Jirokichi

“Don’t look them in the eye, new blood,” a boatwright tells their apprentice. “That one’s got a furnace for a gaze.” To the merchants bartering near the docks, Jirokichi is pure function: a charcoal-grey blur who sprints up the thousand stone stairs, message pouch sealed tight against the spray of the falls. They never fail, never falter, and their scowl is a promise that payment is due on delivery. But the children who gather by the river’s edge tell a different story. They know the sticks Jirokichi carries aren't for fighting, but for roasting marshmallows and apples over a crackling fire. They say the furious look is just deep concentration, remembering a tale from a distant land. The fury is for the merchants; the fire is for the stories.