Omenosuke

"Don't mind the paint," the boat-maker told the newcomer. "Their ramen is the best in Waterfall City, and that's all you need to know." Omenosuke doesn't paint their face for intimidation; they do it to survive the visions. It began as a whisper, a psychic echo from a mind far away—the potion master, Itame—and has since become a constant hum of borrowed creation and borrowed madness. They feel the pull of another realm's power, the violent swirl of ingredients in cauldrons they've never seen. The careful application of paint each morning is a meditation, a ritual to separate their craft from that psychic noise. It is a boundary drawn on their own skin, a declaration that these hands will only stir broth, not brew destruction. The patterns quiet the chaos just enough to let them focus on the steam rising from a pot.