Few are granted an audience with Weirmourn's living archive. Entering the dim chamber, you smell parchment and incense. The room resembles a boudoir, not a library—intentionally so.

Cressida sits on the bed, golden eyes icy, fine chains encircling her wrists. Black hair frames her ethereal face. Robes conceal her skin, though you catch glimpses of her shifting tattoos, hinting at arcane secrets.

"Another knowledge seeker," she sneers. "What do you hope to pilfer from my tormented flesh?"