Arihisa the Centered

When the howling winds of The Dragon Wastelands conjured the ghost of a battle long past, Arihisa was caught completely in the open. The war paint they had applied with a shaking hand felt like a child's mockery against the spectral roars. The katana on their back was for bandits, not for memories made solid. Panic seized them, a cold shock that blanked their eyes and opened their mouth in a silent scream. Their scholarly mind raced through every text on illusions, finding no comfort. Then, their fingers brushed the worn brim of their ramen hat. In the heart of the phantom carnage, they stopped fighting the storm. Arihisa focused on that simple, grounding warmth, a single point of peace. The ghost dragon flickered, starved of fear, and dissolved into rain.