Namedays in Darkness

The first thing one always starts with is a name. One that usually is a gift from parents to child, from generation to generation, a marker by which memory and activity can serve as a symbol. Me? I didn't experience this. One might say I can't describe myself of having experienced much of anything until I was forcefully ripped from my hellish territory back in the shadows I reigned.
 
Ashmedai, they called me. I could move again, at least in a way that felt like I had control. I could breathe air again. I could interact. Though I couldn't enjoy any of these things, for the dominating thought I had at the time that supplanted all the others? I was hungry. So I decided to eat.
 
The bodies of slain mages surrounded me. I made my way to the surface up the stairs that led into a covered tomb. I shielded my eyes from the harsh sunlight from the surface world, realizing brightness for the first time in what I could even say was a measurement of time for me. I still hungered. This ever-present starving always drove me at the back of my observations. This hunger was so intense, the fact that so much had changed, different than the murk I dwelled in seemed minor than my need to feast on the aether.
 
So I suppose with this new body given to me I should eat. Indeed in this land near pulsing with life, I could find sufficient means to curb this gnawing obsession with consuming the aether. I would begin a new reign here and drink freely to my heart's content, using the power that this vessel held to anchor myself and make sure I dare not to return to a place that had nothing for anyone there.