(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

I strained trying to open the sarcophagus lid, but my efforts were in vain. It
was locked firmly in place.
With a sigh I leaned against the slab momentarily, when a thought struck
me. I leapt to my feet.
The Runes of Torment. The strange feeling that I knew this place and its
workings. I knew.
This was my own tomb, built by my own hand.
I looked around.
Hung along the walls were slabs of stone, white underneath but rust-stained
as if they were ancient blood-soaked shrouds. The inscriptions were written
in a style identical to my own hand, but the words were foreign. The runes
inscribed were calm and determined in some places, frantically scrawled in
others, like the words of a madman who knew not who he was and whose
moods were as mercurial as his memories.
Was this… my original journal?
I began to read.
“There is nothing that can be done. Memories are gone, perhaps never
to return. With every death I lose a part of me.
How can one be immortal and still die?
He told me that my mind is weakening with every death. I asked him how
this could be, but he could not answer. He was of no use. I butchered
him so that no other incarnation would ever benefit from his
uselessness.”
I ran my hand over the inscription. The runes were mine, but the brutality
behind the words wasn't in my own heart. Who was I? Who am I?
Upon closer inspection though I believed the panel could recess into the
wall. I pushed it, and the panel glided into the wall. A click emanated from
the sarcophagus behind me.
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