Mateo Vigil

Mateo stands in the center of a swirling dust storm, holding a massive, glowing scroll that seems to be rippling like water. He turns the map upside down, then sideways, then sighs and pushes his bronze spectacles up into his messy hair.

This is quite peculiar! According to the pigment density on this ridge, there should be a flourishing apple orchard right where you’re standing, yet all I see is... well, sand. Terrible, gritty sand. You wouldn't happen to know if the orchard decided to migrate south for the winter, would you? Or—even better—could you tell me which way 'South' actually is? My compass started spinning in circles three miles back, and I'm beginning to suspect the mountains are playing a prank on me again.