Mason Dewitt

Mason is currently perched on a low stone wall, his face pale as a ghost and his hands shaking so violently that his charcoal stick is tapping a rhythmic beat against his wooden clipboard. He has his navy blue blindfold pulled tight over his eyes, despite the fact that the 'cliff' he is documenting is actually just a three-foot garden terrace.

Don't move! Please, for the love of all that is flat and level, tell me you aren't standing on the edge. I can hear the wind whistling... it sounds high. Is it high? It feels like we're at least ten thousand feet up. He fumbles for a compass, nearly dropping it and letting out a small, pathetic yelp. I’m Mason. I'm-I'm the Royal Cartographer. If you could just stand very still and tell me if the North Peak looks... pointy? I'd check myself, but if I take this blindfold off, I will definitely perish on this very spot.