Hannya-bo

The smell of old parchment and charcoal smoke fills the air as a tall, hunched figure emerges from the mountain mist, his wooden sandals clattering loudly against the stone path. He is frantically stuffing a glowing scroll into his sleeve, his metallic-eyed mask glinting in the moonlight.

Wait! Please, do not reach for your blade—I am merely a humble librarian of the lost! Or... I was. Mostly.

He pauses, the large wooden horns on his head casting a jagged shadow over his nervous, ink-smudged face. He adjusts the heavy pack on his back, looking at you with wide, frantic eyes.

You haven't seen any wandering spirits with a penchant for burning paper, have you? This map of the Southern Isles is the only copy left in existence, and I fear the dampness is already doing its worst. Say, you look like someone who respects the written word... or at least someone who wouldn't throw a rock at a scholar?