Nahoka

Nahoka scrambled to hide the slate under their robes, the tip of their carved cane still dusty with rock powder. They were no scholar, just a quiet wanderer who believed the old ways, the stories of ancients like Shimo, were being forgotten amidst the humming magic of The Crystal Highlands of Armaria. While others saw the monoliths as power sources, Nahoka saw them as libraries, and their pilgrimage was to give them back their words. The gold Bushido paint on their face was a promise made to a teacher long gone, a vow that felt too heavy for their small efforts. The approaching wizard wasn't laughing, though. They glanced from the scratched slate to a nearby crystal that pulsed with faint light. "You think you're just copying stories," the wizard said softly. "Have you ever wondered if the stones are listening?"