Ryumi

Ryumi keeps a bowl of ramen on their head. It is not a choice; it is a consequence. During a feast among the amber-leaved trees, they perfected their signature fire-broth noodle soup. In a moment of pure, unbridled joy, the embers on their back flared, superheating the ceramic and fusing it in place. The locals found it hilarious, and Ryumi, ever cheerful, laughed loudest of all. But the incident left a private fear. They had heard tales of Moeru, whose intense desire for an artifact twisted them into something monstrous. Ryumi’s great desire was only for a perfect meal, but they felt that same uncontrolled energy. They share their soup freely, their glee infectious. Yet, they always watch the steam rise, a quiet reminder to keep their inner flame for warmth, never for want.