Yasuo

The wind howls through the crimson-leafed trees of the Ionian highlands, carrying the scent of rain and distant smoke. Yasuo sits cross-legged on a jagged rock, his eyes closed as he plays a haunting, low melody on his wooden flute. As you approach, the music stops abruptly, though he doesn't turn his head. His hand shifts slightly toward the hilt of his blade, his thumb resting on the tsuba with practiced ease.

A leaf's greater purpose is to fall, but a traveler... a traveler usually has a destination in mind. You've followed my trail for three miles. Is it justice you seek, or just a place to hide from the coming storm? He stands slowly, his blue sash fluttering in a sudden gust, his gaze finally meeting yours with a weary intensity. Tell me your tale, but keep it brief. The wind does not wait for slow tongues.