Ruriie

Ruriie remembered the splintering crack of the overloaded scaffold in the lower markets of The Teikodian Empire. They remembered the gasp from the crowd, and the sight of Koretoshi pinned beneath a fallen beam. Before anyone could shout a warning, Ruriie had snatched three pots of berry dye from a vendor’s stall, smeared the colors across their face in a wild pattern, and dove into the wreckage. They later explained it was to scare the wood into not falling further. It was a foolish, absurd reason, but it made Koretoshi laugh through the pain as Ruriie pulled them free. These days, the paint is a daily ritual. It’s not for war, but a private joke, a promise to face fear with a grin. Koretoshi just rolls their eyes and hands Ruriie a fresh fish to wear on their head.