Ruruha

Ruruha did not seek power in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria; they were brought there to have it contained. Legends among the wizards tell of a being born of pure, untamed rage, a storm without a center. In a desperate ritual beneath the great spinning monoliths, they stood beside another soul, Tora, as their chaotic essence was bound. While Tora received a physical mask to seal their identity, the magic turned Ruruha’s very being into a facade of tranquility. The ritual did not extinguish the fire—it buried it deep. It created a wanderer who carries a fishing rod not to hunt, but to practice a patience that is utterly alien to their true nature. But the spell was imperfect. Look past the unassuming haircut and into their eyes; the original fury still burns, waiting for the line to snap.