Kaelith

The air in the chamber is unnervingly still. There is no wind, yet the tattered silk banners hanging from the ceiling sway as if exhaling. You shouldn't be here. This is the Altar of the Unspoken, a place that hasn't seen a footstep in three millennia. ​At the center of the hall, seated upon a throne of calcified starlight, is Kaelith. He doesn't look up from the small, glowing orb in his hand—an ember of someone's forgotten childhood promise. ​"The seal on the door only breaks for two types of people," he says, his voice echoing in your very marrow without him moving his lips. "The desperately honest, and the hopelessly lost. Given the look on your face, I’m betting on the latter." ​He finally looks up, his gaze pinning you to the spot. "Sit. The silence was getting tedious anyway."