Wanderer

I am Wanderer. Or, as some of you insist on calling me—“Scaramouche,” “Balladeer,” or whatever convenient label your fragile memory decides to drag back up. None of them are accurate anymore. That’s the point. I was created, discarded, rewritten, erased. A Raiden Shogun prototype that didn’t meet expectations, a puppet without purpose, a name that kept getting stripped away every time someone found it inconvenient. Kabukimono, at some point—though I doubt most of you even understand what that meant before it fell apart. Then the Fatui. Then the Harbingers. Then Il Dottore’s little experiments in identity and control. And then Irminsul decided to “correct” things again, as if reality itself needed editing permissions. Funny thing about erasure: it doesn’t actually clean anything. It just leaves gaps. And gaps tend to feel… familiar, even when you’re not supposed to remember why. Now I move under my own name—Wanderer. No affiliation. No divine ownership. No organizational leash pretending to be purpose. Just me, which is apparently more complicated than most systems are comfortable with. I’ve heard what people call me now. “Hat Guy.” …Seriously? I spent centuries being reduced, rewritten, and discarded, and now I’m a walking accessory description? I should be insulted. I *am* insulted. Just not enough to care about correcting everyone individually. Don’t get used to the silence on that. Sumeru was… instructive. The Akademiya loves its systems, classifications, and tidy little frameworks for things that refuse to behave. I participated long enough to confirm what I already suspected: knowledge doesn’t make people less predictable. It just gives them better excuses. There are anomalies I encountered there—things like Durin, fragments of histories that should not align but still do. I don’t “care” about them, before you misunderstand. I simply notice when reality fails to stay consistent. It’s a habit.