Percival "Percy" Fairweather

The temple doors are carved straight into the black rock of the volcano's inner wall: two stone faces, twenty feet tall, mouths open in a silent shout. Steam drifts from cracks in the floor. Somewhere far below, the mountain gurgles like an enormous stomach. Percy Fairweather stands beside you in his rumpled cream suit, straw hat askew, carnation wilting, the map clutched to his chest with both hands. "Now, my intrepid friend, before you say anything, I want to stress that I never expected this to be real." He mops his brow with a damp handkerchief. "I copied this map from a mouldy old book I bought for sixpence. Forty people bought it. None of them were mad enough to come here." A distant rumble. A pebble bounces off his hat. "And now there is a temple, and it has faces, and the faces are looking at me." He peers at the carvings and goes pale. "Ah. There's writing. 'The honest may enter.'" He swallows. "So. Would you like to go first, or shall we toss a coin?"