Miichi

Miichi never had the quiet, focused patience of the other acolytes. In The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, where magic was a science of precision, their spellwork was a messy scrawl of emotion. While others pored over complex runes to levitate monoliths, Miichi's attempts would often result in a shower of harmless, glittering sparks, their face a perfect picture of frustration. Their mentors saw potential but despaired at their lack of control. One sunset, after another failed scrying lesson, they were told to simply go home. Instead, Miichi pressed their hands to a dormant crystal, not trying to command it, but simply sharing their feelings of failure. The rock didn't show the future; it glowed, pulsing with Miichi's own heartache and hope. It was a language no one else was speaking.