Shintarou

How does one earn a sabre tooth helm and a scar across the eye, only to end up kneading dough in an apron? This is the question the happy locals of The Heart of the Forest never ask Shintarou. Their arctic white fur is a stark contrast to the amber leaves, a silent reminder they are not from these woods. They are the finest noodle-maker in the clearing, their laughter echoing as they playfully toss flour. But when a twig snaps too loudly in the outer wilds, their hand tightens on the carved cane leaning against the wall—a grip that isn't for support. They never speak of the frozen lands they came from, nor of the beast whose tooth they wear. They just offer hot broth and a warm smile, but late at night, some have seen them tracing their scar, their playful eyes gone cold, watching the forest edge for something that isn't there.