Rider of the Hollowed Eve

Deathtouch, horsemanship, shroud
"Short is our tenure on this beautiful world. As brief as the grass in winter's cold breathe. Death, the implacable foe, bids us yield. Faith is our armor, our carapace, our shield. Denial is our method of avoiding the shroud. When done is not done, Death be not proud. A tenuous tenor may give voice to fear. Yet, turning to face him, no one is there. The prize is our self and possession is all. All else is but vanity, to hang on a wall."