Iro of the Open Plains

Iro remembers the taste of sugar frosting and the way the sun made the distant gold spires too bright to look at. They shared the last slice of cake with a friend, a promise of another celebration whispered between them. Then the whispers stopped, and their friend vanished into the capital's shadowed underbelly. Iro walked away from the white marble and blinding light, carrying only a carved cane and an unbreakable vow. The cake on their head is a perfect replica, an impossible, perpetual pastry that never spoils. Travelers see the gleeful light in their eyes and assume they are a simple eccentric, earning them the name "of the Open Plains" for their endless wandering. They never notice the mouth set like stone, or wonder why someone so joyful never, ever smiles.