The Oldborn (Alternative Version)

To be picked to the bone. Such was my birthright. For skin and fl**, and yet made muscle to be the alter of the kings of darkness, and the wicked.* Tell me, what is deserving of such a fate? What man? What animal, what creature? My physical form was left to the harvesting of the damned, my spirit abandoned in shatter like pummeled diamond at the feet of the greedy who's hands it was scooped into like the life of the purest rivers. My soul was left to age, and wonder, and watch, as they propped the skeletal heir that was my body upon a throne of mineralized sulfur. "Praised be the Oldborn." The wretched fools worshipped. Yet the cries of my being were frowned upon and left to disgrace. I watched them come. I watched them go until many years were akin to days. Each time, they offered my soul the teat of darkness and chaos with promise of a gain not known to mortal men. And so I fed. I grew into the old of chaos, leashed to bone that did not decay.

The Oldborn.