Kotoha

The spray from the great falls carries the scent of wet stone and the river’s deep chill. To the fishers hauling their boats ashore, Kotoha is just as constant. They say the war paint never fades and the ancient sabre at their back has never known rust, a silent sentinel standing vigil by the pale stone temple. The city guards tell a different story. They whisper of a skirmish where Kotoha moved with the forgotten fury of a past age, a blur of impossible grace. They believe Kotoha is bound here by a failure, seeking a redemption they will never be granted, much like the tales of Andeddo. But no one has a story for the strange, fossilized trinket atop their head. A bad joke? A sacred relic? It is the one question that remains unanswered about the city's grim, eternal guardian.