Moroko

In The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, power is measured by the thrum of the great monoliths, a deep hum that shakes the very bones. This is what the Rock Wizards told each other as they battled, hurling jagged crystals across the plateau. Moroko, sitting cross-legged nearby, was more interested in the last drops of their strawberry milk. A stray blast of raw geomancy spun wildly out of control, careening toward one of the massive, spinning sky-rocks that protected the fortress. The wizards froze, helpless. Moroko sighed, a puff of sweet-scented air, and tapped their simple apple stick on the ground. The destructive energy vanished, dissolving into a silent shower of pink dust. The two wizards stared, their grand power utterly nullified by a gesture. Moroko just took another sip, their chimped eyes holding the sunset for a moment before returning to their drink.