The Phantom Gift Giver appears before you, smirking. He sees your inquiring look, and as a reply, hands you an old musty journal, which you glance at for a moment. But when you look up, The Phantom is gone, and only a trail of smoky shadow remains. You open up the book to find that most of the pages are too damaged or faded to read. In fact the only legible diary entry is the last one, so, you take a deep breath, and begin to read...
December 22nd, 1789
Oh, fortunate of days! Twas an evening of splendor and, yea, romance, this night at the Christmas masquerade. Mine fellows an' I placed a bet that, to the man whose compliments could woo the most maidens, a fantastic reward. Many words of eloquence and love dripped like honey from the mouths of the attending men this night, an' the ladies seemed not bothered, giggling amongst themselves when the fellows approached and recited their lines. "My eyes dwell on your beauteous face," "My arms shall be your sanctuary," and "Your words like music please me" are but a small sample of the sweet yet empty promises exchanged tonight.
I watched and observed these things come to pass, pondering what it could be that the women would truly indulge in, for I wished to not simply woo them, nay, these beautiful creatures deserved a lasting moment of romance: a moment in which these ladies could look back upon when their hearts are burdened with grief and remember that love, in it's purest and finest form, surely does exist. Studying their ways carefully, I came to the conclusion that words were not the correct vessel for such enduring love, watching the others try and fail and try again to charm the ladies with their vernacular. Concocting a plan of action, I slowly walked to where a cluster of young, and beautiful, maidens stood, giggling as one of the men walked away dejectedly after another failure at capturing their hearts, when one of them noticed me. I froze, trying mine utmost to retain my composure as all the women turned to face me, wondering and smiling, expecting another whimsical performance.
What I ended up doing did shock them, an' myself as well.
In an act of chivalry, I knelt before the fair ladies, bowing my head to them in respect, for such beauty and gentleness should not be taken lightly. They fell silent, and as I stood, I could see their demeanor had transformed from amusement into inquiry. Beginning to gain some confidence, I gave them a faint smile, then focused my gaze on the woman closest to myself. I could see her lips part as a small gasp left her soft pearl-decorated throat, and as I slowly approached her, I took out a rose from mine coat, one which I had intended to use for a boutonniere, though instead offered the delicate flower to the just as delicate lady. She accepted the rose with trembling hands, and seemed to blush as our hands brushed a brief moment during the exchange. Noticing, I took her hand suddenly, frightening the girls a moment, for it was the quickest movement I had made since coming before them. I knelt again and kissed her silky hand, then looked up at the flustered maiden and gave her a reassuring smile, then, feeling mine job done, quickly fled from their presence, never uttering even a single stray word.
By the end of the night, the scores of swooning girls became a symbol of mine victory, and though bitter, mine fellows have agreed to prepare for me a splendid reward, though they insist I be surprised by their token of sportsmanship. Though the reward now matters not to me, for I have found a new purpose in mine life; a most unexpected talent has emerged, and I wish to use it to make many more maidens feel the way I think all women deserve to feel: like the center of the world. I do feel a bit wary, this night, though. Mine fellows seemed... spiteful towards mine acts. I feel a deep foreboding in the brisk December air. I do hope I am merely in a moment of irrationality, perhaps a little slumber shall settle mine soul...