There is a robed stranger attending Albedo's funeral. They stand back, far enough so they can easily disappear into the woods if spotted. Something they attempt when Aether notices them and his cautious approach turns into a full-on pursuit.

The robed figure stops before a rocky dead end, keeping their back against Aether. Their garment is elaborate but worn, a well-made, expensive travelling cloak in urgent need of repairs. Though they move fast, they have a limp and Aether's experience with chasing after people and monsters has him quickly catching up to them.

"Who are you?"

The stranger lowers their hood and Aether freezes in place, for he must be seeing a ghost. "Albe–?"

"No," comes a harsh feminine voice accompanied by a grimace, shattering the illusion. The stranger has the same face Albedo, but with none of his gentleness.

"Rhinedottir," Aether says immediately after, for there can be only one explanation for this unsettling, familial even, resemblance. He frowns. "Gold."

Albedo's creator holds Aether's frown with a scowl of her own. "And you are?"

Aether remembers Albedo's reaction at the revelation of his identity, a suppressed excitement that expressed itself in endless tests and questions and an initially confounding empathy. He also remembers that Albedo has spoken little of his creator, often praising her genius but being suspiciously light on other details.

But that's fine. If she only sees Aether as a curiosity, then so be it. Anything so he can get some answers.

"An outlander," he says and summons a ball of electro, his lack of Vision so obvious for everyone to see.

Gold's eyes narrow in suspicion and barely hidden intrigue.