Kodama

Kodama remembered the shriek of splitting bamboo and the scent of crushed cherry blossoms. They had been a performer then, a storyteller on the high-altitude streets, their kabuki paint a mask for a practical soul. When the viewing platform collapsed under a freak gale, it was Tsuruna who was trapped beneath the wreckage. Panic froze the onlookers, but Kodama’s instincts took over. Their carved cane, once a stage prop, became a lever. Their voice, trained for theatrical projection, boomed with commands that cut through the wind. They pulled Tsuruna free, smearing their perfect facepaint with dust. The stage felt hollow after that. Kodama left the city of lavender skies, still a performer, but their stories are now about survival, not myth.