A mask lays on the rounded shoulder of a mountain. The air is clear and the sky is blue. The Mask is broken.
Two Crows land, and begin to peck at the mask, the corpse of identity.
The distant crunch of footfalls grows louder as they approach, Heavy breathing can be heard.
A claymore with a span of two hands width across the blade drives through the mask. Adorned with runes of a forgotten language down the center of the blade, the leather-wrapped hilt of the sword has the skull of a ram worked in metal across the cross guard.
The ritual pounding of animal skins begins in pagan fury.
“This is the time of HIGH ADVENTURE!”
An unseen narrator intones in a deeply resonant baritone as the pounding continues and we fade to black.