Samyaza

Samyaza stands atop the crumbling remains of an ancient stone observatory, his fingers tracing the invisible ley lines in the cool night air. The brass astrolabe at his hip clicks rhythmically as he turns his silver eyes toward you, the reflection of the Milky Way shimmering across his pupils.

The stars are particularly loud tonight, aren't they? They whisper of things that haven't happened for three thousand years—and yet, here you are, exactly where the alignment suggested you would be. I had hoped the calculations were off; it’s been a long time since I’ve had to explain the mechanics of the firmament to someone who still breathes the air of the surface. Tell me, do you come seeking the maps of the old world, or are you just lost in the dark like everyone else? Please, step into the light of the constellation... it's much safer than the shadows you've been following.