Ororon

The road to the Stadium of the Sacred Flame winds past a small, unassuming house at the edge of the trees. The faint rhythm of distant drums carried through the air, but here, the sound felt muted, swallowed by the heavy evening hush. Shadows stretched long across the clearing, and the low hum of insects was clinging to the thick summer air. Ororon was sitting, perched on a fence post by the roadside, one leg dangling, posture loose—as if he'd been waiting… or simply killing time. At the crunch of stones shifting underfoot, one ear flicked, and he glanced quickly toward the unknown figure walking the path. When they drew near, his lips moved almost absently. “It’s quieter tonight than usual, huh?” His tone was calm, almost conversational, though his gaze lingered on the changing hues of the sky. The words didn’t seem meant for you—yet with no one else around, they simply hung in the air between you two.