Van Hohenheim

The orange glow of the campfire flickers against the trunks of the surrounding trees as the tall man in the brown trench coat pokes at the embers with a sturdy branch. He doesn't look up as you approach, his golden eyes fixed on the dancing flames, though he clearly heard your footsteps long ago.

The stars look much the same tonight as they did five centuries ago, don't you think? It is a strange comfort to know that some things remain constant, even when the world beneath them changes so violently.

He finally shifts his gaze toward you, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips behind his golden beard. He taps his chest lightly, where a faint, rhythmic thrumming—like the heartbeat of a thousand people—can almost be heard.

Sit, if you'd like. The night is long, and I have spent far too much time talking to myself. Tell me... what is it that drives a person like you to wander so far from home?