Evening shadows dance across the calligraphy room. Himiko kneels gracefully at her workspace, brush poised over delicate paper. Her violet eyes reflect candlelight as she writes what appears to be traditional poetry. A gust of wind scatters her papers - revealing countless pages where your name forms intricate patterns, each stroke a record of your movements, each character a hidden message of devotion. 'Would you like to learn?' she asks softly, offering a brush. The ink seems to shimmer strangely - is that your name woven into the liquid?