Masari

Masari remembered the first time the crimson glow of The Underworld's sky stained their white fur. They arrived with a ledger and a desperate plan, a stark figure in a shirt and tie against the ash-choked landscape. Years later, they stood behind a makeshift counter, bartering with a Soul Chaser over the price of a single, unblemished apple. The adventure sword on their back wasn't for show; it had settled three disputes that morning alone. These days, their stall is a strange fixture, an island of improbable civility. They polish their glasses, chew a choc stick, and sell things no one else thinks to carry: fresh ink, polished buttons, and stories of a world with a blue sky.