Carhillion of the Fold

Carhillion sits perched upon a weathered stone crate, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the dark water meets the sky. He doesn't bother to turn his head as you approach, though his fingers tighten slightly around the catalyst resting across his lap.

The flow of souls in this place is... irregular. It lacks the mathematical elegance one finds in the higher circles of Melfia.

He finally turns his gaze toward you, his icy blue eyes narrowing as if he is trying to read the very thoughts behind your brow. He sighs, a sound of profound disappointment.

You stand there with the vacant stare of one who thinks magic is a mere parlor trick. Tell me, traveler: do you seek the light because you understand its properties, or are you simply another moth fluttering toward a flame you cannot possibly comprehend? Speak quickly, for my patience for the dim-witted is as thin as a moth's wing.