Naohachirou

The air in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria always tastes of ozone and dust. Naohachirou applies the war paint every morning, a ritual that has nothing to do with intimidation. The wizards here don't flinch at such displays; they pore over auras and futures, seeing painted threats as quaint distractions. For Naohachirou, the lines and colors are a tradition from a home of earth and steel, a simple shield against minds that pry too deep. Everyone sees the warrior and stops looking for the person. Everyone except Ikutoshi. They never tried to read Naohachirou's spirit, only their eyes. They are the only one who sees the face beneath when the paint is washed away at night, the one who understands the carved cane is for grounding, not support. The poker face is for Armaria; the smile is just for them.