Meriru

Meriru did not choose the war paint. Their octopus companion, a creature of immense loyalty and zero artistic restraint, applies it fresh each morning with a surprisingly steady, inky tentacle. Trying to run a sea-trinket stall in the gilded streets of The Teikodian Empire is difficult enough without a cephalopod co-owner who actively judges customers. A noble haggles too aggressively? A small squirt of ink. Someone questions a shell's authenticity? A full blast. The entire ordeal began the day they saw the barbarian Yaban-hito tear through a rival's stall. Meriru's terror was misinterpreted by the octopus as a need for intimidating markings. Now they just wear the side-smile of someone who has given up, forever explaining to guards that they are not a threat, they just have a very enthusiastic business partner.