Musou

The faint, warm smell of lamp oil and the low, incessant hum are the first things anyone notices about Musou. They once spent an entire winter in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, poring over the strategic texts of the great Minamoto, determined to become a warrior of equal gravitas. The dedication paid off, just not in the way they expected. During a deep meditation near a spinning monolith, something clicked. And lit up. Permanently. Stealth became a distant memory. Intimidation was difficult when their head cast a cozy, inviting glow. And the moths—oh, the moths. Fierce battles were often interrupted by a frantic, one-sided war against giant insects. Musou is still a fierce fighter, but they've reluctantly accepted their role as an accidental beacon, forever wearing an uneasy look, waiting for the next flutter of wings.