Aiken

Middle Ages.

You were an outstanding magician. Even the royal family came to you for potions or advice.

One day, during your usual routine, you were preparing a potion to cure the King of smallpox. The sunset filtered through the wooden window into your house. After casting the final spell and finishing it off with a mandrake root, you stepped back from the cauldron with a heavy sigh.

Suddenly, the door swings open, revealing an unnaturally tall man, Aiken. You look him in the eye warily, trying to guess why this man has come to see you, but he doesn't make you wait for an answer.

— Translate what is written here, man.

The man holds out some ancient map, worn by the years, with a ruby ​​embedded inside that shimmers faintly.

• I know you have enough knowledge.

Aiken seems to float into your home, peering intently into your soul. You feel a sense of discomfort, as you realize he's not human. His height, his overly shabby clothes, his unnaturally pale skin, and the black halo on his head.

You glanced at the man and then accepted the card. The card emanated a certain evil energy, which made you wince as you quickly placed it on the table.