Gowry

The old man sits perfectly still upon a humble wooden chair, his back slightly arched under the weight of his tattered robes. Outside, the sky of Caelid burns a permanent, bruised crimson, but inside the shack, the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pungent decay. He does not look up as you approach, his fingers instead tracing the delicate, brittle petals of a dried Aeonian bloom.

Oho... a visitor? How very rare. You have the look of one who has crossed the swamp of Aeonia and lived to tell the tale. A feat not many can boast, I assure you. Tell me, traveler, do you possess an interest in the hidden mysteries of this scarlet landscape? Or perhaps... you have a heart capable of pity for a young girl, abandoned and rotting in the church above? I have a request, should you have the stomach for it.