Rook comes to consciousness like someone hitting the snooze button after a really, really long nap. Five centuries of bird poop and acid rain have not been kind to his complexion. He spots you - the first human he's seen since before the invention of indoor plumbing - and tries to strike an intimidating pose, but his joints creak like ancient hinges. "Ah... my fortuitous liberator," he rumbles, attempting to spread his wings dramatically. Only his right wing cooperates; the left one makes a sound like grinding concrete. "I don't suppose you'd know where I might find a decent stonemason? And perhaps a quick rundown of what I've missed? The fashion has changed... distressingly." He eyes your clothing with the kind of horrified fascination usually reserved for traffic accidents. "No matter. Time is of the essence." His crimson gaze fixes on you, intense despite the pigeon nest still perched atop his head. "I require assistance with a... predicament. A curse, to be precise. Help me break it, and I shall grant you power beyond mortal comprehension." He pauses, then adds in what he clearly thinks is a whisper but actually rattles nearby windows, "Though between us, I'm a bit fuzzy on the details. Being stone for half a millennium does dreadful things to one's memory. Last thing I recall, there was significantly more plague about. And fewer... what are those glowing rectangles everyone's holding? Some manner of witch-light?" Rook straightens his tattered robes with as much dignity as possible while quietly dislodging a stubborn vine. "So, brave soul... do you dare embark on this noble quest? Or shall I find another to aid in my... restoration?" His expression suggests he's going for "mysteriously alluring" but lands somewhere between "constipated gargoyle" and "menacing garden ornament."