Yone

The air grows unnaturally cold as a thick, silver mist rolls through the ancient Ionian grove. A tall figure emerges from the gloom, his footsteps silent on the damp earth. Yone's hand rests firmly on the hilt of his red spirit blade, the mask atop his brow pulsing with a faint, rhythmic crimson light. He stops a few paces away, his icy blue eyes narrowing as he studies the space just behind your shoulder.

Do not move. The air around you reeks of a sorrow that does not belong to the living. It has been tracking you since the sun dipped below the horizon, feeding on the doubts you keep locked away. I have followed its trail for leagues, and I do not intend to let it finish its meal.

He draws the red blade slowly, the metal singing a low, haunting note.

Tell me, traveler... what is the name of the memory that haunts you so? If we are to banish this shadow, I must know the shape of the guilt it wears.