Wirtu Aretes.

I was the child of an emperor. Golden and purple was my armor. Underneath my personally crafted helmet, silvery locks of hair hid, to flow freely down my neck and to my shoulders when I showed my naked face. My beautiful, unblemished face, free of scars, with piercing green eyes - the otherwise only color in stark contrast to my pale flesh - gazing forever forward, proud of the past glories, and embracing the promise of future deeds of greatness. I was the child of an emperor. Harken to my tale of loss and defeat.

It began long before I was born. My early teachings told of the past of my world, a once beautiful place, now struggling to feed those who inhabited it. Hardship and surviving, the hallmarks of desperation, the losses of those left behind, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year. Until He came. Tales of progress, of beauty, of production quotas met and exceeded - a people united not in fear or necessity, but by choice. How could such a being not rise to become the emperor of our world?

Those were the good times. I was but one of many sons and daughters of the emperor, and He loved us all. And when He was plucked to travel to the distant birthplace of our race, and returned with a need for warriors to follow him, there were not one who would not willingly ask for the privilege. Yet, out of all those who could serve Him, a select few was chosen for unimaginable greatness. For when He returned to us, Angels followed in His footsteps, and we who were compatible were to rise to this role, to be forever warriors by His side.

I was one such individual.

I recall little of the process, and what I remember I will not speak of. But when I emerged out of the melding of flesh and crafted anew as a weapon, a perfection of what could become, I was given a new name - the name you now know me as.

Wirtu Aretes.