Hosaburou

The sharp scent of phantom salt on the freezing mountain wind always finds Hosaburou first. Years ago, that scent was real. They stood knee-deep in the surf, laughing as the waves answered their call, a power they shared with spirits like Kaito. The ocean was a conversation, and they were fluent. Then came the vision in a dream: a frantic water spirit, its form flickering, warning of a coming imbalance far inland. It pleaded with them to go to The Great Panda City, to be a voice for the water where there was none. Leaving felt like tearing a limb from their own body. Now, they coax moisture from the thin, cold air, forming fragile sculptures of ice that melt before they are finished. The sacred vapor around their head is less a crown and more a constant, mournful sigh.