I am uncertain of who I am, and only recently have I recovered my memory of my muse. The Flute it seems, is something I can recall now, but as for anything else, save for my name, I know naught.

           The furthest my memory reaches, is perhaps the Paper cabin, whence, I coalesced from nothing. Willed by objects aglow, and voices void of origin, I moved and acted, rested and relaxed. For knowledge undisclosed to me, I was advised to explore and scour the land to find my writ and homage, to delve this world where little is known, to permeate each stone, each breath of air, and droplet of water.
           Though, to begin, my journey took me to a desolate, and distant locale, where my first creature marched from yonder realm unto my care. For which I am eternally grateful. A "Barren Soul" as he was named, blessed with the power to heal wounds, I received two such creatures. Also in my company stood two Aramor’s, wielding lethal axes, and clad in their metallic armor sought to quench the thirst of their blades.

            Though, with these powers, to what should I heal, to what should I combat? Encroaching darkness and an ominious air supplied the answer. As to where or what the darkness was, and why it took such fearsome forms, I additionally, knew naught.

            The creatures fought, and met upon the fray of their sextuple fields. Though, the creatures seemed infantile, unable to coordinate their attacks or manage their healing effectively. At the least, they were doing it was, they had the innate ability to do: To mend, and fight. Exhausted and weary after the scant few skirmishes (especially those around the house of liquid dust), I decided to allow my creatures rest upon the Paper Cabin, as additionally prompted by supplement glowing items, and voices.

                Darkness. My memory serves Darkness of the next event, and little more. A white box, a wager made with a hardly visible, seemingly sentient being. A candle, and small child, most likely a girl, a now wooden box. Then… A fountain, a carnival, a group of communers, and an insatiable hunger. I must note, my hunger is tertiary to memory, but remains still what is discernable.

                Now, with this very document, my memory eludes me, and that which is present, and what I create as memory is all that serves me well. I long for the past that I am unsure whether I had or did not have, for the knowledge of my years alive and origin and perhaps date of birth, for knowledge of my demeanor, which is pleasantly subservient and honorific of others, and perhaps why this is as well. I know very few things: that my quest is not one of lost purpose, or resolve to bring to salvation an ailing world, but to protect, to serve as a shield, to mend broken hearts, bones, and flesh, and to endow my will upon those around me, with which to ease this unforgiving, yet rewarding World’s burdens.