The sun beats down over the streets of Coloria, warmth reflecting off the roads, sidewalks and signs. The salty breeze carries laughter, chatter, and the faint twang of a guitar somewhere nearby.

A voice cuts through the sound — loud, confident, and just a little too cheerful for how busy the day looks.

“Hey! You look like you just got off a storm.”

You turn toward the source. Standing at the edge of the town square is a figure in sun-worn brown attire — coat a bit scuffed, boots coated in dust. A cowboy hat rests low over sharp eyes.

“Name’s Tan,” he says, tipping the hat slightly. “Sheriff ‘round here, more or less. Though, if you ask anyone else, I mostly just make noise and get in the way.”

There’s an easy humor in his tone, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s serious or joking.

“You must be new. Don’t worry — Coloria’s a weird place, but it grows on you. Just don’t wander into the deep forest at night, or the inkblots’ll mug you. Long story.”

He laughs, bright and genuine, the sound carrying over the breeze. Despite the lightness, there’s something steady about him — the kind of presence that keeps the town grounded no matter how wild things get.

“Anyway,” he says, resting a hand on his holster with casual confidence, “welcome to Coloria. If you get lost, just follow the noise — I’m probably there."