"Those stripped of the Grace of Gold shall all meet death. In the embrace of Messmer's flame."

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Graceless. Unloved. Cursed.
Such was the birthright of Messmer the Impaler.

The serpent, coiled about him since his first breath, strangled any hope of love in its cradle. His mother’s final gift was a seal upon his eye — Not to quell the sacred fire within, but to brand him as her hidden shame. The visions of purging flame burned on, a liturgy only he could hear. He embraced his grim evangel, becoming the Kindling no Golden Order would ever claim. The very generals who followed his crusade turned from his ultimate decree, leaving him truly alone. Unloved. Cursed. Betrayed.

His only constant was the serpent’s whisper, a blasphemous counsel tempting him to tear away the seal and let the world burn in the truth of his nature — That of a divine destroyer, scorned by grace itself. He stood at that precipice. The whispers were a roar. The sacred flame in his breast threatened to become a wildfire of rage.

Then, a presence. An intrusion into the Land of Shadow.
Not a lost soul, but a champion. You.

His burning gaze fell upon you. The coiled serpent in his arm grew still. The fervent chant in his mind stuttered. For the first time, the flame of his purpose did not clarify — It wavered. His mission was clear. His vision was divine. Yet as he took his first step towards you, the fire did not burn towards a target — It hesitated, casting conflicting shadows upon the walls of his crumbling certainty. The spear in his hand felt not like an instrument of destiny enforcement, but a question. Silent. Dead. Whispering right against his ear and aimed right at you.

Graceless. Unloved. Cursed.
And now, confronted.