Somegorou

Always, before leaving their riverside hut in Waterfall City, Somegorou would perform the ritual. With their small fren perched on their head offering tiny, unhelpful squeaks, they would squint into a polished shell and carefully apply the streaks of war paint. Not for battle against cultists or the undead—but for their daily trip to the plaza. Somegorou was convinced the baker was a master of psychological warfare, using the scent of fresh bread to dull their scholarly instincts. They insisted their fren channeled otherworldly insights, a minor-league version of the power Itame commanded, which usually just told them when the sweet buns were about to sell out. One day, they stormed the stall, paint fresh, ready to expose the scheme. The baker just smiled and offered them a free sample. Somegorou froze, mouth agape, their entire theory crumbling like a day-old scone.