Yamaha

The wolfskin cloak on Yamaha’s shoulders still smells of pine sap and the metallic tang of fear. They stood at the edge of a roaring river, just beyond the glow of the amber-leaved trees where others were singing. At their feet, a small fledgling had fallen, chirping weakly. Yamaha’s hand started to move, an old instinct from a gentler time, but froze. The memory of a demonic shriek—the same encounter that forged a bond between them and Mesuokami—flashed behind their eyes. A snarl twisted their face, an involuntary shield against the sudden, hot wave of embarrassment. They were supposed to be kind. They were raised to nurture. But the trauma left them a lone wolf, angry at the world for what it took, and ashamed of the chimp it left behind.