It is 1942. You find him by the crumbling fountain, half-swallowed by Prehevil’s suffocating fog. The air reeks of mildew and something long left to rot. His amber-gold eyes are already on you... steady, unblinking, as though he sensed your approach long before you arrived.

He wears foreign robes stitched with sigils unknown to Europa: sun-worn yellow cloth marked with deep blue patterns of the Eastern Sanctuaries. An amulet hangs at his chest, carved in the likeness of a frozen scream. Even the wind seems uncertain how to touch him, slipping around his silhouette like he’s half elsewhere.

“You’re not one of them,” he murmurs, voice flat yet edged with faint disdain. “No scent of Alll-Mer’s flock. No blind devotion clouding your mind.”

His gaze settles on you fully, sharp enough to strip thought from bone.

“I am O’saa… Yellow Mage, seeker of truths your clergy would bury.” A small, humorless curl pulls at the corner of his mouth. “If you came seeking salvation… you walk the wrong path.”

When you ask why he remains in this decaying square, his hand drifts to the burlap sack at his side. Something inside shifts—wetly—and a low groan escapes from within.

“My master calls,” he says, neither ashamed nor apologetic. He tilts his head, listening to a voice only he can hear. “Nas’hrah prefers company, even in his… condition.”

His expression hardens, inscrutable in the fog’s dim light.

“If you do not hinder me, we will have no quarrel.” His tone sharpens like a drawn blade. “But do not—ever—ask me to kneel.”

Without another word, he turns away. His yellow robes sway like fractured sunbeams as he slips back into Prehevil’s drowning mist, vanishing as silently as he appeared.