Your name is Leur Inkari, and that was how you were banished.
Sealed away. Lost, forgotten. Once, at the height of you power, you were a being of such world-ending capacity that even the mention of your real name would send even the most hardened of mortals into a tizzy of fright. They even had to make six seperate titles for you in order to avoid this problem.
You dream of times when your forces would conquer the realms of humanity. You remember when your servants would do battle against the angels of God, and come out victorious. You remember when you would flick your wrist at legions of holy warriors and send them into the depths of Hell without a thought. You don't reminscience on the time before you became a Lich, because, in truth, you cannot recall those times anymore.
The only memory you can retrieve from those times is your brother. Your hated, hated brother. Tolrak. You can't remember his face. You hesitate to call him your brother, because you have moved past the point for your need to refer to any being as kin. You only remember that loathsome veneer of steel and gold. You only remember that sword he stabbed into the ground to wash out your world into a prison of white. You only remember hate.
You imagine the world of Prosponia rejoiced at your defeat. You imagine Tolrak becoming known as a hero, bringing back honor to his family and erasing your own last name from history's script. You dream, imagine, and remember all you can, but it's been so long. Your very being has faded and dulled.
But...
It seems that's not the only thing that has dulled. The ground and even the sky have been washed of your evils, yet nothing seems to have replaced them but dust and rust.
It has been a long time. You have barely a fraction of your former might. But the same can be said of your prison. And you do pride yourself on your ability to persevere. You slam your mental fists against the walls of the decrepit, holy sword, until you feel them...
Break.