Futaaya

The fishers down by the docks of Waterfall City say Futaaya was once the most promising sculptor of their generation, their hands able to coax living forms from the pale temple stone. They whisper of a fall on the slick main stairs, a moment where the river's spray claimed their balance and their future. One eye was lost, replaced with a whirring chimpborg lens, and their once-steady hands could no longer hold a heavy chisel. The loss was total. But the renewal was something no one saw coming. The new eye didn't just see; it perceived. It saw the stress lines in wood, the memory of water in every grain. Futaaya picked up a new tool, a whittling knife, and began again, carving canes not for support, but to capture the river's unseen currents.