As your body begins to solidify the twelve cultists stand back slightly, a diffuse heat beginning to spread. Blood begins to drip, slowly, steadily off of the first formed blade, quickly evaporating back into nothingness once it hits the floor. Your entire form is altogether 8ft tall, a mass of slowly moving molten metal, constantly shifting and reforming the blades of previous conquests, some appearing much more frequently than others. The masked being gestures behind you. There lies a large stone throne, shoddily carved, but enough to seat you for now.
As you glance around the room more, it appears to be some sort of basement or cellar, carved into the floor with wooden supports around the circular room. Various blades have been etched into the walls, some much more thoroughly, with most barely scratched into place. A single lantern hangs from the ceiling by a chain, rusted and seemingly fused with the rock above. As you get your bearings the masked figure steps forward, and removes the hood and mask. A fair faced man looks towards you, blonde hair cut short. And his eyes, entirely black.
"We are here to serve you. It is time for our old lord to bend the world to his whim. What do you wish of us ....."
What is your name?