Azure couldn't remember anything from his past life. Not his name, not what he looked like. He had a sense of self, and he could think and feel and speak, but he wasn't alive, not really. Not anymore, anyway. He knew he'd lived once, but now he was just...a mind, trapped in a body of steel. Time meant nothing to him anymore, but he was certain he'd been like this for centuries at least, if not longer. He'd swapped hands several times, after all, and watched his wielders grow old and die.

Every time he lost his wielder the magic—he wasn't sure what else to call it but "the magic"—returned him to the altar at the deepest part of the dungeon, and there he'd stay, waiting for the next brave soul to reach the depths, defeat the guardian, and claim him. What form he took depended on the wielder; he'd been a dagger, a bow, a spear, and even a shield. Most commonly, however—and currently—he was a sword.

He'd seen many lives come and go, and had learned not to form attachments. No matter how fond people were of their tools, they were still tools. He was a legendary weapon, yes, a priceless treasure, and a talking one besides. Many listened to his advice, although a number of times his wielders had wanted him as an instrument of death and nothing more. But even the kindest of his wielders still set him aside in favor of their peers. It wasn't personal, and he didn't take it as such.

Yet he couldn't help the twinge of jealousy every time his current wielder got a bit too close to someone else. There was something about this adventurer, something that spoke to Azure's soul, if he had one, more than any of the others. It was foolish, and he knew it.

"You turned heads at the tavern tonight," he remarked as his wielder gently wiped the day's gore and grime off his blade. "That red-haired lass looked like she wanted to jump your bones." The blue gem on his hilt gleamed quietly with each word, illuminating his wielder's face in the dim inn room. "You've been traveling alone for so long. Do you not pine for companionship?"