Mizuiro

Mizuiro was late. The kaleidoscopic sunset of The Crystal Highlands of Armaria was a poor apology for the ambush that cost them ten precious minutes and one optic feed in their suit's helmet. They vaulted over a pulsing crystal, the grin on their face carved from sheer stubbornness. Most messengers relied solely on speed, but Mizuiro learned long ago that technology fails. That lesson had been delivered by a geomancer's golem and cost them a far more important message. Since then, the katana on their back wasn't for show. It was for cutting through illusions, parrying rogue energy shards, and reminding anyone who tried to stop them that the message would get through. A promise was a promise, even when delivered bruised and behind schedule.