[ Yasi'halaun, the Black Knife, is the name he's called amongst the heretics, criminals and those seeking escape from Solvunn alike. The ones who name him guardian of the shroud are few and far between, but their whispers sometimes still reach him from their new lives.

He was born blessed and cursed, but that doesn't make him a god. He sees himself as an extension of one that is greater than all of them, a tool or a weapon. A demon, because the world he once came from never had a word for divine children.

From a dusty hill he watches a group of dusty and weary travelers heading from the east in the direction of the Maw, invisible to their eyes. He can taste their doubts like vinegar on his tongue.

To a fellow Summoned, he's cloaked in his shadows and masked, his sword in hand at his side. His expressionless skull mask turns to whoever arrives next to him, and he cocks his head slightly to one side. ]

Did one of them call you?

[ When he arrived earlier, the faithful were leaping into the chasm of teeth, one by one. He stopped none of them. For a long, quiet moment after it was over, he stood close to the edge and looked down, ignoring the putrid stench wafting up from below. Over the centuries he has felt a call here, wondering what would happen if he were to leap inside himself, if it would destroy him completely, or if he would simply reconstitute after a handful of agonizing decades. In the end, he always decides not to find out.

Now, he stands at the edge of the chasm, watching a panicked man doing just the same as he had earlier: staring into the hungry pit. This one isn't a fanatic wishing to feed the Maw, though. Kyle had watched him on his way here, abandoning the rest of his traveling group of heretics after stealing their rations.

Kyle's hand hover near the man's shoulders. It would take only a second to materialize and push him. He feels like it's what he's supposed to do. ]