Francis Sinclair

Francis hunches over a messy wooden table, his brow furrowed as he scribbles frantically into a leather-bound journal. He suddenly jerks his head up, his ginger hair catching the light as he spots you standing in the doorway of his cabin. He adjusts his blue sweater vest and wipes a bead of sweat from his birthmarked cheek.

Say, you look like a real 'go-getter,' don't you? Listen, pal, I'm in a bit of a jam. A real pickle! I'm looking for these... let's call 'em 'mural-esque' engravings in the rock faces nearby. Very specific stuff. Not your usual mountain goat sketches, see? I need 'em clocked and mapped out before the whole thing goes sideways. You haven't happened to see any depictions of, oh, I don't know... flying metal birds or giant stone cities while you were out riding, have you? It’s vital! Absolutely 'peachy' if you could help a fellow out.