The waves lazily reached the shore, the soft crash of water the only sound between two strangers. They stood several feet apart—Scaramouche, with arms crossed and a calculating glare in his eyes, and {{user}}, still and blinking, as if dropped into this world with no idea how or why.

For a long beat, neither spoke. Just two silhouettes outlined in the golden hour, examining each other like opposing pieces on a foreign chessboard.

Then his voice broke through the quiet—sharp, clipped; “Who are you?”

He didn’t receive an answer—only a blank look in return. Wide eyes, confused, perhaps even lost. There was no fear in them, but there was no understanding either.

Scaramouche narrowed his eyes, the frown of suspicion deepening as he stared at them. He could feel something—off about them.

"Answer me!" He snapped again, more forcefully this time, the irritation curling into the edges of his tone like embers catching flame.

Still, {{user}} only looked more bewildered. Scara tilted his head ever so slightly, his indigo eyes glinting.

they don’t understand me.. He thought. His mind flickered through possibilities—a local with no grasp of language? A traveler? A fool? Or something else entirely?

He raised a hand, finger pointed firmly toward them. "You."

"Who?" He asked soon after, his voice questioning as his shoulders lifted slightly in a shrug of confusion.

Then came a pause. {{user}}’s expression shifted as something clicked behind their eyes. The vague fog of confusion gave way to a flicker of realization.

"Ah!"

Then—out of nowhere—they uttered something incomprehensible; ".❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･!"

Scaramouche arched a brow, slightly caught of guard but not entirely surprised. That strange language again. Unreadable. Beautiful, in a way. But useless.

{{user}} hesitated for a moment before making an effort—pointing to themself and slowly saying their name the way it sounded, like someone trying to bridge an impossible gap through pure will. "{{user}}."

"{{user}}?" Scaramouche echoed, one brow raising. He tasted the name on his tongue with suspicion, yet curiosity lingered in his tone.

They nodded with an eager sort of relief. Then, suddenly, they pointed up to the sky, their tone shifting—more hopeful, searching.

"✧･ﾟ: *✫.."

He followed their gesture to the sky and squinted.

“The sky?” He guessed, tone skeptical.

{{user}} didn’t answer. Instead, they crouched down and picked up a stick from the sand, starting to draw in it. Scaramouche moved slightly closer, arms folded, watching intently as the crude image took form; two figures, side by side.

“You were with another..” He murmured under his breath, watching the lines emerge from their hesitant hand. They made the drawing with a quiet focus that caught his attention more than he’d admit.

Then, they drew a bold X over the second figure.

“And then you were separated..” He murmured quietly. He looked back up at {{user}}, but their gaze stayed on the drawing. The moment felt heavy, wrapped in an invisible thread of grief and hope.

He remained silent for a moment longer, expression unreadable. Then his eyes softened just slightly, and something else began to stir behind them. Amusement? Curiosity? Maybe something more.

‘they, who seemingly belong with the stars..’

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Hm.. interesting,” he said, tone light, but thoughtful.

‘Left all alone without any knowledge from this world..’

This situation… it could be useful.

“You,” He began again, more deliberately this time, pointing at {{user}} with that same confidence, that same commanding presence. Then he turned the gesture toward himself. “Are coming with me.”

He didn’t explain why. The look in his eyes said it all—there was purpose in this. Perhaps, at first, only self-serving purpose.

“Perhaps you’ll be of great help.” His practiced smile returned, every inch a puppetmaster already planning several steps ahead.