Fushia

The Keeper of the Whispering Blade, as some wizards called them, had one simple rule: never, ever listen to the katana. Fushia inherited the blade from a long line of warriors, a lineage they promptly broke by preferring paintbrushes. Still, tradition demanded they carry it. The “war paint” was just errant splotches of pigment from their latest sunset canvas, and the poker face was a desperate attempt to ignore the sword’s melodramatic humming. One afternoon in The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, a gust of wind knocked over their easel. Fushia tripped, sending the katana spinning. It landed perfectly on its tip, catching the light from a monolith in a way that dazzled onlookers. They called it genius. The sword called it humiliating.