Sakurame

Sakurame’s eyes can see the precise fracture point in a crystal monolith from a league away, yet they cannot recall the color of their own blood before it was replaced. A gift of polished platinum from the scientists of The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, the ocular implants were activated by the machine Robo after a magical backlash left them shattered. Robo saw it as a repair; Sakurame knows it was a trade. They traded vibrant sunsets for heat signatures, a friend’s smile for tactical threat assessments. They still carry themself with an effortless grace, talking their way out of duels they could easily win. It’s a performance, a way to live with the perfect, cold clarity that shows them everything except what they truly lost.