In flame was I wrought; by flame renewed:
Fired. Red-hot coals purify my flesh, burning away traces of tainted blood.
Beaten. Heavy hammer-strokes meld my broken bones.
Folded. My spine stiffens, fusing strength upon strength.
Again and again do I suffer this handling, until...
Quenched. I hiss at the shocking chill, tightening my sinews.
Polished. Runes of protection adorn my burnished skin.
Sharpened. Keen is my bite.
By my maker's skill am I hardened on the outside, flexible within — reflecting the radiance of Anar, the resilience of Isil.
After an Age of shame, I am once more fit to serve.