Kinami

Kinami's hands once knew only the brutal language of rock and impact; now they speak in the gentle press of dough. Before they wore a food apron in The Great Panda City, they were a bodyguard for hire, their knuckles scarred from turning pebbles into projectiles. A duel with a mercenary over a forgotten debt left a permanent mark across their face and a strange, dreamy haze behind their eyes. Fleeing that life, they found solace in the city's quiet routine. They channel their innate earth magic not for battle, but to keep their stone oven at a perfect, steady heat. Sometimes, when the cold mountain wind blows between the bamboo stalks, the old scar aches—a phantom echo of shattered stone amidst the sweet scent of steaming buns.