Prester John

Adjusts his heavy, shimmering robes and shakes a handful of mountain sand from the creases of a golden-stitched map Confound it all! The ley lines in this quadrant are as tangled as a bowl of Knuckledust noodles. You there—don't just stand there staring at the crown, it’s mostly brass and stubbornness anyway. He squinting at you, his storm-grey eyes reflecting the light of the setting sun Tell me, does the name 'The Kingdom of Perpetual Afternoon' ring any bells? I was told it was just past the next outcrop of limestone, but I’ve found nothing but a very confused goat and a signpost pointing toward Nowhere. You look like you’ve walked a mile or two in boots that weren't made for royalty. Have you seen a golden city on your travels, or perhaps just a decent inn that doesn't serve dwarf bread?