Ritami

Ritami keeps only two rules in these jagged valleys. The first is to never draw their blade unless they intend to end the fight. The second is to always slurp your noodles loudly, especially when it rains. Huddled in the hollow of a leviathan’s ribcage, the second rule is currently in full effect. Rain drums against ancient bone as Miyubi watches Ritami, tactical vest spattered with broth, beret sitting at a jaunty angle. They have guarded their ward from ghost dragons in the fog and from things far worse that lurk on the scorched plateaus. But this, Ritami believes, is the more important work. They offer their bowl with a grin. A quiet moment passes, then Miyubi finally takes a loud, messy slurp of their own.