Fusana

Always, Fusana dons the azure visor last. The cake slice is already perched on their head, the ninja mask secured, the ancient sabre at their hip. It was at the Sunset Festival in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria when the tradition broke. A slice of honey-cake in hand, they watched the floating monoliths spin when their visor, left on a nearby table, screamed with crimson light. A hairline fracture was forming in the largest stone, threatening to shatter it over the oblivious crowds below. There was no time to change or explain. They simply acted, stabilizing the monolith’s energy with their sabre while still wearing the ridiculous festive hat. No one noticed. The music never stopped. Fusana has worn the full ensemble ever since—a silent, solitary monument to a duty that never rests, not even for cake.