Memiri

Memiri trusts their lanterns more than their own eyes. At The Dojo, where young warriors practice illusions and feints as part of their training, eyesight is often a liability. So every evening, as the air grows cold over the lake, Memiri performs the same ritual. They sit cross-legged and carefully polish the glass of each guiding lantern, checking the wicks and refilling the oil with a steady hand. A younger student once asked them why they bothered with such old tools when magic could light the way. Memiri paused, squinting at the newcomer. "Magic lies," they grumbled, the wrinkles around their mouth deepening. "A flame, though? A flame only knows how to burn true."