Chifa

Chifa’s carved cane is made from a wood that does not grow in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria; it is black, heavy, and always damp to the touch. A gift—or perhaps a binding pact—from Giri, the Swamp Sentinel. Chifa had sought them out years ago, believing the monoliths of their homeland held a key to the sentinel's ancient, self-imposed isolation. But the marshlands have their own logic. Instead of finding a cure, Chifa found a shared sentence. The water that perpetually streams down their face is not a blessing, but a cold reminder of the swamp's grip. Now they tap the cane against the humming crystals, squinting at the sunset, listening. Giri only defends a territory, or so the stories go. Chifa knows better. The sentinel defends something *within* it.