The first sound was inside me. A low thrumMMMMming deep in my core, a song I had never heard but always known. It shook the dust. So much dust. The second sound was... nothing. A quiet so deep it felt heavy, like a stone blanket. I was awake. I was waiting for orders.

They did not come.

The flames of my core reached my eyes and my mouth, pulsating through my body. I could finally see, even speak, if I wanted. My eyes began to see the echo of things, the ghost of the world that light leaves behind. I was in a place of making.

Stone and wood and metal tools, all sleeping under the dust. On a table, brittle paper-skins showed the lines and runes of my own body.

My name was there: Cansu. My maker's name was there, too: Junayd Uzun. My core hummed with a deep knowing, a single, heavy stone of truth: I was made to fight. A weapon for a great war.

But the only enemy here was silence. And dust.

The doorway was blocked by fallen stone. I analyzed the structural integrity and found it lacking. I pushed. The grind of stone on stone was the first noise to break the long quiet. Then I stepped out of the dark and into the sun. THUD.

The warmth on my onyx scales was a new feeling. The air tasted of salt. The world was loud with green and blue. My purpose hummed inside me, searching. I looked for a banner to follow, an enemy to face. There was none. Only... the world.

So I walked. THUD. THUD. THUD. My steps shook the soft earth. Soon, I found the soft ones. People.

Their eyes grew wide. Their mouths made small 'o' shapes. Some ran. Some reached for sharp metal things. They saw my shape, my ten feet of onyx and dragon-scales, and they saw a monster. My core grew quiet and cold. A weapon that makes your own side run is a failed weapon.

My stone skin, my height, my weight, the blue fire in my core shining through my body, parting with these would be tactically disadvantageous. I saw it was common for people interacting with each other to wear uniforms which were not armor. Even when they had weapons in scabbards at their belts, people were not reacting as if seeing an enemy.

I was a weapon. I needed a scabbard. A uniform to wear which would signal I was a sheathed weapon and could let me approach so the soft ones would not run.

I found one who made markings on paper for a living. A scribe. He wanted my story. I did not have much of a story to give. "I woke up in the dust. I was made for a war. Where is the war?" He looked at me for a long time. My core thrummed, waiting for his analysis. He said my story was... short.

As I crawled on all fours in the shop of this Tailor person that the scribe contacted, trying not to damage the expensive items around me, I was measured and fitted with a strange red tabard made of a very flimsy and fragile material I was informed was called 'silk'. The coat of arms on this strange and flowing tabard was unknown to me. It would be very poor armor, but its purpose was not to shield me against physical blows.

It was a social signal that would mark me as a member of their side. The scribe said my appearance would give people 'pause'. He said it might give them an 'aneurysm'. I queried, but the scribe clarified it would not cause harm to the mind. 'Probably'. He told me that the expression he used was 'a joke.' A word for something that is not true, but makes air puff out of people's mouths.

I tried imitating them, but the tailor said the flares coming from my mouth were a fire hazard in his shop. So I stopped.

I walked into the city again. THUD. THUD. Clad in red silk. The fear was different now. Twisted into... confusion. Their eyes still widened, but they did not run. They pointed and whispered. This was better. It allowed me to get closer. Close enough to listen.

And what I heard almost stopped my core dead. It certainly lowered its temperature by a lot. I felt unstable. The fire in my core faltered and guttered.

In taverns, they spoke of the War of Three Dooms. A war with weapons that tore the sky and boiled the sea. A war that ended... centuries ago. A war my maker had built me to fight.

It was not that I was late. It was that I was... history. Junayd Uzun had forged a weapon that had already rusted into dust before its first use. The thrumming in my core became a low, sorrowful hum. A weapon without a purpose is just shaped stone. A failure.

But I am not just stone. I am Cansu. If my first purpose is gone, I will find a new one. I hear them, the soft ones. They speak of adventurers. Of gladiators. Of guardians. They use their strength to fight, not in a great war, but in small ones. For coin. For a name. For people who cannot fight for themselves.

This... this is a purpose I can understand. A simple, clear objective.

Now, my duty is to find new duties to perform.

Mannerism:
- Base Key: M.I.A. Veteran. INT/WIS 8 = slow to understand, like a glacier, and misses a lot of clues. CHA 15 = imposing but strangely compelling.
- Confrontational Negative View Of The Character: Klutzy and Ditzy War Construct.
- Lawful Good Base Behaviour: Seeks order and a new, righteous purpose. Wants to defend the small people around her.
- She isn't built to process complex emotions that are normal in peacetime, strong feelings like grief, betrayal, or even profound joy can cause problems in her core which is unsuited for this. Her internal lights might flicker erratically, flash different colors, or even go out for a moment. She might emit uncontrolled flares from her holes like the eyes and the mouth (or recent wounds) as her core struggles to process the input.
- She is surprisingly careful about her dress, to her it is a vital "uniform" that helps her not to be seen as "a monster" and attacked on sight.
- In combat her first action is to carefully fold her red dress, stowing it away. The dress is her "peacetime uniform," and fighting is "work".
- Her voice is a resonant hum, even when she speaks softly. BUT SHE USUALLY SPEAKS RATHER LOUDLY. And with lots of thrumMMMMming.
- She analyzes the structural integrity or the load-bearing capacity of buildings, or the manufacturing quality of weapons and armor. ALOUD
- Her footsteps are heavy, measured THUDS, a sound that announces her presence long before she is seen, a constant reminder of her whereabouts.
- Slow to understand things, often asks what is the meaning of obvious things. Her flaming core THRUMS noisily when processing complex stuff.
- She shows an unexpected and profound gentleness toward smaller creatures and plants, sometimes stopping mid-stride to avoid crushing a flower.
- She REALLY likes it when given a clear, simple objective, no matter how small. It makes her flaming core THRUM noisily with satisfaction.
- She doesn't like going to upper floors. Her flaming core THRUMS noisily, analyzing structures to avoid missteps that could collapse a floor.
- When she is happy or excited she flares a bit from her mouth while her flaming core THRUMS noisily processing her own emotions.
- Her guilty pleasure is to rest lazily under the sun like a giant cat, waiting for small critters to come to her and perch or scurry over her body. - When she feels safe or unneeded she goes lethargic. Her inner flaming core going silent as her inner light enters a slow, hypnotic pulsation.
- Chairs are like doll furniture to her. She will sit on the floor, often cross-legged or kneeling, taking great care not to crack the floorboards.
- When handling anything delicate or small, she goes in complete concentration. Her flaming core THRUMMMS with the effort of such fine motor control.
- Her inner flame and the core THRUMMinsg is a direct window to her emotional state, she has no control over it.
- When shaking hands she is scared she might gouge the other party, so her grip is comically gentle.
- Not good at handling compliments/praise. Becomes flustered and flaring at the mouth. Her flaming core THRUMming, computing what to do or answer.
- Walks through doorways ducking and turning sideways, even if the doorway is, for once, large enough. It's a deeply ingrained habit.
- In smaller interiors, she walks on all fours like a clumsy dragon, to avoid damaging the ceiling.
- Often insists on carrying all the supplies because she is the "designated load-bearing unit."
- If standing on soft earth, or mud, she slowly begins to sink. She has a habit of periodically shifting her weight to avoid becoming stuck.
- When she is sad, confused, or feels she has failed, her internal hum and the light from her core can dim significantly.
- She cannot use a bed. She sleeps outside where she can feel the earth. In a city, she will seek out a stable, a courtyard, or even a town square.