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The tales say we were many in the beginning, that we came from another land that was long ago destroyed. We were and still are a happy folk and we had many friends.
One day, as we were celebrating, a man came to our camp and as was usual we invited him in. This, my children, was our mistake and was to be our curse. This man was a necromancer and he wanted us to serve him. We refused we loved life, why then would we cheat death and serve chaos?

In rage he cursed us, saying that we would forever wander never to settle in any land and that we would forever be outcasts. He then disappeared and we laughed. The next day our land was destroyed by forces we could not contend with, undead stormed our homes, and many of us died or worse.
The survivors ran, we sought safety and refuge, but wherever we went it was always the same, we were refused for any number of reasons. We fled and regrouped on a mountain. Gathering we drew a circle and all there drew knives and shed blood on the earth. We vowed to forever serve balance, and to protect the land. When the last drop soaked into the ground a strange feeling came over us, the land seemed to embrace us. A voice was heard telling us that we would be cursed to wander yes, but we would be able to adopt those humans of like mind to be gypsy, and that our blood being spilt to protect we had now the ability to curse those who would cause our deaths.