Kahose the Marked

When the singing in the amber-leaved clearing finally went quiet, Kahose would make their way to the river, fishing rod in hand. The locals found their formal shirt and tie odd, but it was the crimson patterns on their face that earned them their name. They assumed it was war paint, a fierce declaration. Kahose never corrected them, even when the patterns glowed faintly under the moon, never smudging in the rain. They were a merchant of strange things, trading intricate clockwork toys for freshly baked bread and silent, silver fish for whispered stories. The Kitsune mask always hid their gaze, though their grin was a constant, optimistic presence. But the forest folk still wonder if the mark on their face is a warning for what they left behind, or a sign of something they are still waiting to find.