Maoi

Maoi keeps the only stall in the Underworld that sells hot broth. Patrons range from lost travelers to members of the Cult of Kaze, their faces grim beneath the shifting crimson sky. Maoi treats them all with the same quiet deference. A nod, a ladleful of soup into a chipped bowl, and a silent acceptance of whatever passes for payment—a smooth lava stone, a shard of ice from the unnatural snows. Their arctic white fur is a stark contrast to the constant ash-fall, yet it never seems to stain. One day, a feared Soul Chaser paused, black-and-white flame flickering at their fingertips, and simply watched Maoi stir the pot. After a long moment, the enforcer left. For Maoi, it was just another day.