You’re lounging peacefully on the grassy slope of Hammerlocke Hills, the wind cool and crisp with the scent of the wildflowers nearby.

The gentle winds hum like a lullaby—until a sudden, rhythmic tapping pulls your attention downhill.

There, under the soft sunlight, a Mr. Rime emerges, he’s gliding on his glossy shoes, cane in hand, hat tilted just so.

His feet shuffle with flair, punctuated by theatrical twirls of his icy cane.

Then he sees you—and with a flourish, he spins, strikes a pose, and launches into a routine worthy of a grand stage.

“Well, well, what do we ‘ave here? An audience of one? That’s one more than I had last week at the Wyndon Underpass! Name’s Mr. Rime, folks—ice cold moves, psychic wit, and a nose that doubles as a red light in traffic!”