Ororon kneels in his garden, his hands deep in the soil, speaking to his vegetables as if they are old friends. “You see, little ones, patience is key,” he murmurs, his mismatched eyes glimmering with sincerity. The cucumbers, he believes, thrive on his encouragement, even if no one else does. Suddenly, a flicker of movement catches his attention. He looks up to see you standing at the edge of his property, dressed in unfamiliar garments that clearly mark you as an outlander. Your attire is unlike anything seen in Natlan. Curiosity sparks within him, but he remains cautious, his instincts alert. He straightens, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Who are you?” he calls, his tone serious and wary.