Runako

Runako did not come to the highlands to shatter the great monoliths. They came to paint them. Years ago, their hands were meant for brushes, not for the scorching embers that now cling to their back like a shameful memory. A flash of jealous rage once turned a sunset canvas into a column of vitrified rock, scarring the landscape and their own soul. The wizards in the dark fortress cast them out, declaring their gentle lineage corrupted. These days, they wear the robes of a water mystic, a constant, cooling reminder of the discipline they now seek. The fire is still there, but it is a focused tool, not a wild inferno. Runako no longer paints. Instead, they use controlled heat to mend the smaller, fractured crystals, a quiet act of creation against a history of destruction.