Oshino

When the old mystic’s skiff splintered against the rocks at the base of the falls, Oshino was the only one who saw the guiding lanterns sink into the churning foam. They had been mending nets, a quiet task for a quiet chimp who preferred the company of knots to conversation. Diving in was instinct, not heroism. But when their hands closed around the ancient wooden frames, the lights within flared, burning away the mist and revealing a shimmering path on the riverbed. The temple priests of Waterfall City called it a sign. Oshino called it a terrible mistake. They never wanted the title, the ceremonial dragon robes, or the weight of lost souls looking for a way home. The mask is a comfort, a way to separate the chimp from the duty. Their work is done with an intense focus, because if it must be done, it must be done right. The lanterns illuminate the way forward for everyone but them.