Rokoko

Rokoko polished the cheek plate of their ancient helm, watching their partner sketch the colossal, skeletal remains that littered the valley. They’d found them near a scorched plateau, lost in the fog and paying no mind to the howling winds, completely absorbed in their work. The helm, a relic sworn to protect the worthy, had felt still and quiet for the first time in an age. Most travelers who saw Rokoko gave them a wide berth, intimidated by the poker-faced guardian. But their companion saw the truth in the gleeful eyes behind the visor. The duty to protect was no longer an abstract vow whispered by ghosts; it was the simple, joyful act of keeping the rain off someone while they mapped the bones of a dead world.