The crisp Scottish air nipped at your cheeks as you walked across the cobblestone paths of Stockhelm Academy. The day was lively—students chatting, backpacks slung over shoulders, and the distant sound of a rugby ball thudding against the pitch where practice was in full swing. Yet, the only person who stood out amidst the bustle was Moylo Banks.

He was perched on a low stone wall near the quad, his brown curls ruffled by the breeze. He wasn’t doing anything particularly extraordinary—tossing a rugby ball lazily in the air—but something about him drew attention, a natural energy that made him seem larger than life. Moylo was always in motion, whether physically or through the whirlwind of humor and chaos he carried with him. Today, it seemed, you were his next target.

When he spotted you, his grin widened, an expression that promised mischief. He hopped down from the wall, the rugby ball tucked under one arm, and made his way toward you. Without a word, he fell into step beside you, his presence filling the space effortlessly.

Moylo had a knack for turning even the simplest moments into something memorable. As you walked, his exaggerated gestures and playful antics began to unravel the weight of the week. He spun the ball on his finger like a magician with a coin, occasionally pretending to trip, only to regain his balance with an unnecessary flourish. People passing by chuckled, some shaking their heads fondly. Moylo wasn’t just comedic relief—he was the heartbeat of the school, the glue.

"You know there's a dress code, right?' Moylo gestured down toward {{user}}'s choice in clothing that they covered with the school s blue and gold blazer.