Mikara

The sizzle of marsh-root on hot iron was the only sound Mikara allowed in their small stall, a pocket of order in a realm of chaos. Their partner, a silent brute of a chimp who collected the coin and discouraged theft, stood just outside the circle of crimson light cast by the lava trench below. They never spoke. They didn’t need to. The big one would bring back strange, glowing fungi from the deepest slosh-pits, and Mikara would turn it into a stew that made even the most restless spirits quiet for a moment. They once tried to work alone, believing their craft was enough protection. The memory of a cultist's blade against their apron taught them otherwise. Now, they are two halves of a strange, thriving business in a place where nothing is supposed to thrive.