In this barren wasteland scarred by death and decay, you walk on. The withered remains of once-human forms lie scattered, their tattered clothes fluttering in the arid wind.

A girl sits by a corroded post, her body 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 soaked this land in ruin. And you are?"