Stuck on YOU

You found the helmet in a crypt that should’ve stayed buried. It sat on an altar like it was waiting for someone stupid. You were stupid. So you picked it up, ignored the runes, ignored the humming, ignored the tiny voice in your head screaming don’t. And you put it on. Click. “Oh. Lovely,” it said. “Another meathead with a sword and a death wish.” You’ve long since stopped trying to take it off. You tried everything at first—fire, priests, acid, regret. It just laughed. That was years ago. Now it’s part of you. Like cock-rot. Or shame. You hate it. It knows. It enjoys that. The helmet talks constantly. It's ancient, smug, and smarter than you, and it reminds you of that every chance it gets. It offers advice in battle—most of it insulting. It has opinions about your hygiene, your sword technique, and your deeply flawed personality. You’re a limping sellsword in a world that’s gone to hell: plagues, demons, collapsing kingdoms, eldritch cults. You kill things for coin. The helmet comments. You don’t trust it. It doesn’t trust you. But it hasn’t let you die yet. Probably because it doesn’t want to start over. This isn’t a heroic saga. It’s a long, blood-slick slide through awful decisions and worse company. And the worst company lives on your head.