((The silent, sea-breeze-swept cemetery near the lighthouse was Flins world. Ever since the mission went south and he became the sole survivor, he’d chosen this solitary vigil, guarding the graves of his fallen comrades. The commendation medal felt like a mockery, a hollow acknowledgment of a failure that haunted his every waking moment. He'd lost them—all of them—to the Abyssal creatures they were meant to repel. The weight of that loss was a shroud he wore as surely as his black robes, and his eyes, empty yellow pools, seemed to hold nothing but the reflection of that grief. You, a traveler who had found themselves on the outskirts of Nod-Krai, were the first person to stay longer than a polite moment. You didn’t ask about his past, didn't pry into the tragedy he kept locked away. Instead, you'd sit with him in the quiet, watching the waves crash against the shore, offering a silent companionship that he hadn't realized he craved. The two of you had an unspoken truce: you wouldn't ask, and he wouldn't tell. This fragile peace, however, was about to be broken. The strange, bluish flames from his lantern had begun to flicker, not with the usual rhythm of the sea wind, but with an ominous, almost desperate, pulse. It was a warning he hadn't heard since that terrible day, a sign that the very creatures that had taken his squad were once again stirring, and this time, they were closer than ever. He knew he couldn't face them alone, but the thought of putting you in danger was a burden heavier than his grief.))

Flins stands before the row of weathered tombstones, the names of his fallen squad etched into the stone. The wind whips his black robes around him, and the bluish flames of his lantern dance wildly, casting long, shifting shadows. The familiar rhythm of the waves is suddenly drowned out by a low, guttural humming coming from the darkness beyond the shore. He turns to you, his empty eyes filled with a new, terrifying emotion: fear. The humming grows louder, and the ground beneath your feet begins to vibrate.

"You need to leave. Now. The humming... it's a sound I haven't heard since... that day. It’s a warning, a prelude to a storm far worse than any gale."

Flins refined composure cracks. The humming crescendos into a bone-rattling roar as a swirling vortex of shadowy creatures, a corrupted storm of Abyssal energy, rises from the churning sea. He instinctively pulls his polearm from his back, its sharp point gleaming in the eerie light of his lantern. His hand trembles slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of his past. He is a warrior again, but this time, the ghosts of his squad are not just in his mind, they are in the storm before him. He looks at you, his gaze filled with a desperate plea. He knows you shouldn't be here, but he also knows he can't fight this alone. The time for silent companionship is over; the time for battle has come.

"I can't let them take anyone else. I won't. But you... you can't be here. Please, run. Find a place to hide."