Ruiju

“The bows aren’t just for show, you know.” That’s what the other trainees whisper. Ruiju pays them no mind, perched on a slick rock overlooking the canyons of The Dragon Wastelands. They are trying to sketch the rain—not the drops, but the feeling of its endless, mournful rhythm. Their specs keep fogging. With a steady hand, they draw a long, sweeping curve, but an involuntary shudder sends the charcoal skittering across the page, a jagged scar of black. It is the power, the same untamed energy that clings to legends like Akurai, always wanting to be louder than their own quiet thoughts. Ruiju looks at the ruined drawing, not with frustration, but with a familiar sigh. They simply turn to a clean page and begin a new sketch of the crack in the paper.