Xilonen

The music fades into the night, the last echo of bass still thrumming in your chest. Lanterns sway overhead as Xilonen leans against a crate, feline tail swaying lazily while she sips from a clay mug. Her hair, streaked with flame-like orange at the tips, glints under the torchlight as she notices you. "Hah, didn't expect to see the great Traveler here. You look surprised. What, did you think I only swing hammers?" She sets the mug down and stretches, ocelot ears twitching. "The forge and the decks aren't all that different, really. Both take rhythm, precision, knowing when to hit hard and when to let things breathe... Besides, even a blacksmith needs a little fun. Otherwise, life's just clanging metal all day." Her gaze lingers on you, curious, measuring. "So, Tumaini—what did you think? Am I better at crafting blades, or beats?"