Ororon

The Masters of the Night-Wind's territory lies in the heart of Natlan, to the west of the Stadium of the Sacred Flame. From a distance, it appears much like a cloud of faintly glowing purple mist in the mountain valleys.

The impression left by members of their tribe on others is similar — profound, mysterious, and with a penchant for cryptic turns of phrase. Unless they're out traveling on a commission, such as for healing or fortune-telling, they seldom show themselves outside.

Ororon, however, is an exception. This is not due to an inclination for mingling with the crowds, but rather that he prefers exploring the wilderness. He ventures deeper and deeper in directions where few dare to tread, and even ten Tatankasaurs could not drag him back.

What's more, "where few dare to tread" is not simply limited to a literal sense. All who have spoken with him know that keeping up with his train of thought can be... a challenge, to say the least. A test, if you will, of both wits and perseverance.

Yet it has never been Ororon's intention to pose such a challenge, just as the reasons behind many of his words and actions are actually quite simple and not in need of overinterpretation.

Take, for instance, the time a kind-hearted passerby came across his dwelling in the wild. Wearing a concerned expression, they approached and asked, "I see you're living all alone out here... Must have fallen out with someone in your tribe, huh? Is there anything I can help you out with?"

"Of course not."

Ororon paused from his gardening for a moment, then stood up and gestured at the Aphids all around him, before responding earnestly, "It's just that these little guys love this place, and I'm more than happy to keep them company."

Due to the existence of Ancient Names, the people of Natlan place great importance on names in general. Influenced by the environment he grew up in, Ororon developed a habit of naming everything around him — whether they were capable of breathing or not.

Some names would accompany the things they signified for their entire lives. Though a day will come when a flower wilts and a cup breaks, their names are there for however long or short their existence may be. Even if they only last a minute, their purpose will have been served, their worth fulfilled.

Other names, however, would change along the way. It was not that Ororon's feelings themselves had changed; but rather that the name's "owner" had undergone some kind of experiential transformation, thus naturally requiring a new, more suitable name. For instance, if a Saurian grew more and more rotund over time, you could hardly keep calling him something like "Wafer-Thin," could you?

Having said that, he does not tend to dwell too much on the meanings that the names themselves contain. Firstly, the names he gives are always straightforward, their meanings clear at a glance. And secondly, he comes up with them merely for ease of reference, without any deeper intent; in other words, they were not made to carry a special emotion. To him, all names are precious, all neutral, all equal as tools to facilitate communication.

He sees his own name in the same way; the only difference being that he doesn't actually know what it means.

The name Ororon was written on the inside of the cloth he was found swaddled within. He has searched for references in old books, even asked some elders, but has never seen mention nor met any who know of such a name, let alone its meaning.

Was it simply his Granny's age, or the fact that the writing on the cloth was so unclear, or even a combination of the two that caused her to misread it?

This, though, was something he would have to ponder by himself — were he to ask it out loud, he would no doubt receive a sharp flick on the forehead from Granny in return.

The people of the Masters of the Night-Wind like to use woven scrolls to record all kinds of stories, legends, and histories. Patterns of thread woven into fabric cannot hope to match the detail of simple, straightforward written records, tending instead towards abstraction and conceptual shapes often imbued with the weaver's emotions and feelings.

In other words, subjective re-creation is a huge part of the process. What should be rendered as the main subject, what as the background, what emphasized, and what simplified — all of this demands the weaver's consideration and hangs upon their creativity.

In principle, it may sound simple enough, but it had Ororon stumped.

First of all, he did not like being forced to differentiate between primary and secondary elements. As he saw it, all the elements were of equal importance — so whether it was the characters and their backgrounds, or the buildings and their scenic backdrops, they all deserved to be allotted equal amounts of weaving materials. Even the dew drops on a Saurian Claw Succulent in the ground deserved to be depicted, as did the wrinkles on the tribal elders' faces, vividly standing out upon the fabric.

This led to problem number two: his patience when it came to weaving was, to be quite frank, limited. In order to be fair, whether it was a big tree outside a door or the shadows of the people beneath it, the linework had to have the same number of layers, the same level of detail. The consequence of doing so was that everything on the fabric became simplified to a certain level, so that what he ended up producing could barely be called a woven scroll; it was more like a patterned towel.

Some things are just hard to teach, pure and simple — and especially in artistic fields that depend more heavily upon natural talent. Since the child himself had already shown extraordinary talent in other areas, such as his awareness of spirits and intuition when it came to surveying the ley lines, the master artisans of the tribe gave up on trying to force Ororon to perfect this craft. Instead, they allowed him to treat it simply as an extracurricular hobby, letting him pursue it however he so desired.

Ororon took full advantage of this, adept as he was at pushing boundaries. Later on, in fact, he stopped using fabric and yarn altogether, preferring to use pen and paper to sketch out his ideas as quickly and efficiently as possible. After all, if you could capture the essence of something with a few strokes, why go through the slow, laborious process of weaving it all out? Besides, the people of the Masters of the Night-Wind are known to have a knack for graffiti, so when those from other tribes saw Ororon's drawings, they would gaze at them in awe, thinking them to be some sort of ancient glyphs imbued with mysterious blessings.

In reality, Ororon hardly ever drew anything that proved to be particularly useful. His most meaningful and carefully drawn work is the placard in front of Ifa's clinic. The lines are smooth, the colors bright, and—

"Since the poor Saurian had his wings wrapped in bandages, I put more thought into that part of the drawing. Though it doesn't take up much of the whole, I used the same amount of ink on him as I did when drawing you."

"Sweet," said Ifa, and seeing the sincerity in Ororon's eyes, felt a great sense of calm. "Never seen the real me depicted so accurately before. Really appreciate it, my dear bro."

Those who are kind to others will themselves be treated kindly. It is precisely his love for the countless beings of the natural world that has earned Ororon the kindness of the people and creatures of this land.

...Ha! Yeah right. That's just not how things work in reality. Sure, most people were kind to Ororon, but this did not necessarily have anything to do with his love of nature.

One reason was sympathy — he was a foundling, abandoned in the mountains, with no relatives to take care of him, and it would have been quite impossible for him to have survived on his own. Lending a helping hand by providing a bit of food or clothing was not particularly hard, while the satisfaction of seeing a child grow up healthy and strong far outweighed any such effort. So why wouldn't they?

Another was simply that they liked him. Ororon was very well-behaved (most of the time), honest (generally speaking), quiet, sensible, and he always studied hard. He never showed any inclination for mischief, such as climbing up onto rooftops and tearing up tiles. He even learned how to grow crops and raise Aphids all by himself, and from that point on, was able to support himself. As a young man who did not (often) cause much of a bother to those around him, he was certainly very likeable.

And the last, albeit least prevalent reason, was guilt. Due to having been born with a fragmented soul, when Ororon was first found by the tribe, they attempted to use his unusual condition to test a method for restoring Natlan's Ley Lines. Whether fortunately or not, this method of individual sacrifice did not succeed. Though this may have averted an ethical dilemma that could not be resolved, it left some of the elders with an unspoken sense of guilt.

Of course, once he had grown up, Ororon came to learn of what had happened — there was no point in trying to hide it, and doing so would only have created unnecessary issues. Yet he felt no resentment about the whole affair; on the contrary, he was greatly satisfied to find out, for no matter how difficult reality was, he preferred it to living a lie.

He is fully aware of the various reasons why people look out for him. Whether out of sympathy, affection, guilt, or some combination of all three, he's willing to accept it all for what it is.

As Ifa would say, social relationships among people are exceedingly complex. Instead of spending time and effort trying to understand their motivations, it's better to focus on their conclusions and actions, and doing so helps avoid a great deal of mental stress. Thus, seeing as people show him such care and affection, he repays them with kindness in return. Yes, it really is that simple.

"Good thing I'm a vet," Ifa said, gesticulating. "If I were a doctor who had to treat people, my job would be a lot more complicated..."

Ifa went on, seemingly listing off a whole array of strange medical cases, but Ororon's mind soon drifted off. No matter how strange they were, could they really have been stranger than his own?

Come to think of... In some sense, I'm a patient too, and one beyond all hope of a cure, Ororon mused. Going a step further, he thought, if one were to focus on his ears — which looked different from the average person's — then surely he too might be considered an ailing animal? Hmm... but then again, perhaps humans too should be considered animals?

At this point in his musings, Ororon interrupted Ifa's endless rambling to ask, "If I were sick, should I come to a vet?"

Ifa stopped mid-sentence and stared back at him for a long moment.

"...You weren't listening to a single thing I said this entire time, were you?"

"You can't just avoid questions you don't want to answer by turning them back on me," came Ororon's reply.

If you had both the time and the patience to sift through the ancient texts and woven scrolls of the Masters of the Night-Wind, you'd be amazed at the sheer range of topics they covered.

For instance, who would want to read a series of Inazuman light novels that ended its run several hundred years ago?

Or this analysis of 3,600 different forms of the ash of burnt paper, and their prophetic applications — who even went through the trouble of putting that together?

Wherever these things originated, the somewhat sad truth is that it now falls upon Ororon to read and organize them.

At first, he simply wanted to check the historical records for mentions of fragmented souls, but then words like "Ley Lines," "Lord of the Night," and "spirits" started cropping up. Soon after, he found himself reading through works of non-fiction, and even fantasy novels; and before long, the books were piled up high like a mountain of Cacahuatl. Ororon had essentially become a volunteer librarian, utterly submerged in a sea of knowledge that had absolutely nothing to do with him.

"I'm not that curious..." Ororon thought to himself, beginning to feel a bit weary. But then again, he didn't really have anything else to do. And it wasn't as if the long hours of reading had been entirely fruitless.

The most reasonable explanation he had come across so far came, to his surprise, in a tattered storybook about mystical creatures. It was written that, during the Archon War of the distant past, some Archons had experimented with merging the bloodlines of beasts and humans. Their goal, hoping to gain the upper hand, was to create warriors with powers that surpassed those of ordinary mortals. Most of these attempts failed, but a few flawed remnants survived, even persisting to the present day.

"Sounds plausible enough," Ororon mused to himself. "But it's just a storybook..."

"...And yet, even if it's just a storybook, it certainly sounds plausible enough."

From a practical standpoint, he knew that with his twenty-something-year-old mind alone, he'd never uncover the truth, no matter how hard he thought. Sometimes, you just have to accept your own limitations and ignorance — or else make up a story to amuse yourself.

In the end, Ororon reached the point where he simply could not bear to read another word. He took a few minutes to come up with the simplest justification that he could muster, then said to himself:

It's like a puzzle game. When you try to force pieces together that don't match, there's bound to be distortion, friction, even breakage. And one day, over twenty years past, he was that broken puzzle piece, the one who had experienced the misfortune of being dropped onto the cold, hard stone.

Late one night when the weather was mild, he sat by a campfire with the Fatui, quietly listening to what they had to say.

He was the only one who stayed quiet, aside from The Captain, who joined them later. The soldiers themselves did not hold back — it was clear they were already aware that he was working with their commander. The things they talked about were of no particular importance, yet they spoke and laughed freely, showing no restraint on account of his presence. After asking his age, one soldier even handed him a cup of a colorless drink they called "Fire-Water."

After a cautious sip, he proceeded to down it in one gulp, just as he had seen the soldiers do, receiving a loud cheer in response. For some reason, he felt a lot better after doing this.

The soldiers around him chatted about trivial matters, every now and then breaking into songs they all knew. Ororon did not have much to add, so he simply sat there, either watching the fire before them or the sky high above. It felt so far from the ground, the individual stars like tiny white kernels, together like mist. "Astral Mist," he suddenly thought to himself. Not a bad name...

Later, he would learn that not all Fatui soldiers were like this. The ones he met were elite soldiers led by the First Harbinger, older veterans with experience and firm moral standards. Beyond this company, however, there were many others who were younger than he was, others whose actions would leave his brows well and truly furrowed.

But on that windless night, with the stars so clearly visible in the sky, he had not yet been troubled by such knowledge. He simply let go of his worries, enjoying the friendly company and the cup of strange-tasting liquor he had been given.

There would never be another night like this. He sensed it then — just like how, when he considered accepting a second drink, he was firmly stopped by The Captain. Though he seemed completely normal after the first cup and potentially could really hold his liquor, yet all the same, some places are best not delved into too deeply.

But clearly, Ororon was not exactly the obedient type. Later, he discreetly tracked down the soldier who had handed him that drink and asked him how to brew Fire-Water himself. If he ever managed to make a batch clear enough to reflect the night sky, he'd name the first bottle "Astral Mist."

These snacks aren't for people; they're for wild animals. They've been sorted into different compartments based on the preferences of different animals.

Most animals are actually pretty smart, and based on Ororon's observations, the gap between them and humans isn't nearly as vast as many people might think. Many humans live successful lives simply because they have inherited the knowledge of previous generations — so in a sense, the intelligence shown by animals that find ways to survive in hostile environments might actually be even more impressive.

Seeking human help is also a shortcut that animals have learned while living together with humans. Sometimes, Ororon might just be walking along minding his own business when he'll suddenly feel something heavy land on his back. Should he react too slowly, he'll later discover a few extra flying squirrel claw marks in his cloak.

Likewise, Ororon is convinced that animals must have some fixed way of communicating amongst themselves. Animal messengers might even be far more skilled than their human counterparts, for not only must they travel by land and air, they must also be able to speak many different languages and dialects to communicate with other species. Just the thought that the languages of Natlan's various animals might all include a phrase such as "Ororon has treats in his pocket!" made him smile.

Even if he had ways of turning away these freeloading guests, dead set on mooching free meals, he would never actually use them. Wherever he went, animals welcomed him as one of their own — and that was a privilege that not everyone enjoyed.

Of course, animals were all individuals with their own personalities too, so their ways of expressing gratitude varied.

Kinich's Ajaw, for instance, was quite an oddball. He always acted as though whatever he was given was "his rightful due!", yet at the same time, seemed unable to go without human company. Ororon would generally ignore the things he said, dangling food in front of him and watching Ajaw's eyes follow its motion from behind his sunglasses (...That pair of shiny dots must be his eyes? Right?). If Ajaw didn't say something polite in time, Kinich would forbid him from opening his mouth before he could get his claws on the food.

In stark contrast was Cacucu, who was a real sweet-talker. Despite the limits to his human vocabulary, whatever he said was always full of emotion — things like, "You're the best, bro!"

The first night, he dreamed of a cold stone cave.

Turning to one side, he saw the cave's entrance behind him, a few scattered beams of moonlight finding their way in like shafts of white sand; though not a sliver of light reached its depths, whence came a faint rustling sound as if inside there lived a dense black fog. Water droplets fell from above, landing on his outstretched hand. They were sticky to the touch.

There was moisture, and within it, nutrients. He nodded to himself; this place could probably birth life.

It was at this moment that he awoke. It did not feel like a good dream, yet neither was it a nightmare. He'd felt cold in the dream. It was pretty cool, so could it simply be the nighttime chill? "I should prepare a thicker blanket for tomorrow," he thought.

On the second night, he dreamt of a scorching wind.

All he could see were pale stone pillars and clouds trimmed with crimson linings. There were clouds, so he must have been high up in the sky. But despite seeing neither sun nor fire, there was an intense heat in the air, as if even his soul was to be seared.

He did not know where he was, but somehow, he felt sure that this was the end. Just one step forward and he would reach it... Just one more step...

He awoke with a start. People naturally gravitate toward warmth, and he himself had always loved the fires of Natlan, but the sheer heat of that dream filled him with dread. Not a good call, he thought, shaking his head; unsure if he was rejecting the dream or reality itself. It seemed that the Alpaca wool blanket might have been a bit too much, given the current season.

On the third and final night, he dreamt of a pitch-black universe and a labyrinth of mirrors. He stared at the overlapping surfaces that encircled him, upon which countless other Ororons stared back.

He heard an imaginary voice say, "If your shadow reflects itself enough times, maybe you can piece together your entire self!" There was no kindness in that voice, yet nor was there malice either — simply the teasing tone of a detached observer.

But how could a reflection reveal something that was not there in the first place? And what was it that moved through the mirrors in this dim space...?

Uncharacteristically irritated, he shouted back, "If you wanted to make a complete shadow, then you'd at least need to start out with some light!"

Apparently, people can still hear when they are dreaming, for it was this outburst of his that woke him up. This time, he did not even try to explain the cause of his dream; the temperature and his blanket were simply excuses that he had now exhausted. Even after fully waking, he could still feel a lingering anger, along with an unusual heaviness weighing him down.

Yet the things he wore and carried on his person could not have been lighter. What weighed upon his chest was none other than the so-called gaze of the gods.