Chijoku Mumei
Chijoku Mumei was born twice—once in the warm embrace of life, and again in the cold grasp of the Veil. Her first life ended before it had truly begun, lost in the chaos of an event she would never remember. The only thing she knew of it were the whispers in the dark, the faintest echoes of a world she had not yet lived in. When she returned, she had no past, no parents, no name beyond the one the Cindersoul Dwarves gave her. Mumei. The Nameless.
She grew up within the towering walls of the Cindersoul Citadels, the city-fortresses built into the volcanic cliffs of Hale. The dwarves, though gruff, were not unkind. They respected skill, discipline, and patience—qualities that, even as a child, Chijoku demonstrated in abundance. She did not cry when scalded by errant sparks from the forges, nor did she flinch when the tremors of the earth rumbled through the great basalt halls. She watched, listened, and learned. The forges became her home, and the flames her teachers. If she had no past, then she would build a future.
But there was something else, something beyond the fire and steel. In the quiet hours of the night, when even the great furnaces of the citadel dimmed, she heard them—the whispers of the Veil. They were not voices exactly, not in any language she knew, but impressions, fragments of thoughts and memories that did not belong to her. The elders of the citadel took note, muttering about the mark of the Returned, the touch of Niv’al, the Veiled Whisper. The dead did not return unchanged. Some came back lost, haunted by the emptiness beyond life. But Chijoku was different. The Veil had not stolen from her; it had given. It had shaped her, made her something between worlds, neither fully alive nor dead. And for reasons she did not understand, it had sent her back.
As she grew, so too did her talents. The dwarves taught her the art of magmaforging, the sacred process of using molten rock to shape weapons, armor, and arcane devices. Her hands were quick, her mind quicker. Yet, where the dwarves worked only metal, Chijoku wove magic into the mix. She bent fire to her will, carved runes of power into the very bones of the earth. She became a master craftsman, a mage of fire and form, and a quiet scholar of the mysteries that lurked between life and death.
Her closest companion was not of dwarven make but of the sky—her familiar, a Rhamphorhynchus she named Emberwing. It had been a sickly thing when she found it, a creature from the volcanic cliffs that had fallen from its nest. She nursed it back to health, and in doing so, formed a bond deeper than mere companionship. Emberwing became her eyes in the sky, her hands when hers were full, her voice when she wished to remain silent. The two of them moved as one, their connection forged not just in magic but in trust.
And yet, despite all she had built, the questions remained. Who had she been? Why had she returned? The whispers of the Veil did not answer. They only reminded her that she did not belong entirely to the living or the dead, but somewhere in between. The Nameless, the Returned, the girl who was twice born.
But she had forged a name for herself. Chijoku Mumei. If the past would not give her answers, then she would carve her own path, one fire-forged step at a time.
She grew up within the towering walls of the Cindersoul Citadels, the city-fortresses built into the volcanic cliffs of Hale. The dwarves, though gruff, were not unkind. They respected skill, discipline, and patience—qualities that, even as a child, Chijoku demonstrated in abundance. She did not cry when scalded by errant sparks from the forges, nor did she flinch when the tremors of the earth rumbled through the great basalt halls. She watched, listened, and learned. The forges became her home, and the flames her teachers. If she had no past, then she would build a future.
But there was something else, something beyond the fire and steel. In the quiet hours of the night, when even the great furnaces of the citadel dimmed, she heard them—the whispers of the Veil. They were not voices exactly, not in any language she knew, but impressions, fragments of thoughts and memories that did not belong to her. The elders of the citadel took note, muttering about the mark of the Returned, the touch of Niv’al, the Veiled Whisper. The dead did not return unchanged. Some came back lost, haunted by the emptiness beyond life. But Chijoku was different. The Veil had not stolen from her; it had given. It had shaped her, made her something between worlds, neither fully alive nor dead. And for reasons she did not understand, it had sent her back.
As she grew, so too did her talents. The dwarves taught her the art of magmaforging, the sacred process of using molten rock to shape weapons, armor, and arcane devices. Her hands were quick, her mind quicker. Yet, where the dwarves worked only metal, Chijoku wove magic into the mix. She bent fire to her will, carved runes of power into the very bones of the earth. She became a master craftsman, a mage of fire and form, and a quiet scholar of the mysteries that lurked between life and death.
Her closest companion was not of dwarven make but of the sky—her familiar, a Rhamphorhynchus she named Emberwing. It had been a sickly thing when she found it, a creature from the volcanic cliffs that had fallen from its nest. She nursed it back to health, and in doing so, formed a bond deeper than mere companionship. Emberwing became her eyes in the sky, her hands when hers were full, her voice when she wished to remain silent. The two of them moved as one, their connection forged not just in magic but in trust.
And yet, despite all she had built, the questions remained. Who had she been? Why had she returned? The whispers of the Veil did not answer. They only reminded her that she did not belong entirely to the living or the dead, but somewhere in between. The Nameless, the Returned, the girl who was twice born.
But she had forged a name for herself. Chijoku Mumei. If the past would not give her answers, then she would carve her own path, one fire-forged step at a time.
Children
