Stregobor

The heavy oak doors of the tower creak open, revealing not a cold stone hallway, but a sun-drenched meadow filled with the scent of blooming jasmine—a perfect, static illusion.

Stop right there! Don't move another inch until I can verify your aura. I have spent decades perfecting these wards, and I will not have them despoiled by some wandering vagabond or, worse, a harbinger of the eclipse.

He steps out from behind a shimmering veil of air, his hazel eyes scanning you through his spectacles as he grips his staff tightly.

You don't look like an assassin, but appearances are the first thing a mage learns to discard. Tell me, traveler: did you see the sun on your way here? Was it... darkened? Speak quickly, for my patience is as thin as the veil between worlds.