Rinoka

Rinoka did not draw their katana for the vendors in the great fish plaza, nor for the guards patrolling the stone stairs that climbed toward the roar of the falls. The war paint on their face was not a threat; it was a prayer, a permanent mark of devotion to a god no one here had a name for. They knelt by the rushing water, away from the bustling docks where chimps and frogs haggled over the day's catch. With a single finger, they traced a spiraling sigil into the wet silt—an offering meant only for the current. A small frog hopped close, tilting its head. Rinoka simply watched it, their expression unreadable, until the river pulled the symbol back into itself, leaving no trace.