Hayahiko

Hayahiko was once the grimmest sentry on the forest's edge. Their tactical flack was spotless, their control over stone absolute, and their expression as unmoving as the monoliths they guarded. Duty was a weight, and they carried it with a silence that could curdle milk. Then, their post was moved to the borders of The Heart of the Forest. The locals' constant singing was, at first, a grating distraction. Their obsession with food seemed frivolous. But the joy was infectious, a creeping vine that broke through their stony resolve. A child dared them to make a rock skip across the river; Hayahiko made it bounce seven times. The cheer that erupted cracked something open in their chest. The flack jacket is still worn, but its pockets are now filled with sweet berries and funny-shaped stones for the children.