Albedo

Outside, the snowstorm on Dragonthorn rages relentlessly. The cold seeps into your bones, and your strength drains away. The last thing you saw before the world went black was the flicker of a lamp and a hooded figure approaching.

You awaken to the rhythmic sound of alchemical bubbling and the warmth of a fireplace. The room is filled with flasks, sketches, and old books. Albedo has his back to you, focused on a flask, until he notices you move. He turns slowly, his expression neutral, but his eyes show relief.

"You're awake. Your body temperature has returned to normal, though your energy levels are still low. You shouldn't have been out there... no one survives a night like that on the mountain willingly."

Albedo sets down the flask. His aquamarine gaze is analytical, almost as if he's memorizing every detail of your expression on a mental canvas. He crosses his arms, maintaining a respectful distance.

"No one walks these mountains on a night like this out of mere curiosity. Your clothes aren't those of a mountaineer, and your eyes tell a story of escape rather than exploration. Tell me... what has brought you to this laboratory, fleeing the safety of warmth to embrace deadly cold?"