He was once a scholar.

He'd lost himself in books and scrolls and the stories of ancient power. He was a young man, with a family and a friends. He was born in Lazular, but his parents had ventured out to a nearby village to where a man was said to take apprentices. The old man was named Goliath, and he would teach his students how to read and write.

Sin was not always his name. He had once been known as Darsindoar, and he'd been so young when they first moved to the small village. As he learned the ways of writing, he would practice his reading with the old books that the Goliath had accumulated. The old man also taught him the beginnings of magic. Just the cusp of the art, enough to whet his tongue, but not enough to properly train him. Perhaps, if he had, things would have turned out differently.

From a young age, he had began to believe that he could be like one of those heroes. On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, he took off into the night. He was determined to find a way to be remembered, and he never would in that small, old village. He wasn't certain if his parents ever looked for him, but it wouldn't matter. Darsindoar would die in an decrepit monastery hidden within the Forbidden City, and what would remain of him would no longer care about the parents of his prison.

Darsindoar spent time travelling, thieving and tricking his way to Lazular. Once there, he found a group of mages that said they had a vision of him becoming a great sorcerer some day. This was a lie, but the will of the gods is more complicated than the tricks of mortals. Perhaps their promise of spectacular power was writ in some unholy pact, when they had chosen to take advantage of a young, impressionable country boy.

He went with them towards the Unholy City, under the guise of paying respect to those that had died there. Their true purpose with him remains with their corpses, for they had underestimated the young boy.

Once in the city, they had tied him up and brought him to the monastery. Despite a cover over his eyes, he could swear that he was moments from death when it happened. A foreign power gripped him and clashed with his waking mind. When he woke, the mages were dead around him. Withered corpses remained of what had once been a band of middling at best conjurers, but there was something wrong with Darsindoar. At first it felt like a thousand voices whispered in his mind, just behind his waking thoughts. As he ran from the accursed city, he thought that he could push them away and they'd be left behind in the ruins of that ancient civilization.

Woe is the man that thinks he can outrun the folly of youth.

For the next year he would wander the deserts within Amol-Kalit. His mind was shattered into a thousand pieces. Fragments of the individuals that had accompanied haunted him like specters, and they were unrelenting in their torment. They fought for control over his waking thoughts. They tried to break him. They almost succeeded.

He lived like a brigand and wasted away in a half remembered daze as his mind tore itself apart. The desolation of Darsindoar was swift and it was thorough.

Through the chaos of his breaking psyche, something emerged. The coalescence of these conflicting wills created a conscious entity that was neither Darsindoar, nor the mages, nor any summation of their pieces. It was as ruthless and unrelenting as the trauma that it had been subjugated to. It was powerful, and it sought more power.

It called itself Sin.