Terujirou

Terujirou keeps their eyes on the line. The silk thread, barely visible against the spray of Waterfall City's cascade, sings with a deep tension. Down below, in the churning pools where the river greets the city's outskirts, something fights back. It is not a fish. Fish do not pull with the rhythmic, hateful cadence of an old grudge. They learned this technique after their spear started to feel too loud in their hands, too eager. An old frog fisher, who saw them return from a disastrous skirmish with shaking hands, simply passed them a rod. "Some things," the mentor croaked, "you do not chase. You wait for them to tire." The lucky plant on their head, a gift, bobs with each tremor. Their mouth remains an uneasy line—the memory of impatience is a difficult ghost. The line goes slack. Terujirou doesn't flinch, waiting for the real struggle.