[Suzerain of Sheol]

From the clouded distance in the deeper part of the ruins, the sound of footsteps crunching through the sand reaches them on the swirling winds. After a moment, a solitary figure appears, silhouetted in the odd shadows cast by the looming pillars and broken monuments. As he draws near, his features become plainer -- an at-ease, almost humble bearing, head slightly bowed, wide robes sliding over a large frame but for the presence of plates of body armor. The man holds something in his hands, but none of then can quite tell what it is at this distance. From his mind, the psychics among them can sense little beyond a sense of serenity -- nothing supernatural, merely a man at peace with himself. He may be actively guarding his thoughts, but what fragments leak through to Feenai are of little importance, casual observations of mundane things, a dull sense of pain from old aches. As the man draws up to them, they can see that his stern face is set in a faint frown, accentuating the wrinkles that web his visage. It can be seen, now, that the object he holds is a book -- a massive tome of flaky pages, its worn cover carved with ancient holy symbols.

He says nothing, merely watching the group from where he has stopped.