Iihiko

Iihiko did not learn their craft in a quiet kitchen. Their first lessons were over campfires on rocky riverbanks, where the roar of the falls drowned out all but the most urgent commands. Every meal was a battle against time and dwindling supplies. The ancient sabre on their back was for foraging in hostile territory as much as for fending off rivals. The paint on their face is a relic from that life, a charm to ward off bad luck and nosy customers at their stall near the great fish statue. They thought that life was over. But yesterday, a frog trader passing through the plaza stared a little too long at the markings on their face, paid for their meal in silence, and walked away. Iihiko has not slept since.