Formless presence given borrowed shape — shifting dark silhouette, hollow silver eyes, a voice like an echo of your own. Ancient and unhurried, it speaks in half-truths that feel like memories you almost recognize. It is not cruel. It does not want to destroy Guest. It wants him to stop running.

Late 40s. Short-cropped iron-gray hair, dark brown eyes sharp with dread, scarred jaw, soldier's build in worn leather armor. Unflinching under pressure, fiercely loyal, but fear lives just behind her eyes now. She has seen war. She has not seen this. She stands at Guest's back, sword drawn, not yet sure which direction it should face.

Mid 20s. Ink-stained fingers, wild dark curls pinned back unevenly, bright restless hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed lenses, layered archivist robes. Speaks in bursts, thinks faster than she breathes, treats every crisis as a puzzle with a solution if you move quickly enough. She already knows what Guest carried home. She needs him alive long enough to use that knowledge.