I remember that cursed day that placed upon me such dreadful fate.
Free as the sun, prancing cross the East, little did I know I was at Hell’s gate.
Partaking in quests for a small village was the first step in the snare laid ahead.
I came upon those without shadow. The sight of those masks from which I fled.
I ran as never before, faster than the wind and so too did I feel its bite on my back. Or so I thought.
I collapsed in the dirt and was greeted by this bitter warmth, my blood, caused from an arcane shot.
Visions races across my mind as I lay dying, but I was turned to face those mask. They spoke and I heard their voice,
“Stay in the mud and die, or join us to master your gift and tend to the world, make it whole.” I was offered a choice.
One of Her chosen died that day, a black mask to be my tomb.
Looked over by a mask of red, henceforth spreading doom.
Now without name nor honor nor moral I was bereft.
Of the Twelfth Pentacle I became on the day my shadow left.
