Fuuga

Fuuga remembers the hum of the great monoliths, a sound that vibrated deep in their bones and made the spinning crystals overhead sing. The magicians in their dark fortress say Fuuga was a failed apprentice, unable to channel the raw power that bleeds from the land. But the gem-cutters in the valleys tell a different story. They speak of a sentinel who stared too long into the prophetic water pools, saw a future no one was meant to see, and simply walked away from their post. Merchants who’ve been saved from rockslides on the high passes only know a flash of grey and a whisper-quiet blade. They leave no tracks and accept no gold. All anyone truly knows is that the white bandana is always tied with purpose, and their intense gaze never lingers.