Basalt (Bah-salt)

An elderly White Dragonborn hermit, living in the frozen wastes of the wilds.
His white scales are edged with a silvery blue, his face is scarred by a trio of long dark scratch marks - leaving behind black scar tissue. His hunched poster places him much shorter than if he where to stand fully erect, instead his back is bent nearly into a perfect curve.
His misty white eyes suggest he is blind, although he seems capable of discerning friend from foe.
He wears thick tanned leathers and furs as he walks with a crooked cane that bends from his hand to the ground like a sickly root.

  Commonly mistaken as the Stranger who guided the Callaird Surivors, yet has no idea who or what spawned such dribble of thoughts. All stories of blind men meandering the reaches of the world clearly are the same person
Between Deadman's Keep and the Cloven Trail - surviving off a diet of cave mushrooms and melted snow he is frail and brittle. His eyes long snow blinded by the decades, his arcane ability has granted him true sight even while his physical eyes are ruined.
Once a Scholar and priest of the Thekkar Empire he fled the religious scrutiny of the Shale to the north with a clutch of loyal Bahumat followers. He now lives his life alone - the clutch dying off either to the cold or to the harsh life of the Wilds. Yet Basalt is still a devout believer in the Platinum Dragon, and swears that if one soul still draws breath that he will return than thus it must be true.

Discussion with the Triboar Travelers

While he does not know much of Father Osmium he is well aware of the undead plague, the power echoes from a time lost beneath the sands of time.

Listen, Travelers, and heed the wisdom I bring forth. In the currents of time, a shadow has risen, a threat looming over our existence - this you know well, but hardly no at all. It is not merely an external force that we fear, yet the culmination of our own actions, our own choices, and the echoes of our collective consiousness.

Bahsalt shares thoughts on Ajikesk, and through the weave glances a parcel of the future. His arcane abilities drive him to pull from the fabric of the Astral Sea - and into the realm of magic only touched by Mystra and Bahumut.

Basalt begins to chant in a language lost to the world. The words are not just spoken; they are being woven into the very fabric of reality, they resonate and harmonize with the weave and a glimpse of the Astral Sea fills the air. As his incantation weaves through the air, tendrils of shimmering light start to emerge from the ground, spiraling around Basalt like ephemeral wisps of snow and light. These luminous tendrils extend into the surrounding space, intertwining and folding upon themselves and weave he has projected, forming a lattice-like pattern that bridges the realms of existence and magic. Basalts fingers begin to move in a dance of intricasy, as if plucking invisble threads from the air, the lattice response in turn, shifting and pulsating in response to each pull of a thread - the air vibrating with the harmonious resenence of the incantation and the moons above casts their pale light upon the spectacle of magic as the incantation ends - Basalt begins to speak and an scene of wisps begins to dance within the lattice.
 

Behold, a cautionary tale from the annals of history, a threat that once cast a long shadow upon humanity. As we peer into the tapestry of time, let us remember the lessons woven into the fabric of our past, for they hold the wisdom we need to navigate the present and secure our future.
you see an image of flerg fighting charging forward with several other teiflings at several humanoid enemies with unnaturally long limbs and sharp teeth, before flashing to a wounded flerg and a pile of dead around him, the image ignites in fire
the smoke settles quickly and from the perspective of a woman, her slender yet brusied hands pull and break the leather necklace that holds an intricate bear totem onto the neck of slain goliath of a man, as tears fill the image, before it shifts to
A young blond child born to wealth sitting at a large family table blurred faces of his parents, suddenly smoke whirls about the image, before you see child in a bleak allyway, his face smeared with blood and dirt, clothes torn and riddled with ash, and a hand extending out to him in the dark, before the image fills with shadows
the image again relites and you see Vinras, chained infront of a massive forge, hammering away at blackened steel, his back shredded and with the quick crack of whip the image changes again,
a dragonborn dressed in fine clothes, a rhombus-shaped design neatly stitched into the back of his jacket, presents a massive waraxe to some elder kin sitting infront of a minka, the image shakes flashing blue and white before the image shows the dragonborn standing alone on a barren beach the axe in his hands and his jacket torn open, the design torn out and fades to black ...
The picture shimmers and humms and a series of images flash for a moment each: a Tortle helming a strange vessel across an even stranger sea, A Massive beautiful tree in a verdant valley, A Dinosaur laying on the edge of a cliff, curled around a intricate sword, the depths of the sea writh and spiral into the black depths, a pair of crossed scimaters stabbed into the sand, an arcane orb of blue and white, a pink haired lady dancing with a princly figure, and an assassin taking aim with crossbow - the tip dripping with a purple poison.   Once the images cease, Basalt speaks once more:
In the days of old, a formidable threat emerged, not from the depths of the cosmos, nor from the hidden corners of the Earth, but from the recesses of human ambition and unchecked power. It was the threat of hubris, a blinding arrogance that led those in positions of authority to overstep their bounds and disregard the sacred balance of life.
The tale speaks of a civilization that reached towering heights of technological prowess and grandeur, yet lost touch with the very essence that sustained their existence. They harnessed the forces of nature, manipulated matter, and wielded knowledge like a double-edged sword. But in their pursuit of dominion, they forgot the interconnectedness of all things, the delicate equilibrium that held their world together.
And thus, He rose, a being of immense power, driven by the desire to conquer, he polluted the skies, poisoned the waters, and ravaged the land. Brought war amongst the people, heedless to the toll the conflicts inflicted upon the world that bore them and his insatiable appetite for power, fueled by the unquenchable thirst for progress, pushed the very civilization to the brink of collapse.
The viel between life and death is quivering, the fabric of reality itself straining against this impending force. Our mortal sight, viewing this tapestry of time to be woven and rewoven, the rise emerges from the mists of memory again, once lost to the annals of history, he is poised to make an enigmatic return. Death itself is writhing with both unease and reverance for the united threads of destiny are a ichimoku of the pilgrimage of seven, the hands of time that dictate life and death in all its intricacies becoming unearthed in the face of this adversay and his unchecked power.