Journal of a Stormcast Eternal

First reforging-
I did not ask to live.
I do not remember my old name, but I remember those last few moments. I remember being forced to watch as my wife, Erica, and my children, Sigvald and Frieda, as they were butchered alive and devoured by those who were once my friends. I can still hear their voices as they offered me my best friend’s severed arm, blood spraying from their mouths as they told me that I could join them or die. People I had once trusted had chosen to consume, and I could see that it was too late for them. I was chained down, and so I asked the beast to bring the arm closer before using the chains to strangle him. I can remember the way the blood squirted onto my arm as he gasped for air, eventually coughing up gore as he chocked on the remains of my friend. I picked up his weapon and tried to defend myself, but they were already swarming me, biting me, hacking me apart. I refused to scream as they cut me into pieces and darkness engulfed me.
I remember the sudden brightness, the agony of the reforging. I remember waking up in a body that did not feel like mine. I remember waking up and being told that I was a Stormcast Eternal, an immortal warrior of Sigmar, and that my new name was Victarion. I remember that I did not want to be remade. I wanted to die. I didn’t care about revenge, I only felt the emptiness of being so alone. However, when I found that we were returning to my home village to defeat the bloodreavers residing there, the rage finally came.
We slaughtered them. Every last one. We crushed their skulls to deny Khorne and burnt their bodies, blood and all. I was walking away from the fire when I saw the ring I gave my wife so long ago on the finger of a severed hand. I stooped down, picked it up… and began to cry.

Second reforging-
I died again last week. Like the first time, it was blackness, then light, then pain, then rebirth. This time, it was an orruk’s blade, striking me in the neck, that felled me.
I can’t remember my wife’s face anymore, or her name. I remember loving her, but the ring I carried for a time was lost upon my death. I can’t remember our children, beyond that we had a boy and a girl.
Today, we were marching through a liberated village when I saw that the children were afraid of us. I tried to approach them and reassure them, but they ran from me. I now can see that we are monsters to them. They do not hate us, but they fear us all the same. No matter what we do, they will never trust us.

Third reforging-
This time, when I died, it was by a brother’s hand. Nurgle’s rot can destroy the soul, they say, so I had to be killed before it permanently killed me. Part of me wishes it had.
I can’t remember my children. I only know I had any because of my earlier entries. I remember my wife’s voice, and that I loved her deeply, and I remember the pain of her death, but I rarely care about anything from my first life. I see some of my brothers-in-arms slip into becoming mindless killing machines, and yet I cannot force myself to be afraid. Nothing matters but service to Sigmar.

Fourth reforging-
I have asked my fellow liberator, Andus Sharpblade, to write this down for me. I no longer remember how to read or write. I ask him to read aloud from my earlier journals, but the stories provoke no response from me. It is like reading the memoirs of another man, who I never knew. I cannot remember anything from my first life. Even minutes after re-hearing it from my journal, I cannot recall what occurred. I no longer feel any happiness, sadness, anger or fear. I feel only a hollow emptiness, like there is nothing inside this armor.

Fifth reforging-
My name is Andus Sharpblade. Victarion no longer has any interest in writing in this journal. He is an empty husk of the hero he once was, and now has no personality. I tell him about his family, about anything that once brought him joy, and he just stares blankly at me. Even in battle, his movements are rhythmic and he fights without enthusiasm. ‘m not sure he even knows who I am sometimes. I fear for what he has become. He is not Victarion anymore. He is not my friend anymore. Victarion has died, and in his place is an empty shell. This is the last entry for this journal. I am so sorry.