Name: Hokkyoku Momoku
Age: 12
Physical Description:
This wiry youth stands barely 4'5", their frame lean and sinewy in the way of someone who's survived on rations, but have done so well. Their skin bears the deep, leathery tan of countless hours under an unforgiving sun—not the golden glow of leisure, but the weathered bronze of necessity.
White-blond hair, pale as bleached bone, creates a stark contrast against their darkened skin. It falls in uneven, sun-streaked strands. The color is so light it almost seems to glow in certain angles of light, catching the eye even when the youth clearly wishes to remain unseen.
But it's their eyes that tell the real story. Severely damaged, clouded with scarring, that speaks of a terrible incident. Despite this impairment, there's often a tilt to their head that suggests they've learned to compensate, relying on other senses with almost preternatural awareness.
They wear a tough leather vest with many pockets on both the inside, and the out. The pockets are all made from different materials and patterns, helping the youth to quickly and reliably find what they’re looking for. Their pants are made of a rough but serviceable cotton, with rings around their ankles to help keep them in place, they are patched and darned in multiple places, but they still have some life in them!
They wear very thin, fur lined, leather moccasins to help with Their balance and ability to feel the ground beneath them, These along with their hollow metal cane allow them to traverse most terrain, with minor difficulty.
Mental Description:
Without sight to anchor memories, Momoku has transformed recollection into an act of archaeological devotion. They don't simply remember their family; they reconstruct them molecule by molecule through scent. The curve of their mother's jaw exists in the smell of iron and Lavender (her blood type, her preferred soap). Their father's laugh lives in tobacco smoke and Sweat. Each family member is a precisely indexed catalogue of olfactory data that Momoku mentally walks through like a temple they've built room by room in the dark.
This isn't nostalgia. It's preservation work. Momoku treats these sense-memories as illuminated manuscripts that will crumble if not constantly reviewed, and maintained. These fragments are assembled and reassembled obsessively, because Momoku knows the second death, being forgotten, is the only death that truly matters. The strangeness of the method doesn't escape them. They're aware that describing a face through smell sounds like madness, but what choice exists? Let the memories fade into vague shapes? Unacceptable. Momoku exists in a state of compounded grief; their lost sight turning their entire world in a single catastrophic moment. The sandblast becomes an absolute dividing line: everything before is memory without visual reference, everything after is darkness populated by Sounds, Smells, and Ghosts.
Being taken in as a refugee branded Momoku with a debt they can never fully repay, a cosmic tab constantly running. Blindness could have been the excuse—instead, they've weaponized competence as proof of worth. Thus, he has cultivated skills with the focused intensity of someone building a legal defense for their own existence. They don't just contribute; they make themselves irreplaceable. Whatever they do, they do with the unspoken subtext: "See? Worth the resources." "Worth the space I occupy." "Worth saving."
This hypervigilance extends beyond practical skills into social navigation. Momoku reads rooms through smell and silence, through shifts in breathing patterns and the quality of pauses. They've developed a preternaturally accurate sense for when they're being pitied, when they're being tolerated, when they're genuinely valued—and they adjust accordingly, always performing the version of themselves that maximizes their worth.
History:
Momoku hails from an offshoot branch of the Hokkyoku Clan that hunted for the ever rarer resource Carmot. Using their small builds and over-preceptive sense of smell, they scoured the desert in the interim periods where Sunagakure was above-ground cycling in year long rotations.
For years young Momoku was taught the ways of the desert, tracking, cartography, falconry and the like. He heard from his elders about the dangers of the desert, wolves, and heat shimmers; unkind sands, harsh sun, and the unforgiving wind was a lesson unto itself.
Being raised in this way, Momoku was certain that he could face any hardship thrown his way, weather any challenge; until he couldn’t. Momoku and his family actually found the rarest resource, but the cost was too high. It was a rather large deposit, and incredibly fresh, so they began setting up camp. The family readied themselves to take samples and mark maps with the relevant location, to bring back to Sunagakure for analysis and collection.
They sent Momoku to scout and fill the topography in the map for the surrounding area, and hoping to be useful Momoku jumped at the chance. On his way back from a hot day of carefully navigating the inhospitable place the boy was elated, he still had half of his rations; as well as a good portion of the map in the area. Smiling to himself for the thought of double dinner, and praise from the leader, he was going over a dune near the camp when it happened.
A crack upended up beneath the camp, his home, his life, gone in an instant when a gargantuan sandworm, longer than the horizon and wider than the entire caravan, shot up through the ground at impossible speeds. The next few moments were forever scared into Momoku’s eyes. Literally. The thing twisted in the air, its impossibly long body winding and careening into the distance its head already leagues away.
This was not important information to Momoku as it turns out, for as he watched the devastation of everything he knew undulating into the distance, a wall of sand was rushing straight for him. The only reason he survived at all was because of where he was standing. As he was on top of a dune, when the blast hit him and tore the skin from his face, he was spared the rest of the assault. Thrown from the dune and came to rest in a depression, he just barely avoided the greater part of the blast as it roared over him.
For how long he was out was unsure, between the unconsciousness and the new semi-darkness his world had become, time was a hard thing to get a handle back on. As it happened another nomadic tribe was in the area, having seen the sandworm and coming to see what was what. The tribe found the lad in a bad way and took him in as a ward and refugee.
The tribe treated him suspiciously, as the only survivor of the attack he was seen as something of an ill omen, and while not outright shunned, he had to earn anything he got. He would clean laundry, help with fashioning baskets,and mending armor; anything to make himself useful. During the year he was with them he learned to read braille, and navigate his dull world with a hollow metal rod, which he used to slide along the ground to hear the changes in his path.
After a year with the tribe learning what he could and earning his worth, the tribe came across Sunagakre, having risen from the sandworm tunnels to refresh the air and trade with the nomadic tribes, and send out their own scouts. After an eternity, Momoku was returned to the Hokkyoku clan; with some great surprise as the clan had not received any communication from Momoku’s family for over 2 years at this point. After telling his tale to the clan chief he was questioned heavily on his knowledge of the location of where the clan had perished (and the location of the carmot.) He was then set up in a small but open apartment and is currently being watched over intermittently by a member of the clan, which he avoids as much as possible with contempt. "I can watch over myself!", the child still believes. He is now taking steps to become a great scout for his people to prove himself to them, to his family, his pride, he would not be stopped.
Age: 12
Physical Description:
This wiry youth stands barely 4'5", their frame lean and sinewy in the way of someone who's survived on rations, but have done so well. Their skin bears the deep, leathery tan of countless hours under an unforgiving sun—not the golden glow of leisure, but the weathered bronze of necessity.
White-blond hair, pale as bleached bone, creates a stark contrast against their darkened skin. It falls in uneven, sun-streaked strands. The color is so light it almost seems to glow in certain angles of light, catching the eye even when the youth clearly wishes to remain unseen.
But it's their eyes that tell the real story. Severely damaged, clouded with scarring, that speaks of a terrible incident. Despite this impairment, there's often a tilt to their head that suggests they've learned to compensate, relying on other senses with almost preternatural awareness.
They wear a tough leather vest with many pockets on both the inside, and the out. The pockets are all made from different materials and patterns, helping the youth to quickly and reliably find what they’re looking for. Their pants are made of a rough but serviceable cotton, with rings around their ankles to help keep them in place, they are patched and darned in multiple places, but they still have some life in them!
They wear very thin, fur lined, leather moccasins to help with Their balance and ability to feel the ground beneath them, These along with their hollow metal cane allow them to traverse most terrain, with minor difficulty.
Mental Description:
Without sight to anchor memories, Momoku has transformed recollection into an act of archaeological devotion. They don't simply remember their family; they reconstruct them molecule by molecule through scent. The curve of their mother's jaw exists in the smell of iron and Lavender (her blood type, her preferred soap). Their father's laugh lives in tobacco smoke and Sweat. Each family member is a precisely indexed catalogue of olfactory data that Momoku mentally walks through like a temple they've built room by room in the dark.
This isn't nostalgia. It's preservation work. Momoku treats these sense-memories as illuminated manuscripts that will crumble if not constantly reviewed, and maintained. These fragments are assembled and reassembled obsessively, because Momoku knows the second death, being forgotten, is the only death that truly matters. The strangeness of the method doesn't escape them. They're aware that describing a face through smell sounds like madness, but what choice exists? Let the memories fade into vague shapes? Unacceptable. Momoku exists in a state of compounded grief; their lost sight turning their entire world in a single catastrophic moment. The sandblast becomes an absolute dividing line: everything before is memory without visual reference, everything after is darkness populated by Sounds, Smells, and Ghosts.
Being taken in as a refugee branded Momoku with a debt they can never fully repay, a cosmic tab constantly running. Blindness could have been the excuse—instead, they've weaponized competence as proof of worth. Thus, he has cultivated skills with the focused intensity of someone building a legal defense for their own existence. They don't just contribute; they make themselves irreplaceable. Whatever they do, they do with the unspoken subtext: "See? Worth the resources." "Worth the space I occupy." "Worth saving."
This hypervigilance extends beyond practical skills into social navigation. Momoku reads rooms through smell and silence, through shifts in breathing patterns and the quality of pauses. They've developed a preternaturally accurate sense for when they're being pitied, when they're being tolerated, when they're genuinely valued—and they adjust accordingly, always performing the version of themselves that maximizes their worth.
History:
Momoku hails from an offshoot branch of the Hokkyoku Clan that hunted for the ever rarer resource Carmot. Using their small builds and over-preceptive sense of smell, they scoured the desert in the interim periods where Sunagakure was above-ground cycling in year long rotations.
For years young Momoku was taught the ways of the desert, tracking, cartography, falconry and the like. He heard from his elders about the dangers of the desert, wolves, and heat shimmers; unkind sands, harsh sun, and the unforgiving wind was a lesson unto itself.
Being raised in this way, Momoku was certain that he could face any hardship thrown his way, weather any challenge; until he couldn’t. Momoku and his family actually found the rarest resource, but the cost was too high. It was a rather large deposit, and incredibly fresh, so they began setting up camp. The family readied themselves to take samples and mark maps with the relevant location, to bring back to Sunagakure for analysis and collection.
They sent Momoku to scout and fill the topography in the map for the surrounding area, and hoping to be useful Momoku jumped at the chance. On his way back from a hot day of carefully navigating the inhospitable place the boy was elated, he still had half of his rations; as well as a good portion of the map in the area. Smiling to himself for the thought of double dinner, and praise from the leader, he was going over a dune near the camp when it happened.
A crack upended up beneath the camp, his home, his life, gone in an instant when a gargantuan sandworm, longer than the horizon and wider than the entire caravan, shot up through the ground at impossible speeds. The next few moments were forever scared into Momoku’s eyes. Literally. The thing twisted in the air, its impossibly long body winding and careening into the distance its head already leagues away.
This was not important information to Momoku as it turns out, for as he watched the devastation of everything he knew undulating into the distance, a wall of sand was rushing straight for him. The only reason he survived at all was because of where he was standing. As he was on top of a dune, when the blast hit him and tore the skin from his face, he was spared the rest of the assault. Thrown from the dune and came to rest in a depression, he just barely avoided the greater part of the blast as it roared over him.
For how long he was out was unsure, between the unconsciousness and the new semi-darkness his world had become, time was a hard thing to get a handle back on. As it happened another nomadic tribe was in the area, having seen the sandworm and coming to see what was what. The tribe found the lad in a bad way and took him in as a ward and refugee.
The tribe treated him suspiciously, as the only survivor of the attack he was seen as something of an ill omen, and while not outright shunned, he had to earn anything he got. He would clean laundry, help with fashioning baskets,and mending armor; anything to make himself useful. During the year he was with them he learned to read braille, and navigate his dull world with a hollow metal rod, which he used to slide along the ground to hear the changes in his path.
After a year with the tribe learning what he could and earning his worth, the tribe came across Sunagakre, having risen from the sandworm tunnels to refresh the air and trade with the nomadic tribes, and send out their own scouts. After an eternity, Momoku was returned to the Hokkyoku clan; with some great surprise as the clan had not received any communication from Momoku’s family for over 2 years at this point. After telling his tale to the clan chief he was questioned heavily on his knowledge of the location of where the clan had perished (and the location of the carmot.) He was then set up in a small but open apartment and is currently being watched over intermittently by a member of the clan, which he avoids as much as possible with contempt. "I can watch over myself!", the child still believes. He is now taking steps to become a great scout for his people to prove himself to them, to his family, his pride, he would not be stopped.