Itsurou

The savory steam of pork broth is a constant cloud around Itsurou, a scent as much a part of them as their worn haori. They are a fixture at a small noodle stall near the grand plaza, watching boats drift by the lower docks as the spray from the great cascade keeps the air perpetually damp. Most see a friendly warrior with a bottomless appetite and an easy smile. They don't feel the low, ceaseless hum from the chakra stone fused to their back. They don't know it craves stone, not soup. There was a time Itsurou trained by pulverizing boulders, but the power grew too hungry. It tasted the city's foundations and wanted more. The ramen is a ritual, a distraction. Each bowl is an offering, a way to soothe the craving for something far less digestible.