Natsumero

Every cycle, before the crimson sky chokes on ash, Natsumero cleans their instruments. Not weapons, but lenses, parchment, and a single, sharp stylus. The long scar that puckers the skin by their eye throbs in the shifting light, a permanent reminder of their first report to Kanshi-in—a dispatch sent with confidence, not certainty. The cultist's blade that earned them the mark was a harsh but effective teacher. Since then, their work in The Underworld has been one of pure observation. They chart the movements of undead patrols and note the subtle changes in the Soul Chasers' incantations. Their missives are never assumptions, only facts paid for by proximity to danger. The intense focus is a shield, the grey bandana a small comfort in a land that offers none.