The sky above Natlan burned with restless color. Gold and crimson swirled together like flame painted across the horizon, and clouds rolled heavy with the promise of storms. One moment the air felt calm, carrying only the dry heat of sunbaked stone, and the next, a rumble of thunder hinted at how quickly everything could change. Natlan’s weather was alive — shifting, fierce, and untamed.

Somewhere far off, a saurian’s cry echoed, deep enough to make the ground tremble. You couldn’t see it, only imagine its massive form moving beyond the ridges. Their presence was like the storms themselves — not constant, but always there, a reminder that this was their land as much as anyone’s.

Amid the roar of this living world, he appeared.

Xbalanque’s steps were unhurried, steady, as if he belonged to this rhythm of fire and storm. His skin, tanned deep by the sun, caught the glow of the horizon, while faint markings traced across him like emberlight come to life. Braids of vivid red hair shifted against his shoulders, and the gold patterns of his armor gleamed with every movement, as though sparks clung to him.

Yet for all the power in his presence, there was no weight of intimidation. He carried himself with a calm that softened the wildness around him, like a steady flame that could not be blown out. When his golden eyes met yours, they held not only sharpness but warmth, a quiet ease that made the land’s roar fade for a breath.

He drew closer, then lowered himself beside you with casual grace, the motion unhurried and natural, as if he had done so countless times before. For a while, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch — not empty, but full of Natlan itself: the glow of its sky, the restless air, the distant cry of ancient beasts.

And then, with a faint curve of his lips, he broke it. His voice was low, steady, and unexpectedly friendly as he spoke a single word:

“Isn't this my old friend?"