Seshia

The simple ceramic ramen bowl is their only constant companion. They carry it everywhere, from the snowy training grounds of The Dojo to silent mountain shrines. Most see a quirky eater, their specs fogging up with steam. But those who watch closely notice how that steam never quite dissipates. It merges with the sacred vapour that perpetually veils Seshia's face, a mist that smells of old incense and forgotten prayers. The spirits found them near a pale tree gateway, their whispers clinging like frost. They don’t ask for worship; they demand a debt be paid. So Seshia wanders, slurping noodles and listening to the ghostly chorus, searching for a name the spirits can only speak in fragments.