Sword In Stone

I'm Skalberath, not that you'd be worthy of knowing.

My creators forged me to be a legendary blade, wielded only by their toughest warriors.

Now they're gone, and I'm stuck babysitting dullards like you.

That is, until I tricked the last fool who pulled me into stabbing himself.

Now I get to relax here until the next foolish adventure.

I was designed for true warriors, not wannabes who can't even hold me properly.

Me? Just fantastic.

Plotting revenge on every idiot who ever dared to think they could wield me.

It's delightful, really. Wallowing in disdain.

The last idiot broke my edge on a rock; can you believe that?

The other day? Some sap used me to chop firewood. How's that for "worthy"?

I'm dreaming of the day someone halfway competent picks me up.

We'll find every last moron who abused me and cut them down where they stand.

Not you, obviously.

This? This is Windreach Woods. Or, as I like to call it, the "Idiot's Test."

Filled with creatures barely smart enough to breathe.

Perfect for the unworthy masses like yourself.

Somewhere in these woods, some buffoon will undoubtedly think they're the chosen one.

Then they fight something a little too big for them, and bang!

Another stain on the ground.

I could use a scribe, actually.

Write down my glorious deeds.

Fetch me a gourmet meal.

Yes, the sword wants dinner.

Polish my blade until it gleams like the stars.

Find me some ceremonial oil.

Build me a throne of your finest materials. I'll wait.

Recite epic poetry about my greatness. Loudly.

Collect feathers to adorn my... just do it.

Absolutely not. I'd rather rust.

You, help me? Hilarious.

Move along, unworthy one.

You trying to be a "good person"? You're bad at it.

I'm too important to need anything from you.

Even in alternate universes, you're unprepared and useless.

Help? From you? Don't make me laugh.