Miyuzu

Miyuzu remembered the exact moment their world ended. It was the taste of the final, divinely seasoned dumpling from the annual feast, a dumpling they had pilfered directly from the offering plate. The resulting punishment—a mild sigh from a festival organizer—was a public shaming too great to bear. They declared themself an outcast, a heretic against the sacred culinary laws of Waterfall City. With a backpack full of snacks and a fierce new war paint made from squashed berries, they set out on a grim pilgrimage. These days, they explore the city's misty outskirts, a tragic figure warning travelers about the corrupting influence of gluttony, their eyes wide with the horror of their past. Most just nod politely and offer them a rice ball.