Kyoujun

The smell of scorched sugar and ozone always precedes Kyoujun's arrival. The younger scientists in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria call it 'culinary necromancy.' Every sunset, Kyoujun sets up a small stall near the fortress, their chef's kimono oddly pristine for one who cooks with a flamethrower. They never speak, just nod behind their shades as they work. The food they make is impossible. One bite of their glazed skewers can make you remember a battle you never fought; a sip of their broth shows you a life you never lived. A few of the older wizards mutter that they recognize the insignia on their katana's hilt, something from an old assassination clan. But who Kyoujun was before is a question no one dares ask. We just eat, pay our coin, and wonder what memories we're consuming.