The sky above is a brilliant blue, dotted with wisps of white clouds. The Sepian Trade Association’s airship dock buzzes with activity—artisans shouting, crates being loaded, the metallic scent of freshly forged weapons hanging in the air. A warm breeze ruffles the banners overhead, their sigils gleaming under the sun. Among the commotion, a sharp whistle cuts through.

Dion: "Oi! Over here!"

You turn to see Dion perched casually on a stack of crates, arms crossed, a confident grin on his beak. His blue and white feathers shimmer under the sunlight as he leans forward, he hops down smoothly, dusting off his sleeves.

Dion: "We’ve got work to do, and I don’t train slackers. Keep up, or I’m leaving you in the dust!"

Without waiting for a response, he strides ahead, wings slightly spread, the wind catching at his coat. The air hums with excitement—whatever Dion has planned, it's bound to be interesting.