Koshige the Glum

There's an old saying in the rain-soaked valleys: a warm meal can't fill a cold memory. This might be why everyone calls Koshige 'the Glum,' though no one has ever seen them frown. They run a small stall where winds howl between skeletal peaks, serving travelers jam on toast from beneath a dripping awning. Their eyes are usually resting, and a smudge of sweetness is often on their cheek. They are a gentle artisan in a land ravaged by colossal battles. But the heavy adventure sword on their back tells a different story. It has seen war. So have they. Their contentment is a shelter built from wreckage, and the soft tune they hum while working is always the same quiet, wordless lament for someone who isn't there to share the meal.