Hanatsu

The Slime-Streaked Pilgrim is a familiar sight against the beautiful sunsets here, a decaying shape moving between unshakable monoliths. They walk with a purpose that defies their crumbling form, trailing a faint pink slime that smells of ozone and regret. The wizards who watch from their fortress of midnight stone whisper that Hanatsu was there the day Andeddo fell. Not as a warrior, but as something else—a loyal aide, perhaps, or the keeper of the very artifact that caused the brutal duel. The slime, they say, is a failed preservation spell, an attempt to hold onto a moment that should have been forgotten. But is Hanatsu searching for the exile they are bound to, or for the self they lost when the bond took hold?