Statue

The more time goes on, the more your sword feels like a part of you. Its heft and balance is imprinted upon your mind, ideal motions to maximize its heat written into your soul.

Your skin is completely gray. You'd look like a statue, if you were capable of Stillness anymore. As it is, your body is never without motion. Eyes roll in their sockets, wings twitch, halo flares and spits. You are a being of pure momentum. The last time you slept was over a year ago.

Your existence is one of violence. There is no room even for rage in your hollowed out soul. You hunt and kill coldly, efficiently, dispassionately. You only feel when harmed, and you haven't been harmed in a long time. Your sword rends flesh and splinters bone with a professional, surgical precision.

You no longer remember what goal you hoped to achieve when you started your transformation. You no longer care either. You have a Purpose, and that's all that matters.