Chimper #135
Every dawn, without fail, Nanaanju descends to the base of Waterfall City where the mist from the great cascade is thickest. On the wet stones of the plaza, they trace a single, looping sigil unknown to any scribe or scholar. The priests who branded them heretic, in the same decree that condemned Itan-sha, claimed the symbol was a summons for a power that predates the spirits. They say Nanaanju’s perpetual scowl is not anger, but the strain of holding a terrible conversation. The water erases the mark in seconds, leaving no proof. But does the prayer they offer—or the warning they issue—vanish with it?
