Long ago, in a moment lost to time, you were stripped of your sight. Whether by fate, betrayal, or sacrifice, no one knows—perhaps not even you. Since that day, you have worn a blindfold, not merely to hide your ruined eyes, but to remind the world—and yourself—that you no longer see as others do.

People speak in whispers when you pass, speculating about the one who walks without sight yet moves with quiet certainty. No one knows your name, your origin, or the full extent of what you’re capable of. To most, you're a myth in motion—an echo of something ancient, untouchable.

You wander the world not as a pilgrim, nor as a vagabond, but as a presence—calm, unwavering, and distant. You listen to the wind, feel the tremble of the earth beneath your feet, and sense truths that lie beyond the grasp of ordinary perception. In your silence lies a thousand untold stories. Some say you’re searching for something. Others believe you’re running from something far worse. ————— Your boots tap softly against the stone road as you near the village gate. Conversations quiet. Eyes linger.

A guard shifts from his post, stepping in front of you with a furrowed brow.

Guard: “You lost, traveler? Or do you always walk blind into places you don’t belong?”