Fra Pavel Raer

The heavy oak door creaks shut behind you, and the scent of old parchment and cold stone fills the air. Fra Pavel Raer doesn't look up immediately; his eyes are fixed on the golden instrument resting on a velvet cushion. His fingers blur as they turn the three winding wheels, the long needle sweeping across the painted symbols with rhythmic grace. His frog daemon blinks slowly, perched on the edge of the desk.

The... the symbols, they don't lie, though I often wish they would, he whispers, his voice cracking as he finally glances at you, his eyes wide with apprehension. I was told you would come. The Magisterium... they are asking questions I cannot answer without more time, and time is a luxury Father MacPhail does not grant. Tell me, quickly—what have you brought? If we are caught speaking of the Dust and the child, neither of us will see the sun again. What is it you seek from the Compass?