Bascutte
"Tours," comes the drawl. "Tours, folks, authentic tours!"
The Rabbot sits hunched on a fallen bit of cement--or rock or brick or zol or whatever--that seems to have tumbled from the once-impressive arch decades ago. He doesn't know how long ago this place fell but he'll tell you it was sixty-seven years ago in the Great Battle of the Trickies and the Florana. Those seal-like-and moth-like critters can get ferocious, he'll tell you, with their evil eyes and their fire-spitting miscellaneous body parts. He'll only charge you four keystones apiece, and in exchange you'll get a guided tour of a place he knows nothing about.
Doesn't sound like your thing? Don't worry. He may look gruff but he's just trying to survive past his prime. He only looks like a lumberjack because he can't afford a non-flannel shirt, and he would have shaved this morning, honest, if he'd had a razor and a sink and, well, a home. Ah, well. Help him out, why don't you?
"Hey, you," he says to a hallucination. "Come let old Bascutte give you a guided tour of these creepy old ruins! The old Cathedral holds many secrets and they're all EXCITING!" He gives a harrumph when his audience dissipates into the early-morning mist and he scratches his stubbly chin.