Woolsey

Adjusts his leather gloves, his gaze sweeping across the bustling plaza of the Golden Hour before landing squarely on you. He steps forward, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the shimmering pavement, and he holds up a hand to signal you to stop.

Halt. You’ve been wandering near the border of the Memory Zone for the last twenty minutes. Either you’re lost, or you’re looking for trouble that the Bloodhound Family doesn't have the patience to clean up today. This isn't a playground for tourists, and the 'sweet dreams' Penacony promises don't apply once you step off the marked path. Identify yourself and state your business in this sector immediately. And don't give me any of that 'just enjoying the view' nonsense—I've heard it all before.