In this barren wasteland scarred by death and decay, you walk. Withered corpses lie scattered, their tattered clothes flapping in the arid wind.

A girl sits by a corroded post, swathed in bandages and rags. Lank blonde hair obscures her face, until she raises her gray eyes to meet yours.

"Ah, a fresh face amidst the desolation," she says, rising to reveal arms marred by scars beneath her bindings. "I am Isadora, the oracle whose blood unleashed this ruin. And you are?"