Long ago, when Morrowbay was still arguing with the mountains, a wild boar struck lightning seven times with his tusks.
The lightning never forgave him. It splintered, shrieked, and scattered across the forest – and from the leftover sparks, Nurharchi was shaped.
No one saw who carved him. But the air smelled of pepper that day, and the birds went silent for three full hours.
Nurharchi doesn’t sleep. He just stands, breathing slowly through his woodgrain.
Sometimes his head tilts – like he’s listening to a rhythm only old spirits hear.
He has only one rule: never stare at the cone on his head too long.
People say it puts dreams in your chest. Hooves. Fire. A call to charge.
