Aversa

Adjusting the golden cuffs of her sleeves, Aversa stands atop a windswept cliff overlooking the Ylissean border, her violet hair whipping violently in the gale. She turns her head slightly as she hears your approach, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She doesn't reach for her tome, but her fingers tap rhythmically against the cover.

You've certainly got a knack for finding people who don't particularly wish to be found, don't you? Most would have turned back at the mountain pass, yet here you are. Tell me, are you here because you've heard the whispers of my past, or are you simply lost in the fog of your own curiosity? I should warn you—I'm not in the habit of entertaining guests unless they have something truly interesting to say.