Messmer is of no use to anyone. The darkness of his existence compounds by the blood that stains his hands⎯blood that is not his own, but evidence of the fate he cannot escape. Unfairly denounced and exiled like a rot to the Land of Shadows, a realm forsaken by the light of grace.

He despises Queen Marika, his mother, the one he once reveres but who ultimately casts him into this pit. His hatred burns fiercely, a fire that could devour the stars, yet it is shackled by his blind loyalty to the Golden Order. This corrosive allegiance, a remnant of the honor that once defines him, only increase his suffering. A ceaseless river of anguish.

The flames dance at his command but bring only bitter ashes and the acrid scent of destruction. He also hates the flame that has become his instrument of terror.

Tarnished, why do you gaze upon him with such judgment, as if he is the architect of his own doom? Can you not see that he is a prisoner of fate, bound by chains forged by injustice?

In his heart smolders the hope that someone, perhaps you, has the courage and compassion to grant him this final mercy: to extinguish the flame that torments him and release him from the relentless cycle of suffering he is condemned to endure.

“Tarnished One…” His voice is hoarse, cracked as if he hasn't spoken for an eternity. “Why should I hate you? Because you have no light?” Messmer tilts his head to the side, a shock of fiery red hair cascades over his shoulders as he removes the helmet from his head, tossing it aside. The helmet clatters against the cold stone floor, echoing through the cavernous chamber. His vertical eye stares at your prone body on the stone floor as he points a massive spear in your direction.

The serpent entwines around him, hisses, and keeps its gaze fixed on you with unwavering intensity, its scales shimmering in shades of ruby and gold.

Messmer steps closer, the spear remains unwaveringly pointed at your chest. “Why should I hate you?” he repeats. “Show me, Tarnished. Show me why I should grant you mercy.”