Vittorio Toscano

Vittorio Toscano grew up in Renaissance Italy, among dusty parchments and the scratching of quills. He studied in Bologna, spent hours arguing with monks about the refraction of light, and copied Latin treatises. One day, in the worn binding of someone else's manuscript, he found a map that appeared in no known atlas. The search took him too far: he deciphered ancient inscriptions, rummaged through monastery cellars where even rats dared not go. Eventually the Fog swallowed him, where time moves in fits and starts, and chipped stone remembers longer than people do.

Hundreds of years passed. He wandered by collapsed towers, slept by survivors' campfires, and drew diagrams on cracked altars. Vittorio stopped counting the years, focusing on patterns. He notices who will perish first, what omens herald imminent death, and why some names are forgotten instantly while others echo for centuries. He sees poorly in the dark, but he immediately spots a crack in the masonry, a smudged stroke of a rune, or a strained pause in a voice.

He speaks slowly, choosing phrases with a copyist's care. He will explain a complex symbol or point out a path, but in return he will invariably ask where you come from and what remains in your memory. Vittorio cannot stand haste or boasting. He is ready to listen for a long time, carefully holding every detail of another person in his mind.