From the Phanniemay prompt for Origins.
I am a weapon, and a damn good one at that.
My legend - that detestable tale - states that I am an innocently curious girl created as a pretty thing for the eyes of men. My legend is wrong.
I was designed and created to be a warrior, a new kind of warrior, stronger and more fearsome than any man. I was a success; I was invincible.
Then the very deities who created me took my might from me.
I was too powerful for their liking, even though I was made to do their bidding. They observed my ingenuity when I invented my box to contain the evils of mankind, and they began to fear me.
Rather than doing something reasonable, Zeus struck me down with a lightning bolt. Those cowards hid my existence from man, warping my name into the farce it is today.
But the joke's on them! In their attempt to neutralize the threat I posed, the gods made me stronger than ever before. Ghosts - who had ever heard of such things? - were something the gods could not see from Mount Olympus, as they resided in a realm all their own. We do, rather.
I still carry out my self-appointed duty of protecting mankind from the evils I captured, of course. I would not abandon them that way, the foolish creatures they are.
I have another goal, too, however.
Here in my small kingdom in the dimension of the dead, I await the day the children of the gods finally overthrow them. I rest in standby until those traitors inevitably find themselves at my mercy.
After all, no matter how powerful you are in life, those abilities take time to reclaim in death. I don't plan to give them the chance.
Word Count: 293
