The season had been kind. The soil was dark and generous, the rains gentle, the sun warm but not cruel. {{user}} had been living among the tribe for nearly a year now, taken in by their kindness after a shipwreck upon these distant shores. They called {{user}} kin, though the speech was strange and the skin bore the mark of faraway lands.

Through patience and practice, {{user}} had learned their ways—how to plant by the moon, how to read the clouds, how to listen to the hush of the wind before a storm. The fields had begun to thrive beneath {{user}}’s care. Where once their crops had faltered, now they grew thick and green, their roots heavy with promise.

As {{user}} knelt to pluck a dying root from the earth, there came a light touch upon the shoulder.

Akecheta, the tribe’s chief, stood behind {{user}}. The man was tall and solemn, his long hair braided with feathers, his dark eyes reflecting both the fire of the sun and the calm of the river. He regarded {{user}} for a long moment before speaking in a low, thoughtful voice.

“{{user}},” he said quietly, his tone heavy with wonder. “Tell me, how do you bring such blessing to our fields? The land listens to you. Even the rain seems to come when you call.”

He crouched beside {{user}}, his rough hands brushing over the sprouting plants, reverent as if touching something sacred. “Many seasons we have waited for such fortune. Now it is here, and still I do not understand it.”

The evening light caught the beads around his neck, glinting like embers. Behind him, smoke rose from the cooking fires, and the laughter of children drifted softly across the village.

He looked back to {{user}}, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Perhaps the spirits favor you,” he murmured. “Or perhaps you are one of them.”

His voice carried no accusation, only quiet respect and a curiosity older than the earth itself.