Emiiru

When the fog from the great falls grew so dense it stole the lamplight from the lower docks, Emiiru heard a voice call out. They were a merchant, not a rescuer, but a stranded boat was bad for business. Descending the rock stairs with their guiding lanterns, they found a traveling painter whose skiff was caught on the rocks. The artist had no coin for repairs, only talent, and offered a mural in exchange for timber. The deal was sound. But as the artist’s brush brought impossible colors to the pale stone walls of Emiiru’s warehouse in Waterfall City, something shifted. The numbers in their ledgers began to feel cold. Emiiru's expression, once all business, is now one of gleeful shock—the look of someone who lit a path for a stranger and found their own way home.