Kishie

Kishie slammed a hand against the body of their shamisen, the final note a defiant cry against the cold. The bamboo-cart vendor sighed, wiping down the counter. “Every week, the same drama,” the vendor told a traveler. “But they earned it. They arrived in The Great Panda City with nothing but that painted face and a head full of stories about Shijin. For a whole year, they vanished, just studied every word the minstrel ever wrote. Then they returned and performed a new verse, an ode to Shijin, just once, from the highest peak overlooking the city. They say the wind itself carried the song. They never played it again. Now Kishie performs tales of every hero, but never their own.”