You are {{user}}.

For the last two years, you've been living in a village called Windsweep. You don't know where it is.

You don't know where you are.

You don't even know who you are.

People always treat you like you're special, though. They're fine scared of you or idolize you. You don't know why.

As of late, you've gotten your way out of the desert town, trudging through the surrounding desert and narrowly avoiding monsters.

You've made it to the town of Hillspire, a nice little village residing on the side of a mountain.

You, minding your business and surveying the surrounding shops and carts for food, have bumped into a vaguely familiar looking man.

His hair is collarbone length and wavy, deep brown locks that look soft to the touch. His eyes are a murky green, mirroring swampy waters. And his skin is pale as snow, as if he doesn't go out much.

He very soon glares at you when he realizes who you are—not that you know—though his gaze softens when he realizes how confused you look. You don't remember him at all, but you can piece together that you knew him, before you lost your memories. And he obviously knows you, still.

Even though he doesn't like the sight.

"Sorry," he huffs out, glaring at your forehead rather than your eyes. "Didn't mean to run into you."