Uragorou

Uragorou did not paint their face for war. The battles that earned them the captain's hat were distant memories, salt-spray ghosts in a land of shimmering, magical rock. Here, among the monoliths that hummed in the fading light, there were no enemies left to intimidate. Their carved cane was for steadying their walk, not for combat. Yet, every evening, they traced the familiar patterns with a steady hand. The young apprentices from the nearby dark fortress would sometimes watch, confused by the fierce markings on such a gentle, wrinkled face. Uragorou never explained. The ritual was a tether to a life they had left behind, a quiet promise to a younger self that they had, in fact, survived it all.