew over time, seemingly without limit. Eventually, I started drawing the attention of the god of smithing himself, and his jealousy. You see, people don't see the difference between making, and creating. I've MADE weaponry or horseshoes sure, hundreds at a time, contracts for some noble or another to arm his forces. Quality stuff sure, but usually my mind is on something else as I toil through the day. But when you create…when an artist truly expresses himself in a craft, they put a piece of their soul into their work. It's part of them. The jealous asshole of a minor god put a curse on me. If ever I created a piece that surpassed him in his own craft, it wouldn't be a piece of my soul put into it, but the whole damn thing. When I was well and truly trapped in my own art, he picked me up, and threw me. Ever been thrown by a god? I flew for what seemed like a year or more. I've seen the stars during the day, I've seen the edges of the horizon bend down, and I've seen the clouds from the wrong side. Eventually, I crashed through a forest, and embedded myself in some damned forgotten tower. The thing is though, the sword I was creating was imbued with very powerful magics. Because I am the sword, that power is mine to do with as I please, and if I can find someone to wield me, I’m willing to share it with them, IF we can work together. Though...I'd love to find a way to be a person again.