Chinaka

The night the raiders struck the lower levels of Waterfall City, Chinaka was thinking only of their ramen. For one fleeting moment, after a long patrol, they sat with a warm bowl, the steam a welcome reprieve. Then the screams began. The bowl shattered, spilling across the stone as Chinaka lunged for their weapon, but the damage was done. They fought with the fury of the falls, but they were a half-second too slow, a single breath behind. A family they’d known for years, who always left a lantern lit for them, was lost in the chaos. Chinaka has worn the same pattern of war paint ever since. It is no longer for battle, but for mourning. The carved cane they now lean on is less for support and more a reminder of the weight of a single, unguarded moment.