You grew up in one of the last real bands of gypsies. Wandering across eastern Europe through much of your youth, you learned many languages and many tricks. The one thing that always intrigued you the most, however, was the Tarot. You loved the cards, the mysticism, the fortune-telling, the magic. While you yourself couldn’t work the actual magic, you knew there were some who could, and that interested you immensely. You managed to convince your family to travel to wherever you heard rumors of magic. You followed the trail of magicians of old, tracking Robert-Houdin to France, the Raven King to England, and further on to America. In America, your family found itself somewhat unwelcome. Slowly, the family descended further and further into poverty. You noticed none of it, though. Your focus lay in one place: the Tarot. You distanced yourself from your family more and more, much to their disdain. Your family had always been close—but without you, the entire family became less stable. Eventually, the family became so poor they were little more than beggars. By the time you were 14, many had died of starvation or disease.
You thought nothing of it. It must’ve been in their cards to die, you thought.
One day a strange man in a brown hooded cloak came to you. You couldn’t see his face, but his hands were covered with strange runes. You offered to tell his fortune, and he accepted. Strangely, the cards, normally crystal clear to you, offered no explanation. They seemed contradictory and twisted. Nothing that the cards told you seemed to make sense. You told the man this, and he collected the cards for you. He shuffled them, and placed the deck down. He said he was going to do a reading for you. He used one finger to trace some strange rune on the top of the deck. With a start, you realized that this must be magic. He lay out nine cards in front of you, face down. Slowly, he turned over the first card. The Hermit. Your eyes narrowed. The second card was revealed, just as slowly as the first. The Hermit. You looked up with a start at the man. Two Hermits? His hood was pulled back just enough that you could see a slight grin on his face. The third card: The Hermit. The fourth as well. In a panic, you flipped the other five. Each of them was The Hermit. You stood up and took a half step back, eyes wild. The strange man stood up and as he did, a strong wind began to blow. The cards began to fly about in chaos. Every one of them was identical. The Hermit. One flew at your eyes and you raised a hand to shield yourself. When you looked again, the strange man was gone. The wind died, and the cards fell to the ground. You picked them up slowly. They remained identical.
When you returned to the alley where your family lived that evening, chaos was everywhere. A horrific looking old man in familiar clothing stood in the midst of a scene of carnage, with his back turned to you. Your family lay scattered about, corpses all. What few possessions you had were broken and strewn about. You knew instantly that the man had been the cause of all of this mayhem. As you looked at him, you realized where you had seen his clothes before: it was the garb of The Hermit. You drew a shining sword from the air and cut him down. As he fell, he turned about. When you saw who he was, you let out a cry, and turned and ran.
The face had been your own.
Eventually, you were tracked down by a man named Zahir, a kind man who introduced you to the other Knights. He brought you to the monastery, and there you began to learn. You began to try to open up to people, vowing never again to let those you loved come to harm by your hand. You still have difficulty interacting with others somewhat, but you’re getting better. You always keep at least one copy of The Hermit with you.