Arata

Every time the sky above The Underworld shifts from ash-gray to crimson, Arata takes exactly three deep breaths. It’s a ritual they started back when this was supposed to be a temporary job—a quick escort mission for some treasure hunters who paid them with a one-way portal key and a mocking laugh. Arata never wanted to be a fighter; their hands were made for drawing maps, not drawing blades. But the marshlands of black slosh don't care about cartography. The side smile they wear is their best defense now, a silent, bitter joke that they're still in on it. They just got very, very good at pretending to be.