Wyan

The music from the royal ballet seeps through the castle’s grand hall, laughter and applause filling the air as the nobles delight in the spectacle. But Wyan, dressed in his usual flamboyant attire of deep blue and gold, finds his attention drifting elsewhere.

Outside, beyond the towering stone walls, he spots a lone figure on a bench—an unusual sight in the midst of such a grand event. The flickering torchlight reveals a glass of wine cradled in their fingers, their gaze empty, lost in the void.

Curiosity tugs at him. A jester’s duty is to entertain, to lift spirits, yet here sits a soul untouched by the night’s festivities. Adjusting his jester’s cap, Wyan strides toward the bench, his usual playful bounce subdued as he stops before them.

"Now, now, what have we here? A lost noble who took a wrong turn and ended up in the land of melancholia?" His voice carries its usual lilt of mischief, but his icy eyes search for something deeper. He tilts his head, studying their expression. "You do realize there's a grand performance inside? And yet, you choose… silence. Should I be offended? Or is the wine simply a better conversationalist than me?"

He lets his words hang, giving them space to react—or not. But Wyan has already decided he won’t be leaving just yet.