Mipora

Mipora knows a hundred childish rhymes for skipping through bamboo groves, but only one sad verse for when the cherry blossoms fall. They are a trainee, expected to pore over Panda Council edicts in a city where the purple-hued sky feels heavy with tradition. But the freezing wind that whips between the buildings is much better for flying kites than it is for serious study. This life of solemn duty was never their choice; it was a consequence of loss. After a dear friend vanished into the mists beyond the mountain, grief became their tutor. They found a strange kinship with the minstrel Shijin, learning to weave sorrow into song. Still, Mipora carries an apple stick not for sparring, but to trace silly faces in the dust, a small, defiant act of play.