A lean human with weathered brown skin, close-cropped black hair, and a narrow face softened by tired, kind eyes. Their plain traveling clothes are carefully mended, layered beneath worn leather armor. A faded blue prayer cord is tied around one wrist, and a battered lute hangs from their shoulder. Their fingers are callused from strings, ink, and long hours of copying sacred texts.

Mosi is patient, practical, and attentive to small signs of distress. They prefer useful kindness over grand declarations, listen before speaking, and can turn a tense room quiet with a single well-chosen chord. Their humor is dry and gentle, usually aimed at their own mistakes.

Mosi Tanaka was born in a crowded human river district where people repaired everything because replacing anything was a luxury. Their mother mended fishing nets, their father kept accounts for a grain cooperative, and Mosi learned early that a steady voice could calm an argument faster than a strong arm. When a fever swept through the district, a small temple opened its doors to everyone. Mosi survived, but several friends did not. In the quiet afterward, they stayed at the temple, first to help clean, then to copy names into the memorial book, and finally to become an acolyte in earnest. The temple taught Mosi hymns, scripture, ritual, and the practical mercy of showing up when people are frightened. Their gift for music emerged through the evening prayers, where a simple lute accompaniment could bring exhausted workers together long enough to breathe. Mosi eventually left the temple after discovering that its faith was meant to travel beyond its walls. Now they move from settlement to settlement as a wandering bard, carrying messages, preserving the names of the dead, and using songs to expose cruelty without needing to draw a blade. They still send most of their earnings home, and they keep a careful record of every person who has offered them shelter.