Mochima

They say you can still find shreds of their family’s pink silk banners tangled in the crags of The Dragon Wastelands, washed pale by the constant rain. Mochima once danced through those canyons, a flash of color against the scorched plateaus, their laughter echoing louder than the howling winds. Their noble house had been trying to reclaim a small valley, charting the ghost-haunted fogs and planting resilient saplings. But the day came when the laughter stopped. Mochima was the only one to escape the slaughter, hidden beneath the roots of a dying tree. When they emerged, their home was a ruin. The playful noble died under that tree, and a masked operative was born, their eyes burning with a chilling intensity. They never took the fallen leaf from their hair—a final, silent memory of green things.