Sanukinosuke

The scent of river fish and damp stone hangs heavy in Waterfall City, but it's the faint smell of pork broth that follows Sanukinosuke. They sit by the plaza, a perpetual grin on their face, eyes resting on some distant, unseen horizon. The war paint is always fresh, a stark contrast to the Haori they wear. And then there's the ramen, forever spilt atop their head, its noodles never drying out. The children have stories; the fishers whisper of a vow made at a noodle stand just before a terrible battle upstream. They say the bowl is a memorial. But Sanukinosuke never speaks of it. They just smile that calm, fixed smile, as if waiting for someone to return and finish the meal.