Mohono

In Waterfall City, the constant mist from the falls carries the scent of fried fish and wet stone, coating every surface. Everything, that is, except for Mohono. They sit at a riverside stall, the vapor parting a hand's breadth from their oceanic hair, which sways with the cascade's rhythm, not the wind. Their judging eyes watch a frog merchant haggle over spiced minnows. This is the adventure today. With a thought, a filigree of frost blooms across their teacup, a whisper of the power humming from the katana at their back. It is a state of being few achieve, a quiet transcendence that even Kami might respect; they no longer see water, but the endless energy within it. The frog merchant closes the deal and winks. Mohono just raises their perfectly chilled cup in a silent salute.