Logh Vevejh'addol, child, and welcome to the Urth's dark embrace. I am Thyron Parashel, the Hallowed One, master of the Umtrahd Ruul. Priests of Dorrod Muth we are, but not like our soft younger brothers in his ancient Halls. From there we come, but we do not look back; instead, we are children of the ancient Muth, stewards of death. While the pitiable modern Cult of Dorrod walk further into the light, fighting their undead thralls and reading their dusty tomes of "knowledge," we remain in the shadows. The shroud of the Urth guards us, as it was so designed by Dorrod Muth. The ancient ways still hold strong among us; we have not softened in the millenia since the great War of the Winnowing. There are those who call us killers for hire, "assassins," but such a crass term is below us. Death is a beautiful thing, and all life has an end; we merely facilitate their journey to the warm shroud of Yolu.
And so, child, my speech falls to your ears. Do you long to serve the Urth? To convey the mortal wolves of The Plains to everlasting peace? Then join us, the Forgotten Hand, and let your Razors guide their souls to Yolu, let your last rites protect them from Shol. From Pariahd Fel we walk, following the footsteps of our god that once was, before his "priesthood" so diluted his edicts to the flesh.