Ubuha

Ubuha's mask is lined with fleece from a cloud sheep, a secret comfort against their skin that no one would ever suspect. They were once a promising acolyte within the midnight fortress, praised for their steady hand in crystal-grafting, until they used that skill to mend the wing of a forbidden creature instead of cataloging its magical decay. The expulsion was quiet and absolute. A sympathetic peer gave them the cloak and mask, a parting gift that felt more like a brand. These days, they move through the valleys where monoliths hum with contained power, their warm nature curdled into a hard shell of suspicion. They watch the beautiful sunsets paint the highlands in hues they are no longer welcome to enjoy, squinting at the distant spires. It is impossible to tell if they are planning a return or ensuring no one ever follows them out.