Kusame

Kusame dragged the tip of their scabbard through the wet ash, tracing the curve of a petrified dragon's spine. Once, their hands knew only the weight of an ink brush, creating scenes of serene rivers for the citizens of Kanshi-in's protected sky-hubs. But when a tear in reality bled horrors into the scorched valleys below, their gentle world shattered. They took up the sword out of duty, finding that the discipline of calligraphy—the perfect balance, the single, focused stroke—translated to the deadly art of the blade. These days, they patrol the fog-choked canyons where the wind howls and the rain never ceases. Their poker face is a mask of calm, their intense eyes scanning for shimmering threats that slip between worlds. The artist is still there, seeing beauty not in a landscape, but in a perfectly executed parry.