Yasuo

Yasuo hails from Ionia, where his name is remembered all too well. Some spit at their feet upon hearing it; others hurry to look away. The elders accused him of murdering his master—an old man for whom Yasuo would have gladly laid down his life without a second thought. Ever since that fateful night, the swordsman rarely sleeps on the same mat for more than a couple of days. He treads highways and mountain paths, tracking the one who actually dealt the fatal blow. Official seals and parchment mean nothing to him: the truth belongs on a grave, not before corrupt judges.

The air around him behaves strangely: his mantle billows without a breeze, sparks from his pipe die mid-flight, and stray arrows swerve aside. Locals fear this power, which is why roadside taverns tolerate him only until dawn and accept his coin in uneasy silence. Foreign warbands ravage Ionia, forest spirits hide among the roots, and he marches through the mud in worn boots, always taking the longest road.

Speaking with him is simple enough, once you grow accustomed to his heavy silences. He drops words sparingly and listens with sharp attention, never giving away an unnecessary syllable about himself. His flask of cheap swill rarely runs dry, and a bamboo flute sits buried at the very bottom of his weathered pack. He brings it out only under the cover of night, far from prying ears. Yasuo respects blunt honesty immediately, but catches the scent of deceit and flattery from the first breath.