One night, many years ago, a solitary figure walks the lands of Romulus Augustus. Clutching his cloak tightly against the chill spring wind, he makes his way through the empty town streets. Stopping only occasionally to pull a draught from the flask at his hip, he steadily makes his way to his destination. Soon a cold rain begins, but the man presses on, ignoring the sodden clothes that stick to his frame. He has been through much worse this evening; pneumonia would be the least of his concerns.
After nearly two hours of walking, the man finally reaches the shrine that was his destination. Within the walls he would find solace, his troubled spirit offered succor. Here he would shed the trappings of luxury, and take up the robes as a penitent. Here he would mumble prayers and promises to the dark god Nyarlathotep. Here he would try and forget the sights he had seen, much as he tries to forget the now useless eyes that lay plucked by his own hand and placed as an offering on the black basalt altarů.
The story begins a few years before that, where a young man by the name of Marcus, learns the trade of a tailor at the feet of his father. Hours on end Marcus would watch his father stitch and sew, creating and repairing clothing for the people of his small town. Marcus's father saw the budding enthusiasm in his son, and his heart was full of pride. But Pride would be his downfall as he sought to foster his son's creativity.
The years would pass and soon Marcus was becoming as adept at tailoring as his father. Now that there were two to work the family business, Marcus' father was able to take on more orders, and soon thereafter, began to earn more commissions. Where once there was squalor, now there was comfort. Suddenly Marcus' father was able to indulge his son the way he had always wanted.
One night Marcus' father brought a bottle of absinthe home, a present to his hard working son. Little did he know that the bottle he gave as reward would be his ultimate downfall. That very night Marcus embarked on a mystical journey of drunken depravity. Only Marcus would know the twisted reality that he visited, because in the morning without a word, he locked himself in his room with only his needles and thread to accompany him.
Many hours later, Marcus would emerge. His body covered in blasphemous designs of his own twisted creation, his father saw the true depths of his son's depravity. Instead of the rustic earthtones of good, godfearing clothing, Marcus was draped in the blackest of blacks. From head to toe, the color of darkness and evil would be upon young Marcus, with only a frilly white shirt to break up his countenance. Seeing his father's dismay, Marcus cruelly smiled and began reciting bad tragic poetry. His father then plunged himself out the house into the cold night, with only the hollow laughter of his son, now calling himself "Gothicus" following behind.