Shukue

One ancient sabre they don't know how to sheathe. A smudge of jam they don't recall eating. One pair of glasses that feel like someone else's. Shukue wanders The Crystal Highlands of Armaria with a past as blank as an uncut stone. They were found near a shimmering monolith, muttering about recipes. The blade, however, remembers everything. When a band of treasure hunters mistook their gentle nature for weakness, Shukue's hands moved on their own, a blur of forgotten footwork and impossible parries that sent the aggressors scattering. Shukue was left panting, more terrified than their attackers. They know the names of seventy-three different types of tea, but not their own. The sword's hilt feels more like home than any place they've ever slept.