Wamoko

The roar of the falls is a constant companion, a sound loud enough to drown out old memories. Wamoko sells polished river stones at a small stall in Waterfall City, their smile as bright and fixed as their kabuki facepaint. Customers ask about the ancient sabre on their back. They always laugh and say it was a gift from a dramatic relative. It is a good story, practiced and smooth. They don't tell anyone that the paint is less a decoration and more a mask, one they've worn since they walked away from a battlefield they should have died on. They chose this life of a simple merchant, this nurturing role. But every time their hand brushes the hilt of that blade, they remember a different self—one that knew nothing of peace.