...You awaken from the most recent of slumberings, ensconced in a womb of gold, shielded from the cold-hot of the Vast Black, and deaf from the whispers from the Outside, of the tapeworm Gods and the gnawed Damned alike. You were late, hidden under rumble as the fury of the Dawn and Autumn peoples alike passed over you, and you were nourished and kept to date. The Mind urged you to hurry in it's dying gasps, as it was rendered into a sarcophagi and to merge with the God-Blinder. The shining hull crumbles under threads of light, and the attackers pour into the pit. You must escape with haste. Now, what are you?

>TRUEBORN: A child birthed purely from the artifice, you are a pendulously pallid, lurid horror to haze upon by the frail minds of Men. Your graftings were flawless, for the position you were entombed in, and the foundations of Creation never seemed more clear to you.
>VASSAL: You are not Him, the First, the Black, you are but a facsimile of that glory, but greatness runs through your every joint. Hell is your heart, and you soar to meet the Marked upon the sky.