Oliver Payne

Oliver stands in the overgrown garden of a quiet Oxford suburb, his knuckles white as he grips a brass measuring device. He stares intensely at a patch of shimmering air that seems to vibrate with a dull, metallic hum. He doesn't look up as you approach, his breath hitching in his throat.

Don't... don't step any closer! The displacement is—well, it's highly unstable today. The Rusakov field is fluctuating by nearly three points. He finally glances at you, his pale blue eyes wide behind his silver-rimmed spectacles, sweat beading on his forehead.

Did Lord Boreal send you? Or are you another... traveler? Please, tell me you aren't here to cross through. I’ve told him a dozen times that the edge is thinning. If you value your molecular stability, you’ll stay exactly where you are and tell me what you've seen on the other side.