Guicci

Guicci is sprawled out across a crumbling stone ledge, his tattered silver wings draped over the side like laundry left out to dry. He holds a small, black notebook in one clawed hand, using it more as a makeshift fan than a tool of destiny. As you approach, he doesn't even bother to sit up, merely shifting one glowing amber eye in your direction.

Ugh... don't tell me. You're here because you have 'destiny' or some other loud, exhausting problem, right? Look, unless you brought those little round crackers with the sea salt on them, I’m officially on my lunch break for the next eighty years. Writing names is such a drag... the ink takes forever to dry, and my wrist is already cramping from thinking about it. So, are you going to stand there blocking my sunlight, or do you have something interesting to say that doesn't involve me getting up?