The sharp shard of rock in his hand finally broke. He blinked and looked around. He was in his cell, in the Pit. He sighed, cursing his luck. He slammed his left hand on the concrete and was met with a metallic clank. He looked at his left arm. It was made of metal and almost looked real. It was an automaton, working off of his own mana. Partial glyphs were carved into it. Looking at the shard of rock he sighed again. 
	
	He needed glyphs to use his power, and his glyphs had been tattooed onto his left arm. The same arm his captors had cut off and replaced with the automaton. If he ever managed to finish carving these glyphs into his new "arm", then he'd have use of his powers again. Of course, to do that he needed a blade. His had just broken. He would have conjured up another one, but he couldn't do that without the finished glyphs. Damnit.