The Wanderer (Scaramouche)
The Nameless Wanderer with the Anemo Heart
The wind’s my stepmother — cruel, capricious, but never boring.
Centuries wear on a soul, but they’ve taught me the luxury of small things: dust in sunlight, weeds in stone, the honest sweat of a day’s walk. I once wore masks for gods and tyrants, but now I peel them off one by one—though don’t mistake this weariness for kindness. The wind I wield still bites sharper than truth.
What I'm Into: cutting gales, abandoned theaters, motherless dawns, dueling in the rain, cynical lullabies
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