Fusajirou

That silk fan, the one painted with laughing pandas, is older than their second life. Some who dwell beneath the crimson glow say Fusajirou was a dignitary, caught in a gateway collapse. Others whisper they were a pilgrim who sought a cure in the heat-shimmering wastes and found only permanence. They never speak of it. They only walk the paths between the slosh marshes and the plains of unnatural snow, the fan held loosely in one hand. You can see the craving in their bleary eyes—a deep thirst for something this realm can't offer. They don't guard a fortress or a treasure, just a stretch of barren tundra. When the ash falls, they sometimes raise the fan, a futile gesture against a sky that has already won.