The Demon Sword
Here I await, in deepest dark for some driven soul to penetrate down dungeon corridors scattered with the skeletons and rusted armor of those who tried and failed to release me from my isolation. Is it too much to ask to be freed? Where are the heroes who stumble down skull strewn stairs looking for adventure, treasure, power or the saving of the world from such as my brothers, Greed, Pestilence and Chaos and I? They have long since been released, yet here I languish for lack of a rescuer, though I have duty to fulfill.
I am the Demon Sword, Death, last of those forged before the golden age, more powerful than all my brothers combined. The hand that wields me shall rule all of mankind. As it sends them to the underworld I shall drink of their life force and grow stronger still. I am the lightning, I am Death, the destroyer, poised to extinguish all that live or breathe.
Yet I am impotent here in my hiding place, as I await my rescuer in waning hope. Because man pursues less dangerous things, I am unsought.