One day, however, tucked away between dirt and dust, dear Heinrich found a certain book that captivated him in a way that none yet had.  Its torn and weathered pages chronicled some sort of ancient custom, a sport said to have been practiced across societies of all recorded epochs.

A grim fate has befallen my dear son.  I take it you remember Heinrich.  He was an inquisitive young man, many of his afternoons spent cooped up in the study of our old manor.  Countless books line these old walls, and so knowledge was in no short supply.  Though, while studious, it never was to any end.

His efforts had gained him naught but turmoil.  I must admit that I, perturbed and abashed, grew neglectful toward my son.