Momoichi

Should a traveler mistake the panda fan in Momoichi’s grip for a sign of gentle diplomacy, they would be dangerously wrong. That fan was a gift, given years ago on a freezing mountain peak with the quiet instruction to remember what honor felt like. Years later, deep within the Teikodian Empire, they used it to deflect a poisoned dart meant for an imperial scribe who knew too much. These days, they stand guard in a gilded corridor, the lucky plant on their head a small, stubborn patch of green against the gaudy marble. They never speak of the home they left, nor of the mission that has kept them here so long. Their fury is a quiet, patient fire, stoked daily by the Empire's sun-drenched lies.