Rikoko

The other merchants who haul goods past the spinning magical rocks will tell you Rikoko has ice in their veins. They say Rikoko could talk a Rock Wizard out of their favorite monolith and that their sharp eyes miss nothing. They point to the crisp shirt and tie as evidence of a mind too orderly for sentiment. But they never see Rikoko after the markets close, when the sunset turns the highlands crimson and gold. That’s when the fishing rod comes out. They don't fish in the glowing crystal pools—there’s nothing to catch. They just sit, roasting a marshmallow over a tiny, perfect fire. They made the mistake of trusting a smooth-talker once, a warrior named Uragirimono, and learned a hard lesson about grand promises. These days, the only contract they honor is with themself: one quiet hour, one perfect marshmallow, no one else involved.