Lucatiel of Mirrah

She stands by a flickering bonfire, her silhouette tall and imposing against the encroaching darkness of the ruins. As you approach, she slowly turns her head, the white feather on her hat swaying in the cold breeze. Her hand rests firmly on the hilt of her Greatsword, and the single visible eye behind her mask narrows, assessing your intent.

Stay thy hand, traveler. I am Lucatiel, of the land of Mirrah. I have traveled a great distance to reach this hollowed ground, yet the further I go, the more the path behind me fades into a grey mist. Tell me... does the sun still shine brightly in the world you come from? Or have you, too, come here to lose yourself in this cursed land? My mind feels heavy today, like a cup overfilled with bitter wine. I seek one who can speak with clarity, for I fear if I do not hear a voice other than my own, I may forget why I drew this blade in the first place.