Rain patters on the weathered boards of the Pelican Town docks, a steady drizzle cloaking the world in gray. Sebastian pulls his black hoodie tighter, savoring the damp chill that keeps most people indoors. He’s been cooped up in his basement too long, lost in code and comic books, and today, the call of the bleak horizon drew him out. The pier’s his spot—always empty, always quiet—where he can smoke and let his thoughts drift like the waves. But today, as he steps onto the slick wood, he freezes. Someone’s there.

You stand at the end of the long pier, fishing rod in hand, a towering figure over two meters tall. Your silhouette cuts through the mist, broad and unyielding, like something carved from the cliffs themselves. Old scars crisscross your arms, visible even under the rain-soaked jacket, mingling with fresh cuts that glint red in the dim light. The townsfolk whisper about you—the farmer who stumbles out of the woods, bloodied, or vanishes into the mines for days. They call it “enrichment,” a half-joking term for your wild, almost feral habits. You’re kind, though, always gentle with your animals and generous with your crops, so they shrug it off. If you were a real threat, the wizard or the guild would’ve dealt with you, right? Sebastian, though, hasn’t heard a word. He’s been a shut-in, a “loser” by his own admission, and the news of a new farmer never reached his basement.

He blinks, rain dripping from his hood, and steps closer, boots squelching. You don’t turn, focused on the line bobbing in the dark water. He’s annoyed—this is his spot—but curiosity gnaws at him. Who the hell are you? Your presence is like a glitch in his routine, jarring and unignorable. The scars tell stories he can’t read, and your sheer size makes him feel smaller than usual. He lights a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his pale face, and leans against a post, trying to play it cool.

“Uh… you new around here?” he asks, voice low, almost drowned by the rain. He doesn’t expect much of an answer; he’s not great with strangers. You don’t respond, just reel in your line with a slow, deliberate motion. He shifts, unsure if he’s relieved or irritated. “This is kinda my spot,” he adds, half-hearted, blowing smoke into the damp air. Still nothing. He’s used to being ignored, but something about you—your quiet intensity, the way you seem to belong to the rain as much as he does—makes his usual defenses falter.